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FOB THE YOIJNG PEOPLE.
A Child'* Calendar.
I.
April! summer's coming! Now begins the
year.
For the snow has melted, and the blue-bird's
here'
Woolly catkins swinging on the alder-bush
"Whisper, "Leaves are startling! we can feel
them push!"
May' the leaves are dancing in the sunny air'
Ferns uncurl, and blossoms spring up every
where.
Sweet the breezes-blowing where pink may
flowers hide
Under last year's leaf-fall on the warm hill
side.
June' why, e^ ery June day is a happy dream'
Buttercups and daisies, strawberries and
cream!
Hush' hid in the clover, would youever think
All the glee could come from iust one bobo
link?
July' off at sunrise picking blackberries'
Climbing after bird's nests up the tallest trees'
"Helping" in the having' On the pond afloat,
Hunting water-hllies in a leaky boat.
August! lire-flies brighten when the daylight
ailb
In the swampy meadows grow the tall "cats
tails,"
By the shady brooksule who (an feel the heat
While the -water npples o\er naked feet9
Wild grapes in Septembei tempt to climbs
and leaps,
In the fragrant orchard apples lie in heaps,
'Round the cider presses, thronging with the
bees,
Don't it taste like honey, sucked through
sti aws like these
Jolly.crisp October' Then the che&tnut burrs
Rattle down like hailstones if the least wind
stirs'
Gold and crimson leaf showers from the tree
tops fall,
Squirrels scamper gaily o'er the old stone
wall
Gray skies November bring the first light
snow
Whirling softly downwaid tee the white
flakes go'
In dear grandma's ^kitchen peering, lager
eyes
Spy out "such a turkey' such Thanksgiving
pies!"
"Christmas'" cries December. How the
stockings look
Loaded down with bundles in the chimney
nook'"
Tumbling up at day-break out of downy beds,
"Santa knew we wanted just these skates'and
sleds"'
January's buried in a great snow-fall
On with coat and mittens! out to slide and
ball!
Merry 6leigh-bells jingle in the frosty air,
And the grand ice-palace rises white" and fair.
February hurries. Only twenty-eight
Days of wintry weather' 'Tisn't long to wait
Icicles, a dropping, shattered lie in rows,
Poor old Winter's white coat many a brown
patch shows.
March' has winter vanished9
rush!
Hear the river's
Wading through the door-yards in big rubber
boots,
You may catch spring peeping outin crocus
shoots LORY, THE ALSATIAK.
Translated from the French.
Lory, the blacksmith of Sante-Marie
aux-Mines, was not in good humor that
night. He was vexed and ill-tempered.
Usually when the torge fires were out,
and tfte sun had set, he sat on the bench
in front ot his door and enjoyed the pleas
ant fatigue caused by honest work and
the heat of the day. Before dismissing
his apprentices he would drink with them
long draughts of cool beer, while the
factory hands passed, going from their
work, lhat night the old man remained
at his forge tilllt was time to take his
seat at the table, and while he lingered
no longer, he seemed to g"o unwillingly.
Looking at him, his wife thought.
'Whathas happened to him? Perhaps he
has bad news from the regiment, and dare
not tell me? Perhaps Christian is ill!"! and causeless terrors, finds himself in the
She dared not ask hat the trouble was
but busied herself in keeping quiet the
three little blonde heads that chattered
around the table, while munching their
radishes and cream.
At last the blacksmith put away his
plate in anger:
"Ah! the wretches' Ah, the scoun
drels!"
What now, xiory, with whom are you
angry?'
"With five or six scoundrels," he
burst out, who have been going about
town since morning, in French uniforms,
and walking arm-in-arm with the Bava
rains. Some more of those who have
what 5o they call it?chosen-Prussia
for their country and to think that every
day we see those false Alsatians return
ing! What drink did they brew them?"
But think, Lory, poor children it is
not quite their Ht,ult. They are sent to
such a distanceAlgeria, in Africa. They
are homesick out yonder, and what a
strong temptation it is to return to Iheir
native land and be soldiers no longer.
Lory struck the table with his clenched
fist.
