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The Fairfield news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1881-1900, September 27, 1882, Image 1

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Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/2012218613/1882-09-27/ed-1/seq-1/

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From Landen to Neerwlnden.
Mfra sacred croes of England shone;
Ehe lilies white of France were blown;
The battie*teed3 were given rein;
tWas heard the trumpet's wild refrain
J?rom Landen to Neerwinden.
T1"3fpoliahed swords flashed ont and crossed;
field of blood was won and lost;
And thro' the twilight's dusky vail
P,Tbe victor-lilies glimmered pale
fcrom Landen to Neerwinden.
preast-high were piled the corpses there;
Vrom dark till dawn the heated air
{Although, no bell was heard to toll)
Was thick with many a passing sool
From Landen to Neerwinden.
for twelve long months the slain, at rest,
Lay underneath the earth unblest,
Apd then the blood from every heart
From out the dust began to start
From Landen to Neerwinden.
For there besran from friend and foe
? A million scarlet flowers to grow,
And every flower a poppy red,
Br. Until a gorgeous garden spread
r . Jfrom Landen to Neerwinden.
?Minnie Irving, in the Century.
' - > - ^
A symphony of sound and light and
fccent. A voice of many birds twitter^
ing delicately to each other from newlv^
built nests, amid boughs that swayed to
anc iro in the wind, ana snoot tneir
te latest buds into leaf and blossom. Into
L th? woodland from far below came a
r murmur of waves trailing on a shingly
beach, and mingling with this murmur
the talk and laughter of the fishermen
mellowed by distance. Right down
through the sloping woodland a brook
ppi iqz leaped tiPKimg ana gurgling to trie
r The dim fragrance and dappled lights
and pleasant sounds of the day made a
three-fold joy to a young girl who stood
^ beneath the trees in April noon. She
FSV stood on a part of the slope -whence the
^ trges had drawn back a little, and the
Hght fell about her just beyond the
verge {of the shadow. Round her feet
were dead leaves and living flowers, and
Soft ffreen mosses full of the sweet rain
thathad fallen all the previous night.
a. With one hand , she shaded her eyes, the
pf Oth^r was uplifted to fend back a branch
"Which had barred the open space. Her
hair was blown in a brown cloud about
her face, and her hazel eyes shone with a
serious joy beneath the shading hand
For the first time in her life she was
tasting that singular gladness which
comes to mind and body when alone
fee with nature in spring, after a long illness.
To this dull content of hers all
Ip' the long hours of fevered tossing to and
fro, followed by tedious weeks of con?&
valescence, were but a background.
And now into her loneliness there
rcame anotner numan presence?a
young man, carelessly whistling, treading
gayly over moss and flowers till he
? reached the rivulet and paused on the
further side, looking at the tall, slim
WL figure in the soft gray gown, crowned
ft by the brown hair and wistful face.
K Just one moment, and he turned off a
H -little higher up and sprang across the
B- stream. Only one look, and there
might have been no second; their lives
might have glided apart forever but for
Hj^anaecident? or what we call an acciBpfentT^hich
is really a strong link in
Mfcany ?As-Jiis- foot
^to&hed the bank he slipped on the
WT damp earth, spraining his ankle in the
posture and leaned against a tree, faint
with pain. The young girl came quick/
ly toward him. "I will run and get
heh>," she said, atid meeting a grateful
r look, for a moment went quickly along
^ the path that led to Cloverleigh, the
Tillage where she and her father were
staying. At a turning she met a tall,
scholarly-looking man.
"I was looking for you, Margaret.
Are you. wise to go bareheaded, my
cnna r ne saia, anxiously.
_ " My hat fell into the brook, and it is
A so mild- But, oh! papa, there's a gentleman
hurt down there. He has
sprained his ankle and cannot walk."
And she waved her hand to the wood
below. They "found him faint and
white, but he made light of his sufferings
as they helped him through the
. fringe of apple and pear trees to his
lodging in Cloverleigh.
! Margaret Townsend had lived alone
almost all her life, with her father, a
<ruiet student, lovinsr but his daughter
and his books, and so her life was full
Of associations, but not of friends. None
of the bloom had been worn off her soul
r _ "by that playing at lore called flirtation.
She had read, with a certain solemnity,
some old books wherein mention was
. made of men who had died and done
L .other things for love; and she may have
bad dreams on the suhject, but filmy and
fehifting as dreams generall^are.
S I- . Her father had taught hei^iveek, and
Br so " she had chanced upon tEjgr poets,"
"andtheir thoughts had given flavor to
I her own. Some time before this had
oo^ie illness; it had seemed at one
we w? 4" ao l^ r? V? /% m awavt*
UO AJL ouo JJLIUOO tuc JJ.CV11 u ?
K und of time into the wide spaces of
1 - ^ernity ; but slowly death had let go
r his hold, and she was well enough now
to enjoy the change to the quaint
Devonshire fishing village, perched in
the rift of a headland among ancestral
trees and bowers of ash and apple and
- It is unique, this village, with its
[ Jrandred steps leading down to the quay
and the shingly shore. The houses
rise one above the other, and the quaint
rooms in them are let in summer to
?r:. visitors with good walking powers.
Tf? atiItt inn ie o nf Krin_o_Kro r?
V/lii* urn XjO c* ujl
? and in summer is crowded with pilgrims
visiting one of the shrines of nature.
