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F: ! I h I to the BRUCE CHAMP, Publisher. PARIS. KENTUCKY. . A BOTANICAL LESSON. Mrs. Professor addresses her class: Now, mark well my lecture, each good lad and lass. ft you take this small seed and deposit it quite Far down in the earth away from the light, One slight green shoot will presently show That the germ has begun to bud, you know." I -"Why does it bud?" "Because it draws New life from the earth, by natural laws." SJHowjdoes.it draw new life, my dear?" "'Well, that indeed does not clearly appear; But watch it awhile, and you shall see j The small shoot grow to a young rose-tree." "'How does it grow?" "Ah ! yes, the cells Are filled with sap that steadily swells - Those delicato tissues, and" then behold jThe leaf and perfect flower unfold I" "How does the sap get into the cell?" "So far the wise men have failed to tell." ""But oh, the wonder that gleams and glows In the sweet white miracle of the rose, "Whose everv leaf has a velvet side. With the color of rubies, glorified." "How is it colored?" "It takes its hues From the sun-rays. Yes, each rose can choose "The red or the gold ray, or hold them all; Each sweet-brier that garlands the gray old wall. Each violet flecking the earth with blue, Draws from one palette its own glad hue." ""But who carries her flush to the cheek ofthe " rose. Her blue to the violet?'; "God only knows; And therefore wise .people never will ask, But now I hav.e nearly ilnishedQny.task, -And you, my pupils, will readily see How the small seed changes-to flower and tree: : And "how fully, clearly, science can show me law or growtn is anem to grow." n Fannie B. Bobinson, in Youths' Companion, WOOING BY PROXY. w A- Pretty Love Story Well Told. She is leaning back in a deep crimson chair, with a white dress sweeping in long shining folds about her. She is talking to two or three men with that rather weary grace he has . grown to see in her, and which is so different from the joyous smiles of the -Jeanne de Beaujen whom he loved, so long ago. a He is watching her from 'the opposite side of the salon as he stands beside his hostess, and he tells himself Athat it is or the last time. He is going to lier presently, and lie knows just how coldly she will raise the dark eyes that once never met his without confessing that she loved him. -He knows just what he will say and what she will answer, and there is no need for haste in this last scene of his tragedy. "A man should know when he is beaten," he is thinking, while he smiles vaguely In reply to Slme. de Soule's commonplaces. 'There is more stupidity than courage in not accepting a defeat while there is yet time to retreat with ome dignity. For six weeks I have her, with a directness that has, I dare say, been amusing to our mutual tfriends, that after ten years' absence my 'only object in returning to Paris is her . society. She cannot avoid meeting me in public, but she has steadily refused to receive me when I call upon her, or ' to permit me a word with her alone. I have been a fool to forget that all these years in which I regretted her she has naturally despised me, but at least it is not just of her to refuse me a heariDg." The moment he has been waiting for is -come. The little court about her disperses, until there is but one man beside 'ner, and she glances around with a look -of mild appeal against the continuance of his society. De Palissier has escaped from his hostess in an instant, and the next he is murmuring, with the faintest suspicion -of a tremor in his voice, "Will Mme. 'de Miramon permit me a dance?" "Thanks, M. de Palissier, but I am not dancing this evening," she replies, with exactly the glance and tone he expects. "Will madame -give me a few serious conversation?" and this time the tremor is distinct, for even the nineteenth-century horror of melodrama cannot keep, a man's nerves quite steady wnen he 'is' asking a question onwKich his whole future depends. r "One does not come to balls for ous, conversation- i? she begins, ' i'Where may I come, then?" he interrupts, eagerly. 