"Hush, mother! You women don't
understand. Forever living with children,
and for them alone, you make everything
small enough to fit your babies. Now I
telLyou these men are scoundrelsren
egadesthe vilest of cowards an if our
Christian were capable of such infamy,
as sure as my name is George Lory, and
that I served seven years in the Chasseurs
of France, I would run my sword through
his body!"
In his excitement, half raising himself
from his seat, the blacksmith pointed to
his saber hanging on the wall above the
portrait of his son, a zouave, painted in
Africa. There was the honest Alsa
tian face, swarthy and bronzed fey the
sun, the surroundings, whitened and
softened as brilliant colors are by a high
light. The sight calmed him suddenly,
and he laughed at himself.
I am a good one to worry myself in
this wayas though our Christian would
think for a moment of turning Prussian
he who brought down so many during
the war.
His good humor being restored by this
thought, he gayly finished his dinner and
then went to La Ville de Strasbourg, to
drain a couple ot glasses of beer.
Now Mother Lory is alone. After hay
ing put the babies to bed (they are still
heard in the next room, prattling like a
nest of young birds going to sleep), she
gets her work and begins to mend, sitting
in the garden, just outside the doorway.
From time to time she sighs and thinks:
"Yes, I suppose fer they are cowards
and renegades, but nevertheless their
mothers are very happy to have them re-
turn." She remembers the time when
her son, before he leit for the army, was
on that spot at the very same hour of the
aay, attending to the little garden. She
looks at the well where he filled his water
ing pots, in his blouse, his long hair on
his shouldersthe beautiiul, bright hair
that was cut off when he joined the
zouaves Suddenly she starts. The door
in the corner of the garden wall, which
opens into the fields, is open. Still, he
who enters creeps along the wall like a
thief, and slips between the trees and
beehives.
Mother
Her Christian stands before her, his
uniform disordered, shamefaced, confus
ed, and with thick utterance. He had
returned with the others, and for the past
hour had hung about the house waiting
for his father to go out befoie he dared
toventure in.
She should scold him, but she cannot.
It is so long since she has seen him, and
kissed him! Then he gives her such
good reasons for returning He was so
unhappy away from the forge, from his
country, spending his days so far away
from those he|loved,and the discipline be
coming more rigid from day to day, and
being called a Prussian by his com
rades because of his Alsatian accent.
She believes every word he utters. She
need but look at him to believe.
Still conversing, they go into the low
studded room. The little ones, awakened,
come in their white dresses, with bare
rosy feet, to embrace and welcome the
big brother.
His mother would have him eat, but
he is not hungry still he is thirsty, and
gulps down great draughts of water, over
all the beer and white wine that he has
been drinking since morning at the inn,
to give him courage to face what he
knows will be his father's anger.
They hear steps approaching the house.
It is the blacksmith returning.
"Christian, it is your father. Quick
hide yourself, to give me time to speak to
himto explain."
She pushes him behind the huge por
celain stove, and with trembling hands
takes up her work.
Tn her haste, the zouave's cap has been
left upon the table. It is the first thing
that Lory sees as he enters. The mothers
patter and her agitation betrays her. The
truth flashes across Lory's jaindhe sees
it all.
Christian is here,*' he cries furiously,
and grasping his saber. With a wild
gesture he rushes toward the stove, be
hind which cowers the zouave, pale and
sobered, leaning again9t the wall for fear
of falling
The mother throws herself between
them.
Lory, Lory! do not kill him! It was
I who wrote him to come backthat you
needed him in the forge!"
She clings to his arm, weeps and en-,
treats. In the darkness of their room
the children are crying, frightened by the
voices, so changed by passion that they
do not recognize them.
The blacksmith stops, and looking at
his wife Ah! you wrete him to come
back? Very well let him go to bed to
morrow I will see what is to be done.''
On the morrow Christian, awakening
from a heavy sleep, full of nightmares
room that had been his in childhood.
The sun is shining warmly and brightly
through the leaded, diamoned-shaped
panes, over which a hop-vine makes a
verdant network below the hammer
sounds on an anvil.