In this sequestered solitude the father
and daughter and Dr. John Enderby
were at present the only strangers, and
the young doctor, after two or three
$ays, limped into Margaret's sunlit
iltting-roonj, into which theligbt filtered
^r-^through a network of budding apple
5^^^boughs. Here he would sit and watch
L^largaret at work, or listen to her as
she read some Old "World book to her
father, her fresh young voice contrasting
with the oft-times crabbed style;
?tnd as he thus watched her she grew
rfcexpressibly pleasant to him. Pleasant,
Sid that was all.
But to Margaret ? Without one word
of warning had come the crowning
affection of her life.
John was free to come and go as he
liked in the blossom-screened room,
holding learned converse with Mr.
Townsend, meeting his daughter in
the woods, now fullv leafed, sometimes
P helping her over the rocks in search of
F anemohes. On fine evenings the three
would sit on the little semi-circular pier
* that inclosed the "quay pule" and
watch the sunset fading and the dark:
- ness nestling down among the wooded
' headlands, and the great evening star
suddenly appearing in the blue above the
Y " paling primrose that touched the water.
^ After that the sky would swiftly fill
on/1 f no r>">AAn xrAiilrl
>S?-^ into the airy silence, and her light woxild
^^S^*^Q?trate sky a^d sea ana cliff-hung vil0
- lights would appear one by one
Kows a^x>ve? they would
All this fed the warm friendliness he
felt for her, which is often mistaken
for love. The fragrance of her life
filled his imagination, and he deter;
mined to make her his wife. But of
j that delicious agony, that glorious fear
that makes p::l!id the face of the lover,
the void in the life that must be filled
by the presence of a beloved woman?
what did he know ? Nothing.
i His nature was as yet cold, hers was
fI aorimr She was one of those women
i passionate, yrt sweet and pure, with
! sensitive bodies that quiver with pain
at any strong emotion. If she had
never seen hi:n again it is improbable
; that she wouM ever have cared for an;
other ; }> rhans she would have waited
j in eternity f? r the sequence of that first
j g'ance of his.
They lingered on till the honeysuckle
wooed the meadow-sweet in the deep
lanes above Hie village, and the young
summer was in its beauty. Then there
came a monvnt when, the two being
alone in the woodland path overhanging
thr> sea. John :isked Marsraret to be his
; wife. It was the sweetest time of the
j afternoon, jufct before sunset, when the
j day has lost its weariness and the sky
! is calm and the sunshine is dimmed by
| a soft haze.
3Ir. Towns'^nd had left them in order
: to write a letter which he had forgotten,
! and the others had sauntered toward
: the village in dreamy silence. Then she
i became awar;? that lie was asking her to
be his wife, tilling her that she was the
sweetest woman he had ever seen.
Whence then her sudden shrinking
from him as in fear?
"I am not good enough," she cried.
She was afraid of her joy, for she was a
timid woman, but in the midst of his
wooing he was vexed at her humility,
not understanding it, for he was only
offering her a scanty armful of firstfruits,
and she was returning him the
full harvest of her soul, though she did
not know its value. He drew her to
him and kissed frhe brown head and laid
it on his breast. She began to cry?she
had been so greedy of joy lately, and here
was its perfection.
And he??well it was the sweetest
hour he had ever passed in all his life.
This girl, with her simple dress and
-- t ? J
nianuyr, aim uei aeiiuus wunucira ouu
undertone of joyfulneso about her, satisfied
the more spiritual side of his
nature. And yet she was not the ideal
of his past, which ideal had been compounded
of soft-voiced Cordelia, passionate
Juliet, bright Rosalind, witty Beatrice,
and dear Desdemona?in fact, of
all the sweets of many natures compounded
into one.
She was not his heroine, but he was
her hero, and her gladness inclined
toward sadness; for a true woman sees
herself valueless at the moment she
believes that the "man of men "sees in
her a nrecious ieweL
"Are you sorry?" he asked, half
"Sorry !" she said, and, with a frank
yet coy gesture, she nestled close to his
Windborough is a country town,
seated in the midst of a smiling plain
which stretches to the line of lowwooded
hills on the north and loses itself
in the far horizon in every other
direction. It is a^^epy town, full of
ola traditions, and prides ltseli rather
on. its rains than on its famous woolen
manufacture. It is built in the form
of a cross?indeed, its main street is
called Crossgate. In one of the arms
of the cross?the one toward Woodleigh,
with its famous old castle?are
the best houses, in which the smaller
gentry and the professional men live.
At the end of the Woodlcigh road
was Dr. Enderby's house, large and
old-fashioned, and hither he brought
his wife Margaret not long after their
first meeting in the Cloverleigh woods.
It was a change from ths intense quiet
of her girlhood to a large circle of
friends and a few secret enemies. But
she was John's wife, and her sweet
gayety filled his house with sunshine;
and she shaped herself a home in all
In Margaret's room John Enderby
loved to rest in his intervals of leisure,
watching his wife with an interest and
a strange timidity tha1; grew deeper day
by day. Poor Margaret felt him further
from "her, and a shadow fell across her
life that the birth of her little son could
not wholly chase away. When the child
was about nine months old it happened
that she was often alone, for it was an
unhealthy autumn, and Dr. Enderbv's
services were in great requisition, not
only among the rich but also among the
poor, for he was gentle as well as skill Till
Vattt />amck in
and resume his old habit of silently
watching and listening to her talk about
little Jack.* How she loved that child !