'Nowhere. There is no need for conversation between us: M.'de Palissier," she replies, haughtily, and rising, she takes the arm of the much-edified gentlemanbeside her, and moves away. It is all he has prophesied to himself, rand 'yet; j for a moment'the lights swim dizzily before him, and the passionate sweetness of that Strauss waltz the band 'dsplaying stabs ''his heart like a knife. Tor a moment. he does not realize that She is standing quite motionless, gazing, -with de'spair in his eyes, after "Mme. de Miramon's slender, white-clad figure, and that two or three people, who have seen and heard; are looking.at him with ithat -amused pity which sentimental catastrophe always inspires in the specta tors. Some one touches his arm presently with her fan, and with a start he comes to himself and recognizes Lucille de IBeaujen, the young sister of Mme. de Miramon, whom he remembers years ago as a child, and with whom he has danced several times this winter. "And our waltz, -monsieur?" she -asks gavly. "Do not tell me you have forgotten it, That is evident enough, butyou should not admit it." "Mille pardons, mademoiselle," he mutteres, hurriedly. "I am very good to-night," she .-says, putting her hand on his mechanically extended arm. "Though the waltz ris half over, there is still time for you to ;get me an ice." So they make their way through the Asalon, she - talking lightly and without pausing for a reply, while he, vaguely grateful to her for extracting him from -an awkward position, wonders also that --she should care to be so kind to a man -whom her sister has treated with such imarked dislike. The refreshment room is almost empty .and she seats herself and motions him to a chair beside her when he has brought her an ice. "Do you-think, M. le Marquis, that it vwasipnly to, eatf ices with you that I have :f6rceimy society so resolutely upon you?' Vsheasks,yvith a- lpokvqf earnestness' venfrare on 'her bright coquettish jfifcif -4 ,JitSr: " -' i.'-''"' "I think you an angel of compassion to an old friendof your childhood, Mile. Lucille " e "It was compassion, but more for my sister than for you," she says :ly. ,. "jloui: sister: ne ecnoes, bitterly. '"It has aot oomirrpH tr. mo tTiof Mmo deMiraiiion is in need of compassion.' and yours is too sweet to be wasted " "Chut, monsieur," she interrupted, "Forget that I am as fond of pretty speeches as most young women, and think of me only as Jeanne de sister, who believes that much as she loves her, you love her even more " For the second time this evening De Palissier forgets possible observers, and clasps both the girl's slender hands in his, as he murmurs unsteadily, "God bless you!" "Ypu forget that we have an audience, monsieur;" she says, withdrawing her hands quickly, but with a smile of frank comradeship. "I have a story to tell you, and not much time to tell it in. j.ears ago, wnen Jeanne leit ner convent on becoming fiancee to M. de Miramon, she met you at her first ball, and you loved each other. It was very foolish,- for you were a cadet of your house, and only a Sous-Lieutenant, and Jeanne had not a sou, so both the families were furious;? but all would- have ended as well as a fairy tale if you1(hvad been rea sonable. Jeanne met you time after time in secret, and promised any amount of patience, but she would not run away andlmarry.you in defiance of her parents; so you tormented her with doubts, and shamed her with suspicions until she clreaded those secret meetings almost as much as she longed for them. At last, after making a more violent quarrel than usual, you exchanged from your regiment. at Versailles to one in Algiers, andtleft her no refuge-from the reproaches of our father and mother but to marry M. de Miramon. He might have refused to marry her after hearing 'her .confess, as she did, that she had given her heart to you, and that only your desertion had induced her to consent to their marriage. But he did not: 'he had a better revenge than that. He married ner, and. for eight jrears he tortured her in every way that a jealous and cruel man can torment a proud, pure woman. He opened all her letters, he made spies of her servants, and not a day passed that he did not insult her with some mention of youruame. Our parents died within a few months of the marriage, and I was at the convent. There, was nothing to be done with her misery but endure it, knowing that she owed it all to your impatience. Can yoju wonder that she 4s unforgiving?" He is leaning on the small table between them with folded arms and down-bent eves, and he is verv pale, even through the bronze of ten African sum- mers. "I loved her always " he says, almost inaudibly; then pauses; nor does he finish his sentence, though she waits for him to do so. "You love her? You could not have wrecked her life more utterly if you had hated her