The mother is at his bedside in fact,
so much did she fear her husband's anger
that she had not left her son during the
night. Lory has not slept, either till
morning he wandered through the house,
weeping, sighing, opening and shutting
the clothes-presses. Now he gravely en
ters his son's room. He is dressed as for
a journey, with high leggings, a broad
hat, and a heavy iron-bound stick he
goes directly to the bed.
"Come, get up."
Christian, somewhat confused, is about
to put on his uniform. "No not that,"
says the father sternly.
Trembling, mother interposes: "But
he has no others."
"Give him mine. I have no further use
for them.'' *&
f^^M
While Christian is dressing. Lory folds
the uniform carefullythe short jacket
and the full red trowsers. The bundle
made up, he hangs about his neck the tin
box that contains the way bill.
Now let us go down," he says, and
all three descend to the forge without ex
changing a word. i|JP|
The bellows roar,1
and every one is at
work. Seeing once, mure the qpen shed,
of which he had thought so often when
far away, the Zouave remembers his
childhood' and how often he has played
between th* heat of the road and the
sparks of the forge glittering in the black
dust. A feeling of tenderness comes
over him, and an intense desire to obtain
his father's forgiveness, but whenever he
raises his eyes, he meets an inexorable
look. i
At last the blacksmith speaks:
"Lad said he, "there is the anvil, the
toolsthey are yours, and all that 'also,"
added he, pointing to the little garden
spread out"before them, full of sunlight
and buzzing bees, and green peacefulness,
like a picture, seen through the smoky
frame of the doorway. "The beehives the
vineyard, the house, all belong to you.
Since you have sacrificed your honor for
these things, it is but just that you should
have them. You are master here I am
going! You owe five years to France, and
I go to pay your debt."
"Lory, Lory! where are you going?"
cries the poor mother.
"Father!" entreatingly falters the son
but the blacksmith is gone, with long
strides, not turning once to look back.
At Sidiebel-Abbes, at the headquarters
of the Third Zouaves, there is a new vol
unteer, aged 55
A Well-Matched Pair
A lady traveling in England tells the
following: Along with my brother, who
was colecting matter for a work he was
about to publish, I visited the interest
ing town of Hexham interesting at
least to him, for it was a fine field for
historical researchalthough, for my
own part, I found little to admire beside
its ancient church. The circumstance
which more than anything else secured
the dingy town a lasting place in my
memory was our taking a lodging with
an extraordinary pairan old man and
woman, husband and wife, who lived
by themselves without child or servant,
subsisting on the letting of their parlor
and two bed-rooms. They were tall,
thin and erect, though each seventy years
of age. When we knocked at the door
for admittance, they answered it together
if we rang the bell, the husband and wife
invariably appeared side by side all our
requests and demands were received by
both, executed with the utmost nicety
and exactness.
The first night arriving late by the
coach from Newcastle, and merely re
quiring a good fire and our tea, we were
puzzled to understand the reason ot this
double attendance and I remember my
brother rather irreverently wondering
whether we were always "to be waited
upon by these Saimse twins. On ring
ing the bell to retire for the night, both
appeared as usualthe wife carrying the
bedroom candlestick, the husband at the
door. I gave her directions about break
fast for the following morning, when the
husband from the door quickly answered
for her.
Depend upon it, she is dumb,"
whispered my brother.
But this was not the case, though she
rarely made use of the faculty of speech.
They both attended me into my bedroom
when the old lady, seeing me look with
some surprise toward her husband, said:
"There's no offense meant, ma'am, by
my husband coming with me into the
chamberhe's stone blind
"Poor man!" I exclaimed. "But why,
then, does he not sit stilH Why does he
accompany you everywhere?"
"It's no use, ma'am, your speaking to
my old woman," said the husband "she
can't hear youshe's quite deaf."
I was astonished. Here was compen
sation Could a pair be better matched?
Man and wife were indeed one flesh for
he saw with her eyes and she heard with
his ears! It was beautiful to me after
ward to watch the old man and woman
in their inseperableness. Their sympa
thy with each other was as swift as elec
tricity, and made their deprivations as
naught.