"What sweet music his tiny fingers discoursed
on that mother's heart-strlngsj!
One afternoon her husband came in
as she was sitting with the child on her
knee?a bright, fair-haired, brown-eyed
boy, very like his father. The baby
stretched out his dimpled arms to his
father, then with a child's mischief
withdrew them, and hid his face on his
mother's bosom with a cooing laugh.
She bent her head down on the fluffy
curls, and caught his bare little feet in
her hand (he had pulled off his shoes
and socks, the tiny rogue!) and she
kissed the rosy toes with lovely mother
"Look, John," she said, "isn't he the
most wonderfully sweet child, this
precious baby. What should we do
without him?"
She was flushed and laughing, arms
and heart full too; but a sharp pang
a t in
nasiitu uu uugu xmi.
He answered, quietly, "Yes, he is a
fine boy for his age," and bending down,
kissed him; but he went away after that
without further speeeh. It often happened
so now, and Margaret could not
divine the cause; so she was hurt, and
turned more and more to the baby for
On this occasion the doctor went to
his study, locked the door, and sat down
oIca f/? tot
i stock of his forces for that wrestling.
Terrible and sweet revelai:on to the
man! He had, as the phrase goes,
fallen in love?fortunately with his
wife. This, then, was the meaning of
his silence, his jealousy, of the tearing
away of his old pleasant friendliness toward
her. This love of his was no flame
that would flash and die out, but the
strong white heat, the very soul of the
heavenlv flre.
He remembered now how she had said,
! "I am not worthy." Now he understood
i ?she had loved him at that time?how
j far away it seemed?with the whole
! force of her being; and he?well, with
i self-depreciation and some well deserved
i self blame, he saw his blindness and the
j terrible risk he had run. He wanted
only his wife, his Margaret; but what
i if fie, Margaret's husband, had never
i felt this delight in tier? JUignt lie not
I have met some other woman for the
i sake of whom he would possibly have
! been tempted to repent his marriage,
! He was a good man, upright and true;
! but he had often played at love before
I his marriage, "ere life-time and lovetime
were one," and he was being punished
now, for he doubted whether her
love had not declined into that friendli
i ness which he had given her before, and
she was absorbed in the child.
Was she, then, one of those women in
whom the instinct of motherhood is
stronger than all other ? lie worshiped
her now with the full sacred passion ol
his manhood, and was Ms own child tc
come between and shut him away from
! her? She would be always sweetly
| dutiful, he knew that?but duty, wifely
duty! A man is nothing if he does not
want more than that; and what was
his life to be if she and the child dwelt
apart in a little paradise of their own?
He was jealous of his own child. At
this point the man threw himself on
his knees and finished l is conflict there,
! and it was well for him that lie did so.
The very names c-f Eliphaz the
I Temanite, and Bildad the Shuhite, and
Zopharthe Xaamathite, carry us back
in thought to the world's dawn ; but
their modern antitypes are to be found
everywhere; in the fullest perfection
among women, sad to say, and more
perceptible in a country town than in a
And when poor Job?feminine Job
especially?is sitting in the ashes of
desolation, then do they, softly seated
on the cushion of self-righteousness,
proceed to comment disparagingly on
the sufferer's past behavior.
"NT/vo- "Fli'nhs? ? . Cr> wpre not want
ing in Wincfborough society, and in the
case of John and Margaret soon perceived
"the rift in the luteand being
low, mean souls, they set to work to
find a low, mean cause for it, having
no idea of the higher love between
man and woman.
They were three middle-aged spin
sters, wno naa laiiea to enter me uoiy
estate of matrimony in spite of an earnest
desire to do so. When the roses of
youth and riches were no longer for
them they would fain have culled the
chrysanthemums of life' s autumn ; but,
alas! even those sad and scentless flowers
were denied them. So these three
had been soured, or rather were unloved
through a certain sourness of nature
which the masculine portion of
mankind had had sagacity enough to
~+/-v ova?/1 "VTrscc
pel V/CX V C (uiu i.v arviu.
Brown and Miss Jone** -were friends,
and much of the mischief in Windborough
might be traced to them. For
instance had they not discovered Mr.
Blight, the curate's shameful flirtation
with little Miss "Wilson ? and here was
Dr. En derby taking to his old flirting
ways again! If he had married a sensible,
intellectual person she might have
cured him by carefully looking after
him but now his attending the meetin
<rs of the book club without his wife.
? ?
and walking home with little Miss Fry
and her Quaker mother, boded no good.
So said they, shaking their heads. This
was after morning service on Sunday,
and they resolved that on Monday
morning, while the doctor was away
on his rounds, they would call and enlighten
his wife. " It will do her good
poor thing," they remarked.
So the three came on Monday morning,
and after a few commonplaces Miss
Moss, who was a faded beauty, and
therefore the bitterest, began:
" Now, my dear Mrs. Enderby, we can
see that you are suffering, poor dear, and
t?a nr/vn r? or yy
11V ? ? VMVIV4
Margaret looked at them bewildered.
" I am quite well," she said.
' But about the doctor, my dear; we
have known him so long and understand
his ways. If you had been a little more
experienced you would have looked after
your husband."
" But he is not ill," answered the wife,
still more bewildered.