Can you wonder that she has grown to fear the thought of love that has been so cruel to her as yours and her husband's? Monsieur, my brother-in-law died two years ago. God is so good I" continues Lucille, fiercely. "Since then Jeanne has been at peace, and she shrinks with absolute terror from disturbing the calm which has come to her after such storms. She fears you, she avoids you, because shall I tell you why?" She can see his lips quiver even under the heavy mustache, but he neither speaks nor raises his eyes . "She loves you," murmurs Lucille, just aloud. lie lifts his eyes now and looks at her dumbly for an instant; then, rising, abruptly walks away. ' . He comes .back presently. "My child," he says, very gently, "do not try to make me believe that, unless you are very sure; for if I once believe it again, I I " "I 'am as sure as that I live that Jeanne has never ceased to love jtou, and that you can force her to confess it if you will make love to me." "I? You? You are laughing at me!" with a rush of color into his dark face. "Do you think so ill of Jeanne's sis- ter?" .she asked, softly. "Pardon. I am. scarcely myself , and I can not imagine how " "Jeanne will not receive you because she knows her own heart and is afraid of it. She fears that you will destroy t.Vip. hard-won neace she values so hiffhlv. But you are wealthy, distinguished, the head of your name a very different person from what you were ten years ago, and she can find no reason for refusing you as my suitor if I consent, and as my chaperon she must be present at all our meetings. You begin .to understand? Make her see that your love is not all jealousy; make her remember make her regret." "But, forgive me, when one has loved ft woman for ten years," with a faint amile, "there is no room in one's heart for even a pretense at loving another. 5: "If there were, monsieur. I should never have proposed my plot," she replies, with dignity. "It is because I have watched you all these weeks and know that your love is worthy of my sister that I trust you. But it is not with one's heart that one pretends. En-fin, it is with you to consent or decline." "Decline!" he echoes, with a passion none the less intense for its quietness, "Does a dying man decline his last chance of life, however desperate it may be?" The next week is full of bitter surprises to the proud and patient woman, whose pathetic cling to her new-found leace Lucille so well understands. Though it is long since she has permitted herself to rember anything of the lover of her youth except his jealousy, she has believed in his faithfulness as utterly as she dreamed it, and when she receives De Palissier's note asking the consent of his old friend to his love for her., sister, the pain she feels bewilders and dismays her. With a smile whose cynicism is as much for herself as for him, she gives the note to Lucille expecting an instant rejection of the man whose motives in pursuing them they had both so misunderstood. But with a laugh: "Then my sympathy has een all without cause," the girl cries. "By all means let him comemy Jeanne. It cannot wound you whohav'eJong ago ceased to regret him, and he is the best parti in Paris, and tres bel Jtomme for his age?" '? It isfquite true there can b no objection to the wealthy and distinguished 'Marquis 'de Palissier if Lucille is willing but the pain at her heart whic aKp. is ton jishamp.d evp.n fo p.nirfpss to fherself. So a .note is written fixing an hour for his' first visit, and Mme. de Miramon prepares herself ro meet the man whom she last saw alone in all'the passionate anguish of a lover's quarrel. Is this wild flutter in her throat a sign of the peace she has resolved topossess? Thank God! she can at least jpromise. herself that whatever she may suffer,; neither he nor Lucille shall guess it. There is the sound of wheels inthe courtyard, and she Tises with a hasty glance at her reflection in the mirror. "His old friend!" she murmurs, scornfully. 