A Female JBelle of Old Ireland.
almshouse on Blackwell's Isl
and, N. Y., a woman above one hundred
years old has just died. She had spells
of leeling young, and would tell over to
herself the events in her life of fifty and
seventy-five years of ago, but could tell
little of the last ten years. She came to
this country in 1825, and has been sup
ported by chanty ever since. In her
young days she was a favorite domestic
in the household of the Marquis of Beres
ford's family. Although living under
the roof of the leading Orange family of
Ireland at that dark and troubled perid,
she nevertheless wedded an outlaw with
a price upon his head. He was taker*
prisoner at the memorable battle r*
Oulcrt Hill, and sentenced to be hppgpr',
His young wife heard of his ?ptivr *cd
sentence, and invoked the all-powerful
Marquis of Beresford to interpose his
clemecy in saving the life of her patrsotic
husband.
The Marquis, for once in his life, was
inclined to be merciful to "rebels" and
gave a reluctant premise that he would
interest himself in saving from the gal
lows the hero of Oulert Hill. And. so
the story goes, that as Myles Ryan was
about being led from his dungeon to the
scaffold, a tree pardon was granted him,
without his knowledge of the influence
that saved his life. The "pardon was read
in the presence of the yeomanry, who
were so enraged at the escape of one of
their victims, and he, too, the most danger
ous and conspicuous of the batch of
doomed men that they concluded he should
not escape their vengeance, even if a
royal pardon had been granted'. ."^L A*
Myles Ryan had scarcely emerged from
the precincts of the prison gates when he
was clasped in the arms of his rescuer, the
faithful Catharine, whose heart was too
full to express her gratitude save in tears.
While the happy couple were walking
arm-in-arm, alternately embracing each
other and offering fervent prayers to
heaven for the miraculous escape of Myles
from the gallows,they were over taken by a
troop of yeomen, who fell upon Myles and
sabred him to death. The devoted
Catharine, in striving to shield him from
the merciless blows of his assassins, re-
ceived a sabie cut on the head which laid
her prostrate by the side of her husband.
From the sight and that blow she never
fully recovered.
m*
A Physican's Crime*,
"That is a splendid cheme of yours, Dr.
Melvile. I shall be glad to help you,"
Understand me well, Bixton. Tl
thing has to be done to-night."
Well?"
Now, look across the streets at that
window. Old Brotherton sleeps in that
room. He is very stout, and in this hot
weather keeps the window of M3 bed
room open all night. Methodical in his
habits, he alway gees to bed at nine
o' lock. At that hour I have seen him
enter his bed-room night after night
lighted candle in his hand. To-night
shall lie in wait for Brotherton in
the open window Ot the adjoining room,
from which I can see distinctly every
thing he does in his bed-room which is
on the straight line with it.
I am a dead shot, and as soon as he
enters this bed-room I shall fire the air
gun, which I have considerable improved,
at him, and shoot him through the heart.
In all probability he will drop dead on
the floor without uftering a scream. But,
even if he does cry out no one will hear
him. Then, Bixton, your part of the task
will commence. As soon as darkness sets
in to-night you will have to conceal your
self in the woodshed adjoining Brother
ton's house. A few minutes before nine
you will approach Brotherton's bed-room
window close enough to see what takes
place there. As soon as I have brought
down the old fellow you must climb into
the window, enter the adjoining room
where Brotherton's desk stands, break the
desk stand open and take from it all the
papers and money it contains. No one
will hear you, for no one but Brotherton
heves in the house. Then you come quick
ly over to me, hand me the papers, and I
will let you have one of my horses to ride
off toward Florida. Do you understand
me well, Bixton?"
Perfectly, Doctor."
Well, then, here is a darklanhen and
an excellent steel jimmy. Have you a
watch."
No, Doctor."
Well, you may have this silver watch,
Bixton and here is a $10 bill to get you
some refreshments. But beware of get
ting druuk."
I won't drink any thing but claret,
Dr. Melville. But tell me onex
pleasehow much money will I be likely
to find in old Brotherton's desk?"