"Not in body," remarked Miss Brown,
with a significant smile," but in mind,
we mean; he pays great attention to the
Frvs next door, you know."
" And Miss Fry is vert' pretty," added
Miss Jones.
If she had not been so angry Margaret
would have laughed! John had walked
home with their neighbors twice, and she
was very fond of them. John might not
love her; that she had found out, she
thought, but she knew him to be the very
soul of honor. She was generally so
quiet that when her anger blazed out
they were startled.
" Will you be so good ;is to leave my
husband's affairs alone ?" she said. " If
you wish to be wicked, there is no need
to show such bad taste as to come here
" ? ?- - J5_T
ana enaeavor to uu uamu
And then they, feeling that for once
they had been vanquished, quickly took
their departure. But their words had
left a sting behind them.
Was it so visible, then, even to these
gossips, the fact that she had found out
some time ago, namely, that she was not
to him all that he was to her? "When
she had discovered it she had determined
to take thankfully what he could
give; but, alas! beloved, who will be
grateful for a few crumbs seeing a full
? vj i r\-f fkn oaiii
ill till UCVU1IU . J.UC IlUllgCl VI lUb OUUI
cannot be stifled; it cries out for food.
Well, she tried not to blame him; he
had mistaken his feeling for her and
was tired of her; but there was her
She never told her husband of that
visit, though she believed he regretted
his marriage; he only clung to the child
?such a frail little thing to lean upon.
And one day it broke.
It was Sunday?one ot those sweet
days in the late autumn which nature
saves cut of the summer. The trees had
lost their leaves, and the sunshine
showed all their delicate irregularity?
their beautv of mere form which had
been hidden by the foliage. The golden
asters and red geraniums still brightened
the sheltered garden. A ball was
lying on the frosty grass, but the tiny
fingers that played with it would never
touch it more, for Baby Jack was going
fast to a land in which, let us not say,
there are no toys for the angel children.
This little child was dying of croup.
His mother could only hold the form on
her knee, v/hile John krelt beside her
- - 1 j; ?. 4.
trying useless remedies w cuuuui i- ua.
At last he stood still, looking down sorrowfully
at the signs of ebbing life.
Suddenly he knelt and touched the
little clenched hand with his lips, and
heavy tears plashed down upon it?his
dear little boy; it was hard.
Margaret bent forward. "You do
love him, John!" She was jealous for
him that he should have his full share of
love before he went. John understood,
and his look answered her. What instinct
had made her ask ?
The fluttering breath grew shorter
and shorter ; it was near the end now,
and little Jack opened his eyes and said,
for the first and last time, quite clearly:
" Mamma." This was all she was to
have?the one word," and the angels
i.i i it. 4. rr?
would lutve tut? rtatu iciauic, a ? xuii>
mysterious d?*ath had borne away the
spirit of the babe and left only the little
body cold and white as a snowwreath
; but a smile hovered on the
tiny face.
At that moment the bells rang out
for morning service, filling the clear air
with their solemn merriment.
"And the bells of the city rang
again," said John, softly. Margaret
coidd weep then, and the nurse took
the dead child from her arms and went
softly out, shutting the door.
So John comforted bis; wife, but her
. grief grew silent. She was gentle to
him, but her thoughts were with the
. dead child. She told herself that it was
i better that he should be with the angels,
[ and he would sing hymns and perhaps
: play in the golden streets; but she had
i! a hurt feeling, for he would never be
i her own baby again. .Mothers' hearts
I are hungry things, and she felt that
j she had nothing lefc. Her husband
, divined this mixed feeling, but in the
i shyness of his new love could not pene;
J trate her silence.
1 After a while her strength failed;
, and, in great anxiety, he brought her
back to Cloverleigh, to the old rooms
that had been bowered by the apple
1 AfCAlY* f On/1 Vll r<l O
UlVddVlHd j U UU LI lO C4AAVA, VA1 ViO
were all gone now. Here Margaret
grew restless; her thoughts turned
from little Jack for the first time, and
the afternoon after they came she
wandered out by herself to the woods
above the house. The sun was shining,
and there were one or two late
daisies in the grass. She stopped and
gathered them. Her baby had been
fond of them, and she had made him so
many chains of them in the past sujtnmer,
and he had broken them, with his
little coo just like a bird.
She went on, dry-eyed and desolate.
She started. Here was the place
where John had asked her to be his
wife, and with a pang she remembered
the intensity other joy. Ah I how the
petals had fallen from the flower. It
had been unjust of John to take her
without loving her. lie had sought
her find wooed her, and now she was
so lonely.
She heard his step and turned to hide
from him, bat the trees were bare now.
Half curiouoiy she looked at him. He
had not soon her yet, for his eyes were
bent on the ground. Unconscious of
her nresence he took no Dains to hide
X~ ^ - A.
his despondency, and she could see how
grief worn was the handsome, kindly
face. Contemplating him thus she forgot
herself, and the old strong love shone
in her eyes. He looked up and saw her
pale and slim in her black dress, but
there was that in those eyes which drew
him to her to murmur in tier ear how
much he loved lier, and she turned to
him as she had never done before. " I
am not worthy, dear," she said, having
also learned the divine humility.
So the bitter changed entirely into
sweet; not suddenly, for it took some
time for Margaret to lose tier jealousy
of the angels. And that time was
chronicled in her soul as "the winter
our baby died, and I first knew how
dear I was to John."?Argosy.