'I d are say I look an old woman ' beside Lucille." Then she turns with a look-of graceful welcome, for the door is thrown open, and a servant announces: "M. le Marquise de Palissier." "Nothing eouldgive me greater pleasure than to receive as my sister's suitor the old friend of whom the world tells me such noble things." She utters her little speech as naturally as though she had not rehearsed it a dozen times, and holds out her pretty hand to him. To her surprise he does not take it. How should she guess that he dares not trust himself to touch calmly the hand he would have risked his life to kiss any time these ten years? "You are too good, madame," he replies, very low; and she reflects that he is, of course, a little embarrassed. "I am afraid you had much to forgive in those days so long ago, but time, I trust, has changed hie. "It would be sad, indeed, if time did not give us wisdom and coldness in exchange for all it takes from us," she says, with a quick thrill of pain that he should speak of ten years as if it were an eternity. "Not coldness," he exclaims, coming nearer, and looking at her with eyes that make her feel a girl again. "If you could see my heart, you " "May I enter, my sister?" asked the gay voice of Lucille, as she appears from behind the portiere at so fortunate a moment for the success of her plot that it is to be feared that she had been eavesdropping. De Palissier turns at once and presses her hand to his lips. "Mademoiselle," he says, tenderly, "I am at your feet." Then begins a charming little comedy of love-making, in which Lucille plays her role with pretty coquetry and he with infinite zeal. And the chaperon bends over her lace work and hears the caressing tones she thought she had forgotten,and sees the tender glances she imagined she had ceased to regret, all given to her young sister in her unregarded presence. How is she to keep the peace she so prayed for if her future is to be haunted by this ghost from the past? She is very patient and used to suftering, but at length she can endure no longer, and, not daring to leave the room, she moves away to a distant writing-table where she is at least beyond hearing. There is an instant pause between the conspirators, und while De Palissier's eyes wistfully follow Mme. de Miramon, Lucille seizes her opportunity with a promptness that would have done credit to a Richelieu or a Talleyrand, or any other prince of schemers. "Courage, monsieur!" she murmurs. "She has been cold to me ever since your note came. You would make a charming jeune premier at the Fran- cais, only wnen you do say anything very tender, do you remember to look at me instead of Jeanne." And she breaks into a laugh so utterly amused that he presently laughs, too, and the sound of their mirth causes an odd blot I in the poor chaperon's writing. A month has dragged by wretchedly enough, both to the conspirators and their victim, and, like all things earthly, has come to an end at last. Even energy could not keep De to his role, if he did not believe that in surrendering it he must give up the bitter-sweet of Jeanne's daily presence, which even in its serene indifference had become the one charm of life to him. Mme. de Miramon and her sister are spending a week at her villa near Paris, and De Palissier, who is to accompany them on a riding party, has arrived a little late, and finds both sisters already in the court-yard, with some horses and grooms, when he enters. Lucille comes to him at once as he dismounts, with a look of alarm instead of her usual coquetry. "Do not let Jeanne ride Etoile," she said, anxiously. "She has thrown Guillaume this morning." Mme. de Miramon is standing beside an old groom, who is holding the horse in question, and she does not look at her sister or De Palissier as they ap proach. "Let me ride Etoile, and take my horse to-day, madame," De Palissier savs, eagerly. "I should like to master a horse who has thrown so excellent a groom as Guillaume." "So should I," she says, with a hard little laugh, and she steps on the block. "Jeanne!" cries Lucille. "I entreat you for your sister's sake. She will be terribly alarmed," De sa3rs, hurriedly. "Then you must console her. The greater her alarm, the greater your delightful task, monsieur," and she .looks at him with a defiant pain in her eyes like a stag's at -bay." "I shall ride Etoile." "Then I say that you shall not," he answers, putting his arm across he saddle, and meeting. her eyes with a sudden blaze in his. For an instant they gaze at each other in utter forgetfulness of any othsr presence than their own. Then she springs from the block and comes close to him. "I hate you!" she gasps, and, turning, gathers up her habit in one hand runs into the house, swiftly followed by De Palissier. In the salon she faces" him with a gesture of passionate pride "Leave me!" she says. "1 forbid ., 4- ,.l, 4- , 11 He is very pale, but the light of triumph is in his eyes, and, like