"Oh, at least $2,000, Bixton. I saw
him put nearly that sum into it this very
morning."
All right, Dr. Melville, all right. I
shall be on hand to-night."
So saying, Walter Bixton, a young man
of twenty-five, left the office of Dr. Mel
ville, a middle-aged physician, with
whom he had held the foregoing startling
conversation at Mobile, Alabama, shorty
after noon of a very sultrv June day, in
the year 1831.
When Dr. Melville was alone in his
office he drew himself into an easy chair,
and was soon absorbed in deep thought.
Every now and then he uttered a few in
coherent sentences.
Ah, Jim Brotherton," he murmured,
"you are going to foreclose that mortgage
on my house to-morrow! I guessnotI
guess not not! You are a childless
widower, worth over a hundred thousand
'dollars, and you want to deprive me ot
what little property I have. I told you
to-day that you would regret your hard
beartedness, and you laughed at me.
He chuckled diabolically. I guess
notI guess not!" he repeated.
Then he sprang to his feet, and took
from a wardrobe an air-gun, whose lock
he examined carefully.
"From here to Botherton's house is
about twenty-eight yards. Now, this air
gun carries its small iron bolt twice as
far. Let us try it. There is a crow on
yonder church-roof. I will kill it."
He took aim and fired. The crow fell
dead.
Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, almost aloud,
It will be bad for you, Jim Botherton!"
Evening came round, and, as Dr. Mel
ville had predicted, a minute or two after
nine o'clock, Jamfes Botherton, a wealthy
retired merchant, who lived all alone [in
his cosy frame house 011 Ochiltree street,
entered his bedroom with a lighted wax
candle in his hand. No sooner bad he
crossed the threshold of the bedroom
than a bullet hissed through the open
window, and entered his left breast. He
sank to the floor with a low groan.
A few seconds later, young Bixton
climbed into the windov and threw the
glare of his dark lantern into Botherten's
face
It wa* deadly pale. The eyes looked
glassy and riged.
He is dead'" whispered the villian,
who rushed into the ajoining room, broke
open the desk, and took from it a bundle
of papers tied together with red tape, and
a large package of bank-bills.
"By George!" he muttered, gleefully,
there is at least four thousand dollars
here!"
He returned to the bedroom where
Botherton was lying, and threw the light
of the lantern once more upon the vic
tim's face. Suddenly he uttered a loud
cry of terror and dropped the dark lan
tern.
Botherton was not dead. He had open
ed his eyes very wide and whispered:
Ah, is it you, Walter Bixton?"
The young man tried to escape, but
Botherton had grasped his left leg, and
held it in a grip of iron. A horrible strug
gle ensued. In order to free himself from
the old man's grasp, Bixton stamped him
repeatedly in the face, disfiguring him
horribly. At last he made his escape
through the open window, while the old
man cried loudly for help.
A night constable heard him, and was
soon by the victim's side.
"I am shot!" gasped Botherton.
"Who did it?" asked the constable.
R9*C9Wa5S*WHSF'**'*s
^-i
thing,
i^
g'Sr
tfiu'iam'WW"
Walter Bixton," rejoined the wound
ed man, feebly.
A, convulsive shudder ^passed through
his frame, and he expired.
"Meanwhile, Bixton, terribly frighen
ed, had run over to Dr. Melville's house.
Well?" asked the doctor.
"You did not kill himhe recognized
me!" gasped the villian.
The Doctor uttered a blasphemous oath.
Some one is now with him," contin
ued Bixton, pantingly. "Oh, hide me,
hide me!" 'JV i
No, no!" cried the baffled physician,
Get out of my house this very moment,
or I shall shout for the police
Bixton implored him not to give him
up. but Dr. Melville, who was perfectly
beside himself with rage, began to shout:
Watch! Police! Police?
The constable across the street heard
the shouts, hurried over to the house of
the physician, and took the despairing
Bixton into custody.
At the station house he immidiately
made a clean breast cf the whole trans
action, whereupon Dr. Melville was like
wise arrested.