How She "Won Him.
I have just heard the most remarkable
story of the evenness of female
temper, in iact it seems so surprising
tome that I think some record of it
should be embalmed in the archives of
Quiz. It is a beautiful little fairy story
and may appropriately be called "How
She Won Him." Indeed it was quite
enough to win a far worse man, if the
worse men are ever won, which I dare
say they are not. It happened here in
Philadelphia, and is on this wise: You
know, or rather you don't know until I
tell you (for how should you?), that
there was a beautiful dinner given
"many years ago," and she sat opposite
him and looked ever so charmirg in a
wine-colored silk with a square
neck, and otherwise array<ni as
never were the lilies in any
valley of this poor earth. Well, the
idiot of a waiter, in handling the soup,
upset the entire contents of a plate
right in her lap. Just think of it,
girls ! The whole front breadth utterly
ruined, and fo^' the world it
could not be matched. Well, what did
she do ? Did she faint ? Did she say
you horrid man? Did she scream?
XTrtf of oil. ctio r\;?ccor? t.he> t.hinor nflF in
Ii.1 VU au <*OJk y ?J11 V v?v WM> .u
some witty remark about fiery baptism
and calmly resumed her dinner. He,
of course, was delighted; thought her
a most remarkable woman, and indeed
she was; became attentive to her and
finally married her. One evening,
long after the event, t'aey were sitting
before the fire, the children having
gone to bed, and were talking about
old times, when he said:
" My dear, I never told you, I think,
how I first thought I would like to
marry you, did I ?"
" Why, gracious goodness, no, never."
" Well," he said, " do you remember
that dinner at Mrs. Simkins', where
your dress was spoilt by the soup ?"
" Indeed I do," she replied, "I shall
never forget it as long as I live."
"Well," he continued, "you behaved
so well about it that I thought you a
perfect jewel."
"Yes," she answered, "I remember
behaving very well about it at the
time, but, good land, you should have
seen the mark of my teeth on the bedpost
that night."
Now wasn't that just too perfectly
romantic for anything??Philadelphia
A Millionaire's Pets.
The Hartford Times of a recent date
says : W. H. Vanderbilt's great trottincr
r>air. Maud S. and Lysander, are
domiciled at Charter Oak park. They
are in charge of TV. TV. Bair, under
whose guidance Maud S. was developed
and by whose driving she has made
her most wcr.derful performances. The
stalls occupied by the pair are very
large. Opening out of them is a large
shed in which the horses may be allowed
still further room for exercise.
Maud S. presents a very handsome appearance
in the stall and when her
blanket is stripped off her soft chestnut
coat and exquisite symmetry
show to perfection. Since
last year she has fattened
im rnncirfArahlv and now weighs eiffhtv
pounds more than when at CharterOak
park iast year. She receives the attention
of visitors as a queen should, simply
deigning to raise her large Hambletonian
head and push forward the
ears for which the scions of this line
are noted.' In the next stall to her is
her companion, Lvsander. a superb
chestnut, fit mate for the great mare.
He has proved himself one of the finest
horses to pole in the country, and although
when Mr. Vanderbilt purchased
him his record was only 2.20?,
on many occasions since he has gone
much faster and can trot away down in
the teens.
The stable equipments which accompany
the horses are admirable and attract
the attention of all horsemen who
see them. Mr. Bair has brought with
him the Caffrey sulky which was presented
to Maud S. when she made her
greut time of 2.10^ at Rochester. It is
a marvel of the carriage-maker's skill
and weighs but forty-seven pounds.
The wheels are almost like webs, and
the fastenings are light and strong.
There is also a trotting" wagon in which
the pair will be exercised.and a curious
vehicle, the first that h;is ever come to
these narts. It is what is known as the
Chicago driving cart. The running
gear and shafts are similar to those of a
village cart. In front and between the
? TiiircDL.lil-o arrnnrrom&tit. in
I SUctilO ID CL J^uiov-uuv a
which the driver's feet are placed. The
seat swings back of the axle, and is so
arranged that the driver's weight just
balances the shafts, making the cart
very easy on the horse. It is fcr use
on rostds, and cannot be evertttrnecL
Notes on Some Happenings* Romantic, Odd
or .Sensational* at Recently Reported Funerals.
During the last few months the
papers have published a good deal oi
interesting matter concerning interments.
The learned physician, Ami
Bone,who died not long ago at Vienna,
declared in his will his desire that his
funeral should be of the simplest kind,
that none of his academical colleagues
should follow his coffin to the cemetery
lest they should take cold, and that his
friend, Dr. Forstner, should open his
thorax "in order that I may positively
be spared a terrible reawakening to life
in the tomb," a request which contains
a queer compliment to th'c medical skill
of his fellows. The Rev. C. N. Gray,
of Helmsley, refused to allow the
widow of a Wesley an minister to be
laid beside her husband ill consecrated
ground, and even forbade the mourners
to enter by the principal gate lest they
should pass over holy grc&nd. At the
Leeds workhouse,not longvSgo,after the
clergyman had duly read^the service
over the supposed body a pauper,
the remains were found |jing in the
dead-house. In Leeds thij^ia called a
burial scandal. In Germaiire
takers do not exhibit their., wares, But
build coffins as they are needed. A fewyears
ago an enterprising? undertaker
in Basel, Switzerland, staged business
in the American style ancJrput a couple
of small coffins in his winifow. Crowds
gathered at tne unwome? signi, ana
before the end of the week the police
gave notice to the shopkeeper that
"the unseemly exhibition'': must cease.