most of men, being triumphant, he is cruel. "Why do you hate me?" he asked, imperiously. "i beg your pardon, she stammers. dropping the eyes which she knows are betraying her. ' 'I should Tin.vA said " "Yon should have said, Ilove y0I1w! . he murmurs, coming close to her amd Jioldingout his arms. "Does it nurj you tht 1 should JcmoWjic v ac, iYT" who haveJloved you all thesejears?" "But.Eucille," shot away from him butJTwitKeyefcthatine'' and lips'" thatquiver "with bewildered joy. "Never mind Lucille," cries that vonnff 'ladv verv' cKeerfullv' rxzrrzz liUUl ?rt?2w uuo doorway. "It ,has been all a plot for your happiness, my Jeanne, wnidh would never havesucceeded if -you "had known,your sister tas well as she knew, vou? To think .that I would be content with the wreck of any man s nearci , tr 'fiaoncf When my day comes, "Like Alexander, 1 win reign, Andl-will reign alone.-" - Translated from tlie French for the Chicqqo Tribune. Rich Dunces and Poor Scholars. There is one thing worse than . . " . ,-. -, y 1-J T ranee: it is to despise Knowieuge. .ignorance may be a misfortune, but the man who reviles-the knowledge he does not possess shows an ignoble nature. An article is going the rounds of the L newspapers, entitled "Results of Education," the object of which is to show how much better it is to be a rich ignoramus than a poor scholar. The author selects cases to prove his point. A rich Cattle King, who had a year's schooling, and who still thinks William and William the Fourth were one and the same person, is worth two millions of dollars, and has three clerks in his employment who were college graduates. Another man, whose doting parents scrimped and slaved to send him to college, and who graduated with honors, is now forty years of age, and makes school-books for a rich publisher for fifteen dollars a week. Imaerine a loner strins: of such exam ples, given to show that He who would thrive in this world must abandon his school, throw aside his books and go into the street to struggle for pennies! Every statement in this article may be true, and yet the article itself be a falsehood, for nothing lies with such force as truth. That is, truth perverted and misused, can be made to convey an impression completely erroneous. Now there actually was a college graduate employed by a publisher of school-books at a salary something like that named above. That is trufch. But not the whole truth for the reason why the man worked in an inferior position was not because he graduated from college, but because his habits were bad. He was an occasional drunkard. In his subordinate position he was safer and better off than he had ever been when working for himself. Colleges do not teach young men how to buy cheap and to sell dear. Education is tliat which makes success worth having. It cannot impart the quality of mastership, which makes one man go forward and take the lead, and the want of which makes it far better for most men to follow. In New York there are many of these wealthy, ignorant men, whom unfortunately our youth are advised to imitate. As a class, they are well known to be both ridiculous, restless and coarse in speech and habits. They do not know what to do with themselves or with their money, unless it be to go grinding on, adding to their preposterous Some of them try to conquer ennui and to place themselves above the position to which their lack of education assigns them, by building beautiful palaces, or by making art collections, of which they really appreciate nothing but the cost. Others parade their littleness in the harbors of the world, protected by a flag to which their lives have added no lustre. One of the absurdest, nay, one of the most threatening and terrible cles which our imperfect civilization affords, is an ignorant, common, vulgar man, with millions of dollars at nis command millions which spoil him, corrupt his relations, and blast his children! Youths1 Companion. A Postponed Funeral. An old timer of Rochester, N. Y., giving recollections of cholera times to The j kmocrat and Chronicle, of that city, relates the following: "There was an old house down on the canal by Trowbridge street, near the present site of Moss' lumber-yard, which was a pretty tough rookery, It was inhabited by the very lowest Irish, and a large number of deaths occurred there. Among the inmates was one Mary Lynn, one of the most notorious characters of the day. One day Mary was found laid out, and everybody