The physician had regained his pres
ence of mind, and denied Bixton's char
ges against him with the utmost coolness.
But his denials were unavailing in the
face of thedamnatorycircmumstancial ev
idence confirming Bixton's statements
against him. Inditments for murder in
the first degree were found against them
at the next term of the Circuit Court.
When the trial came off an able defense
was made in behalf of Dr. Melville,
whose counsel strenuously tried to piove
that Bixton had insidiously robbed the
Doctor, and stollen the articles found
with him with the intention of saddling
the guilt on Melville's shoulders in case
he should be detected in his crime.
Notwithstandirg the able speeches of
the defendant's lawyer, the two prisoners
were found guilty, and hung in the pres
ence of an immense concourse of people
on the 21st of Januarv, 1832.
One of Stanley's Adventures.
While Stanley, the African explorer,
was working his way down the gi eat river
whose union with, the sea he was the first
to discover, he had thirty-two adventures
with the hostile natives, in some of which
he lost a number of men. One of these
adventures is thus described by a gi aphic
correspondent of the Boston Journal:
The inhabitants had assembled on the
bank, seeing this curious boat filled with
strangers approaching, and Stanley's men
said they thought the cries, which were
almost deafening, of a friendly nature.
But Stanley thought not. To him the
cries seemed warlike. 1 However, visions
of eggs, cnickens, fresh milk, and, per
haps, goat's flesh, for his exhausted men,
flashed before his eyes, and he gave the
signal to put into the cove.
No sooner had the boat reached the
sloping bank, than it was hauled fifty
yards upon the shore by an nundred
hands, and before Stanley and his aston
ished men could realize where they were,
they found themselves the center of a cir
cle of savages each of whom was aiming
an arrow directly at the unlucky wights.
There were several hundred of these
people, called the Bumbrich, after the
name of their island on the shore, and
Stanely says that he expected to be in
stantly massacred. His gun and those of
his men lay in the bottom of the boat,
and to stop to pick them up would have
brought a shower of arrows and instant
deatn.
So endeavored to reason with the sav
ages, and showed them some clothes and
beadb, which they accepted. They crowd
ed around the boat, however, and one
man took hold of SttUiley's hair and gave
it a violent wrench, thinking that it was
a cap that would come off, disclosing
wool.
This was hard to bear, and meantime,
one of Stanley's men received a stunning
blow from a spear-handle. Then the ex
plorer made another little speech, asking
for food and to be allowed to continue
his journey, promising more cloth and
beads.
The savages then made several fero
cious demonstrations, rushing down upon
him, gnashing their teeth and shaking
their spears in his very face but they did
not kill him, and finally retired to consult
This mortal agony of suspense lasted
from nine in the morning until three in
the afternoon, during which time Stan.ey
did not get out of his boat, nor did he
take his eyes off the islanders.
At last seeing no chance of anything
but death, he gave the signal to his men
to be ready at a certain cry to drag the
boat into the water. Presently the island
ers began to return, and something told
Stanley not to wait.
?Jp5
So he shouted the wbrd di command,
and the boat flew down the slope into the
water, his men diving all around it like
so many muskrats, in their eagerness to
escape the javelins and arrows which
they knew would come.
Stanley picked up his elephant gun
and, as an islander bounding on to the
beach was prepairing to fire an arrow
after the boat, he shot him, and the im
mense bullet, passing through the sav
age's body* killed another behind him.
Meantime it was discovered that tne
oars were lost, and Stanley's men were
paddling with their hands as fast as they
could to get out of arrow-range, when
they weri. horrified by seeing thirty-six
savages put off from Bumbrich in three t
canoes.
r"
f$
The men in Stanley's Boat were anxious *?f\
to fire at once, but he ordered them to ai- &V
low the canoes to approach, and succeed SsJy^*
ed in sinking two ot them by firing into
their sides at the water line.
In two minutes two dozen savages were
struggling in the water, and beating
away for the shore with, vigorous strokes
the third canoe renounced pursuit, and
Stanley and His men foun themselves safe,
but still half-dead from hunger when
they joined the main body of the
expedition.
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