Some scandal has been caused in London
by an undertaker -wlho sent out
"private and confidential^-xirculars to
all the doctors of his district offering
them a commission on \any "cases"
they might put into his hands, the
commissions ranging fnim five per
cent, on a ?5 funeral to? twenty per
cent, on a ?20 interment.!
The late Congressman Hendrick B.
Wright directed that his ."body should
be kept till decomposition:- had. set in,!
that there should be no display at the
funeral nor any special sermon and no
silver plate on the coffin. He preferred
that his children should not go into
mourning. Mr. Ralph Bernal Osborne
left careful written instructions concerning
his funeraL The expense was
not to exceed ?50; there were to be no
hearse, mourning coachou, mutes, hatbands
or hatchments, nor was any
mourning or crape to he distributed to
any one. The Princess of Beauvan in
Jani?A/7 4- Av 1>A V?** ^ TTT^ 4" V* Allf
Ut?r WUi UCS11CU l/U DO. 1/t.ixicvi nii/uuuu
trappings, tapers or funeral pomp of
any kind; the money thus saved from
the ordinary cost of the interment of
a woman of her position was to be distributed
in alms. Mme. de JServille,
who died about the same time, desired
that no one might be invited to attend
her funeral. " I know my. Parisians,"
f Vi /-V <n*T*Af At 44 fVlATt ItTAIlW tflll' rtf
oii^ niuvcj fmgj IT vuau vv*utw VJ. VUV
latest play behind the hearse." A
Catholic congregation at Marlboro',
Mass., has resolved hereafter to have
no more than two carriages at funerals
of its members. In Jersey City,
Father Hennessey has refused to allow
more than twelve carriages to accompany
a hearse, and Father iCorrigan, of
Hoboken, has also carried put this rule
laid down by Bishop Corrigan, of the
diocese of ifew Jersey.-'The former
clergyman said when > vindicating his
action: "In nine cases out'of ten this
absurdity [leaves families without
enough to eat." Both in England
and in the United States
of late the courts have given
some exemplary warnings to
executors and undertakers not to
lavish the estates of dead men upon
their obsequies. Thus where a bill for
$900 was brought in for burying a
man who left an estate of $4,000, the
referee cut down the bill to $75. A
Philadelphia girl left $700 and her aunt
gave her remains a $350 funeral; the
courts cut this down to $100 at the request
of her brother and sister. A Xew
York court decided that a $700 monument
was good enough for a man who
left an $11,000 estate, so that the executor
who spent $1,455 on one found
himself seriously " out." A Maryland
court refused to pass an executor's bill
for dinner and horse feed, though it
was proved that it was customary to
entertain the mourners after a " burying."
The widow of Joseph Autran,
the French poet, settled a nice point in
funeral etiquette by providing in her
will that her heart should be buried
with her French husband,
but her body repose beside
that of her first husband, who was an
American. When Mr. Henry Coy died
in April at Palmyra, X. J., the bodies
of his three children that had died
.twenty years before and that he had
always carried witn mm m oronze coifins,
were buried at the same time. In
May Miss Abbie Taylor died at Newport.
With her own hand she wrote
the telegrams to her friends in New
"icork, Brooklyn, Jersey City, Asbury
Park and other places which conveyed
the intelligence of her death. Twenty
minutes before she died sh<3 called for
pen, ink and telegraph blanks and in a
trembling but legible hand announced
to those whom she desired to attend
the funeral: "Miss Taylor is dead," following
the premature Intelligence with
the request that they would attend the
Thirty-five years ago Captain Stone,
of Moundville, TV. Ya^ conceived the
idea of raising his own coffin, and
planted two apple seeds, one of which
sprouted and grew. A short time ago
the tree was blown down in a storm,
cut into lumber and sent to a Pittsburg
(Pa.) firm. A coffin waj made
of the lumber ?nd sent back to him,
and he was buried in it at once, his
death having followed hard upon the
falling of the tree. Mr. Joseph
Copplin, of Pleasant Kidge, Ky., being
ninety-three years old, expects soon to
occupy his coffin, which was made with
his own hands. The coffin is of white
pine. The sides and the bottom are
painted red, white and blue, and the
lid is covered with American flags.
Near the head, covered with a small
.American flag, is a picture of Mr.
Coppin, taken when he was in the
prime of life. The pine from which
the coffin was made was grown on his
farm. Mr. John Babcock was recently
placed under arrest at Norwich, Conn.,
for destroying the stone that marked
his daughter's grave. The marble had
Koeri mil. in nlnro hv the dead trirl's
vvv" f"~ " f -v o
betrothed and Babcock had forbidden it.
At a fuDeral at B?echwood, Ont., not
long ago, the coffin containing the remains
was placed in a tomb. Just as
the friends were leaving the place they
were frightened by a moan which
seemed to proceed from the coffin.