supposed that she was dead. A coffin was procured, and the remains put in and the lid screwed down, and the funeral procession, composed oi a number of hack-loads of friends, started for the pinnacle, where a grave had been duly prepared. I drove one of the hacks." It was a pretty lively funeral. Most of the party were measur ably happy. There was an old shanty just by the cemetery, where liquors were sold, and as the coffin was being taken from the hearse, my passengers improved the opportunity to get another drink. Just as the coffin had been removed from the hearse, somebody I stumbled, and the coffin fell to the ground, bursting open." "That was unpleasant, certainly." "It was, indeed; but imagine the sensation when Mary rose in thcoffin and commenced swinging her arms, and in a moment came out, landing upon her feet. Her first ejaculation was: 'What are you doing?' She was a rough, pow erful woman, and a great fighter in her day, and she made things howl there for a. few moments." "You must have had rather peculiar sensations for a moment." "Yes, I did. At first I hardly knew what to think. For a moment I was dumbfounded, but I soon recovered myself and comprehended the situation. Mary had been on a tear, and had become beastly drunk. Finding her down among the dying cholera-stricken, her friends thought, of course, that she, too, had passed in her chips, and that thera was nothing left but to bury her. Yes, we postponed the funeral, and Mary Lynn continued to be notorious in the police annals for a number of years." - Oscar Wilde says that short tfaii cannot go with knee breeches. No, it usually goes with striped trousers. Buffalo Courier. 7 Fashion 5ote& Two spron overskirts jO oner lonriand1 'vmsrn nri oauht ud on the left side ,the overfull, sjfrnaedaninuoklj looDed over thlffiiSlrelieem ufptfthe mt imHjjnsTf toip Igris. $ f ; Cunning lile low-nicked, . at tt M .?T. TKT Klppved dressesBior"T;hildren are msde fnk blue, and strawberry sateen, .surahchamberyorjinen, embmdercji, , or plain, over piaiLcu. rrioio mslin or? gujmpjes with sleeves-. New autumn cheviots, tweeds serges, 'SSaDaslcef cTotfis1 are mosilyTn plaids,' .in vea or irregular jpterns, and in quiet neutral tones off awn color, nun's ?grnyysph3jgolden - enlivened by stripes or dashes of scarlet and gold. Among the most popular of watering-place dresses appear a variety of cretonnes and foulards with veiy light ground and designs, in the conventional floral style designated as the Cream-color is the one exception to this temporary rule. In woollens it is used as a foundation forpavsan bouquets, or for thVmore severe designs of flowers and fruit, such as fare seen upon bits of Louis XIH. tapestry. The number oi mantles oi tnin materials upon a transparent ground has notably increased of late. These materials are chiefly brocaded silk gauze, with raised designs in silk, velvet, or of finest silk grenadine in raised patterns of satin. The mantles are in the shape of pelerines, large fichus, or elegant pelisses. They are lined with gold, mauve, or scarlet surah, and the effect is exceedingly rich and stylish. One of the prettiest and newest berthas for the summer is of tinted India silk mull, upon he border of which are natural-size flowers and foliage cut from a piece of velvet brocade. One in the Stuart shape is made of pale violet-tinted mull, upon which are large pansies of purple and gold velvet. Another, in delicate pink is bordered with dark rose-colored buds covered with velvet moss, and surrounded with dark-green velvet leaves. For lawn-tennis suits, especially in vogue during September, 'round waists, or snug-fitting basques, with zouave jacket outside, will be very popular. With the round waist will be worn the charming little gypsy fichus of painted or stamped muslin in two " colors of crimson and and cream, almond and pale blue, or willow-green ground painted or stamped with blush roses. The fichu laps at the belt in front, and is crossed or knotted in the back. It is edged with lace, or with plaited frills of the muslin. Dress skirts are growing decidedly fuller and wider, and this decided tendency to bouffant styles has, as history plainly reveals, ,been almost, invariably the forerunner of crinoline, and crinoline we are to have unless scores of manufacturers, who have summoned their hitherto idle forces and beffun the work anew of making hoop-skirts, have listened to a delusive rumor of their coming popularity. It is