Thinking it might be a case of suspended
animation, an investigation
was made, when it was found that the
moans proceeded from a large owl
perched in the vault. A prettier incident
was that reported at the time of
the burial of Mrs. Caroline RichingsBernard,
as follows: "Early in the
morning a mocking-bird escaped from
its cage in the upper part of the city,
and though diligent search was made
its owner could not find it. In the
.evening, as the last clods of earth
were being thrown on the grave of the
opera-singer, a aaeeewion of trills and
I clear warblings was poured forth from j
the throat of a mocking-bird perched !
in a tree near by, and was continued ;
until the minister pronounced the bene- '<
diction. It was recognized as the j
missing bird, and at sundown it re- j
turned home and went back into its j
| cage, which had been left open in the i
A Black Spot in the Arctic Region.
j The San Francisco Chronicle, in a I
j recent issue, says: There are, in all j
j probability, not more than about i
I twenty white people living wno nave ;
I ever set foot on Wrangel Land or Plo- |
ver Island, two names by wliich the j
| maps of the day distinguish an incom- j
j pletely traced shore line in the Arctic j
ocean from the black dot further to !
| the south named Herald Island. The
| youngest person who ever roamed over
j the insular waste is unquestionably
; Frank Smith, of the American ship
Alfred D. Snow, now lying at Vallejo
street wnarr. j.ouug cmim ?<? uuc
of the crew of the steam whaler I3elvidere
oil her lust years whaling cruise
in the Arctic, under command of
Captain L. C. Owens, who has
penetrated the frozen regions., of
itfee-i'jSwfif: for ^''successive"" seasons
for over a quarter of a
century. The Belvidere had spoken
the revenue cutter Thomas II. Corwin
in August, 1881, in the Arctic, and
learned of Captain Hooper's purpose to
take possession of "W ran gel's Land,
which, until the boating party of Lieutenant
Reynolds, of the Corwin, had always
been supposed to be a vast continent,
he being recorded as the first to
land there. One week after the Corwin
hnd left, tiift Belvidere made for the
southeast end of the island. Two
boats were sent out from the Belvidere,
and she cruised about for two
days. Smith was one of the party, and
his impressions ;ts narrated to a reporter
were as follows:
" As soon as we got ashore we saw
the signal planted by Lieutenant Reynolds,
a small American ensign, fastened
to a slender piece of driftwood,
driven into the soil, such as it is. The
T-io^o oKtmr*f7v frnm thr>
though not precipitously. There is no
beach to speak of, the land having an
average elevation of ten feet above the
surface of the water. It is surrounded
by deep water, and from surroundings
that our party made we found an average
depth of ten to twelve fathoms
at a distance of ten feet from the
""What is the nature of the soil?"
asked the reporter.
" There is no earth to speak of," replied
this youthful mariner, laugliingly.
" The soil is formed almost entirely of
what seemed to be Large black pebbles
of a sandy nature. Between these
grew a green and tlun tDree-oiaueu
grass, resembling very much the woodtick
grass of the Eastern States."
" What was the size of the island ?"
"I should judge it had a circumference
of about one hundred and fifty
miles. The island is flat table-land.
As you go toward the center you come
across numerous ponds and marshes of
brackish water. The only vegetation
you see there is a small pinkish, odorless
flower without petals and the
familiar rock moss. The soil is what
you might call peat. It is not mushy,
but elastic, reminding you when you
walk on it of the 'give' in cork. Everything
is black, just as if it had been
smeared in coal-tar. You find piles of
drift-wood everywhere."
""Washed up by the waves?"
" They would have been," was the
reply, " but the fact is that the island
during some se;isons is entirely submerged
under the ice. It is a well-known j
faot. that in snmn seasons the island '
is lost to sight, and that is undoubted-!
Iv the reason why Captain DeLong, of
the Jeannette,did not,as he was instructed
to do, leave any account of himself.
There is no animal life on the island.
I was told that there were squirrels,
but what would they find to feed on?
I did not see anything. Ducks and
birds make a resting-place on the
island, and in open seasons the Mesinker
natives comc from the American
shore to fish and to hunt -walrus. These
are the natives from which the relics
of the lost whalers Vigilant and Mount j
"Wollaston were obtained. Desolate
and uninviting as the island is, it was
a sort of a two days' picnic for us; and
our party was glad to get an opporturitv
to stretch our legs a little. The
Belvidere was the last to see the crew
of the Arctic relief ship Rodgers on
the 28th of last October, the crew being
then at St. Lawrence bay building
their winter quarters."
What the Zulu Kin^Saw in London.
Cetewavo was disappointed at the
sight of Mr. Gladstone, having expected
to see him in his war paint, his
head surmounted with a tuft of feathers
and a string of glass beads round
his neck. He wanted to know why the
prime minister did not occupy the
speaker's seat and nurse the mace upon
his knee. He took a great fancy to that
gilded bauble, and said that 4f he were !
king he would himself preside over the ;
deliberations of the commons, and j
when the Parnellites obstructed busi- |
ness he would correct them vritli the
Cetewayo mistook the occupants of
the ladies' gallery, come to St. Stephen's
to hear the debates, for a select contingent
of the speaker's wives, and the
speaker he mistook for the prime minister,
and the speaker's chair he mistook
for the queen's throne, and the speaker's i
full-bottomed horsehair wig he mistook
for that august functionary's own
hyacinthine locks.
"When the dusky monarch was assured
that the right honorable the speaker has
only one wife, he appeared puzzled at
what seemed to him a strange want of
good taste. Cetewayo considers that
it is making an invidious distinction to
pick out one woman and place her in a
position where she would be supposed
to enjoy special priviliges denied to the
rest of her sex. Consequently, when
he was told of the large number of
ladies, said to be attractive, employed
in the ballet at the Alhambra, he desired
his cousin and intimate friend,
Ungeongewana, to make them an offer
of marriage on his behalf.