surprising as well as amusing to note the remarks of importers and modistes upon this their opinions being as varied as the present weather. English manufacturers have secured a novelty in black goods, the fabric being a fine wool made to closely resemble the best of crape. It is firm, exceedingly durable and glossy, but without the elasticity of crape. It is called crape imperial, and is likely to find a large and lasting sale, as it has all the effect of crape proper, without the disadvantage of that material being quite impervious to dampness, and guaranteed to wear as long as cashmere or any other woollen fabric. It is appropriate either for trimming or an entire costume. The variety of the season's dress materials is endless, and so, for the matter of that, is the variety of colors, only regarding colors there is a limit, for although there are more bewildering hues and tones in the shop windows than one could give a name to, only a portion of these are worn by people who pretend to dress well. Grays at home and abroad are very fashionable grays in all shades, French, slate, electric, Quaker, and soft and beautiful nun's gray all are worn. These colors appear in dresses of tulle, garnished with garlands of scarlet roses or poppies, and in silk, satin, and foulard, softened with trimmings of lace, either white or black. The tailor-made dresses are to be more than ever the fashion the coming sea- son. Ladies possessing good figures know that their perfect fit shows the form to the -finest advantage, and those less favored by Nature are also aware that there is" nothing like a slightly rough-surfaced fabric to give an increased look to the size of their slender arms and shoulders. Some of these suits are made up in the severest style, white others are remarkably jaunty and picturesque, with cutaway jackets and crimson serge waistcoats in old Continental style, large pocket flaps adorned with bright buttons in old medal designs, and deep panelled skirts, over which are draped the smartest and nattiest of short tunics, piped with crimson. N. Y. Evening Post. m Advice to Bathers. The Royal Human Society, in its re cently issued report, gives the following advice to swimmers and bathers: Avoid bathing within two hours after a meal. Avoid bathing when exhausted by fatigue, or from any other cause. Avoid Darning wnen tue Douy is coonng aiter perspiration. Avoid bathing altogether in the open air if, after having been a short time in the water, it causes a sense of chilliness with numbness of the hands and feet. Bathe when the body is warm, provided no time is lost in getting into the water. Avoid chilling the body by sitting or standing undressed on the banks or in boats after having been in the water. Avoid remaining too long in the water; leave the water immediately there is the slightest feeling of chilliness. The vigorous and strong may bathe early in the morning on an empty stomach. The young and those who are weak had better bathe two or three hours after a meal; the best time for such is from two or three hours after breakfast. Those who are subject to attacks of giddiness or faintness, and those who suffer from palpitation and other sense of discomfort at the heart, should not bathe without first consulfr ing their inndical adviser." PERSONAL U DEPERSONA&r W. F. Miller, a j&or newsdealer erf Faterson, N. J., by the death of .relatives in New York, has fallen heir to an estate of $350,000. iV. Y. Sun. Mrs. Jane Swisshelm says: The things we call women are simply small packages of aches and pains, done up in velvet and lace, and topped out wHb rArthur W. Oliver; a young man belonging to one of the best families oijL. 'LynnVMass. ,' ly with chloroform, because a young lady to whom he had been paying' to.jnarry him. Boston Post- A girl sixteen years old went to a dentist in Troy, N. Y., recently, and insisted on being put under the influence of chloroform before he performed an operation on her teeth. He applied the drug, from the effects of which she died soon after. Martin Bennett, an old and respected resident of East New York, died of a broken heart the other night. On the corresponding day two years ago, his wife died suddenly at a picnic, and since that time his mind has not been right. He visited his wife's grave every morning, rain or shine, and gave up business entirely. He leaves over 100,000. Ar. Y. Tribune. Josh Billings crossed the plains to the Rocky Mountains fifteen years before Fremont did. He is one of the last of the old line of humorists; vagrants he calls them, Artemus Ward, Henry Clapp, George Arnold, Orpheus C. Kerr and Doesticks. Henry W. Shaw and Shillaber, to wit Josh Billings and Mrs. Partington are about the only ones left. Detroit Post. Captain William P. Joy, of New York, master of the American ship St. Nicholas, was presented with a handsome tea and coffee service of silver recently by Collector Robertson, at the New York Custom House. The silver was a gift from Queen Victoria, as a slight recognition of the heroism of Captain Joy in rescuing from death the Captain and crew of the British bark Lenox. N Y. News. A correspondent, who recently met Mr. and Mrs. Beecher on their travels, says of the latter that "she is not a vinegar cruet nor an acid bottle; neither is she thin, angular and sour. That's all a mistake. She is an aged, fleshy woman, with a kind and benevolent face, and carries her years with lightness. She appears in excellent health, and dresses as a sensible old lady should, comfortably and plainly. Indianapolis Journal. The Jersey State Prison, at Trenton, has a formidable list of notabilities among its tenants. Among them are Baldwin, ex-cashier of the Mechanics' National BankT of Newark, which he quite thoroughly wrecked; President John Halliard,, of the Mechanics' "and Laborers' Bank of Jersey City; James A. Heddin, another cashier from Newark; Garret S. Boyce, cashier from Jersey City; Henry Marchbank, ex-bank clerk from Newark; Frederick A. Palmer, ex-Newark Auditor; Lawrence Beach, a Jersey City book-keeper; Robert Cook, Assistant Secretary of a Jersey City savings bank, and Elijah Shaw, another Jersey City cashier. N. Y. Herald. --"- "A LITTLE NONSENSE." A donkey has more brayin's than sense. N. Y. Journal. It must be a poor singer who can't make his "board" from the "timbre" of his voice. MusieaiS World. First Little Girl "I've been to Boston with mamma for over Sunday." Second Little Girl: "Pooh! that's nothing. . I had a dress there being cleaned for over two weeks."" Golden Bays. "No, sah," excitedly exclaimed a Southern darkey dominie, dat whitewash on de sleebs ob my coat nebber come from de roost ob a chicken house. Dem marks, sah,. am de badge of my perfeshun, N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. A very nice-girl of Milwaukee Was alyrays excessively talky. But wtien she vms wed Was mum as the dead. And her husband declared she wa3 balky. A cruel oldi wretch In Chicago, Bef his wife's jaw go, She grot a divorce-, As a inatterof course, And showed' h&m how far could tho law go. N. Y. Life. What to hrm was love or hoper What to hirm was joy or care? He stepped on a plug of mottled soap the girl had left on the topmost stair, and his feet flew out like wild, fierce wings, and he struck each stair with a sound like a drumy and the girl below with the scrubbing things laughed like a fiend ta see him come. Chicago Journal. "There are five persons in the car and only four fares in the box!" said the car-driver, as he opened the door. "All the passengers looked up and at each other, and a man who sat reading a paper slowly turned to his wife and queried: "Why, dear, didn't you pay your own fare when we got on? You are becoming very absent minded." Detroit Free Press. A Misunderstanding "How's yer gal comin' on, Aunt Malviny?" "She's ober ter San Antonio, and dat ar Gabe Snodgrass, what's jes' come from dar, done tole me dat she's got stage struck." "Is dat so?" lfYes, Air. Johnsing, it am a fac'." "When am she gwine ter play?" "Not for a right smart while yit, I reckon, kase de wheel ob annuder wehicle break two of her ribs when de stage struck her." "I miscomprehended yo,' Aunt Malviny, at fust. Good ebenin'." Texas A Massachusetts book agent, who was wearing a small circular piece ot court-plaster on his face, removed it while shaving a few mornings since, and replappd it when his toilet was complete. Contrary to his usual experience, as he went about his business during the rest of the day he was everywhere received with smiles, which grew broader and broader, until at last somebody laughed in his face. Led by this to look in the glass, he was somewhat taken aback to discover that, instead of the court-plaster, he had affixed to his face a little round printed label, which had fallen from the back of a new mantel clock purchased the day before, and which bore the appropriate inscriptioni Warranted solid brass HiXchanasu rr i