The house in Melbury road, Kensington,
where the Zulus lodge, was formerly
occupied by an artist, who left
1 * "? 3 1 -^'1 4- % -w\ 1*AV ^till /\-f !
D0D1I1Q mm it Jiipuiiiitrn mi iju.v iiin vil i
tubes of oil color. Xow, it happened j
one morning lately that Umkosana, he !
who led the Zulu army at Isandida and j
Ungobogana, the general in command |
at Korke's Drift, came across the paint |
box, and, with the curiosity of their j
simple savage natures, they opened it. j
Both braves had seen the passengers
on board the Arab cat shrimp paste. I
That may have induced them to squeeze i
some portions of flake white, yellow j
ochre and Indian red upon slices of j
hrpad and butter, and to consume the '
same in the belief that they were par- J
taking of a particularly appetizing j
British breakfast delicacy.
The introduction of the mongoose j
has proved an immense boon to Ja- j
maica, wliose rats used to eat thousand ;
of dollars' worth of sugar annually.
An Annual ETent of the Utmost Importance
to Egypt.
Perhaps, says the London Daily
News, the most striking idea of the
effect of the Nile water is obtained
from standing on the summit of the
Great Pyramid of Geezeh. The pyramid
stands on the desert, but close to
the cultivated soil?the cultivated soil
in tlris>- case means the land which has
been covered by the inundation of the
great river. To the height which its
waters have reached the color is green
from vegetation; where it has not
touched is desert. So distinct is the line
of green with the buff colored sand that
looking down from the pyramid it
seems as if you could put one foot on
the cultivated and another on the unir
rigated ground. The sharp, defined edge
of a well kept lawn and a gravel path
will picture the state of the case to the
mind of any one. Gazing on this from
the pyramid?and it can be seen as far
as the eye can reach to north and south
?the importance of the Nile water is
realized. As high as the inundation
rises there is growth and cultivation;
, food for man and - beast is produced;;where
the water has not moved on the
surface there is the desert, sterile and
bare, with a hot, monotonous sun glaring
everywhere. The essential cause
of Egypt's greatness in the past is re
allzed as well as the continued political
importance of the country to our
own times.
In other days the overflow of the
Nile was looked upon as the union of
Isis and Osiris, and when the canals
were opened in ancient times to let the
water flow over the land, sacrifices are
said to have been offered. A ceremony
is yet performed which is supposed to
have descended from these rites. It is
now known under the Arab title of
" Ilaroost 'e Neel," or " The Bride of
the JS lie."
The youn;? devoted bride
Of the fierce Nile, when decked in all the pride
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks Into the tide.
?Lallo. Rookh.
A pillar of mud now represents the
bride; it is made at the opening of one
of the canals at Old Cairo, and it is
Swept away by the waters at the
ppening of the dam. The Mohammedan
tradition is that one of their rulers
substituted the mud pillar for a virgin
which the Christians sacrificed every
year. Sir Gardner Wilkinson doubts
$nd believes that in A. D. 638 the
Araos continued ine custom irom
the Christians, who received it from
the Egyptians. He does not think it
likely that the Christians would sacrifice
a human being, and that it is quite
possible that tjie Bride of the Xile was
Only a mud figure even in the older
Eyptian period.
Thi? ceremony is now gone through
about the 10th of August, when the
inundation is supposed to be approaching
its highest. The first indications
of the rise appear in Lower Egypt
about the middle of June and continue
till September, when the full overflow
is reached. In November or December
again the waters have disappeared
and the Jsile is generally reduced to its
ordinary level. The ancient Egyptians
-^ere in the habit of closing up the
dams after the full rise, so as to retain
the water on the fields, and thus secure
a fuller deposit of mud, as well
as a longer continuance of the fertilizincr
element. The Wfiite Nile sends
down the largest amount of water for
the inundation, but it is the Blue
Nile which supplies the most important
material for the alluvial deposit,
and which is of such value
to the crops. Ii is this deposit which
has been slowly raising the level of
the surface of Egypt?a rise which
has been very exactly determined in
late yeass. It was first observed in
the case of the Memnon statues anil in
the obelisk which still stands at Ileliopbli3?the
base of these monuments,
remaining as fixed points, were clear
evidences of the rise of the soil. Sir
Gardner Wilkinson puts it that at
Elephantine the rise has been nine
feet and at Thebes seven feet in 1,700
years, or about four inches in a century.
There have been many learned
efforts to show that this increased elevation
has led to a decrease in the
height of the inundations, but the authority
above referred to gives it as
his opinion that the rise of the JSile is
now the same as in former times.
Ttye height of the inundation was
of the greatest importance to the
people of Egypt at all times, because
ail extra high rise was equally disastrous
with a deficient one. Pliny
states that "a proper inundation is
sixteen cubits, * * * in twelve
cubits the country suffers from famine
and feels a deficiency even in thirteen,
fourteen causes joy, fifteen security,
sixteen delight." The rise is not the
same in all parts. In the confined space
of the Xile valley above Cairo the
height must be greater than in the
delta, where the surface widens out
and the channels are numerous. According
to Herodotus a rise of eight
cubits was considered a sufficient
height for the irrigation of Egypt in
the time of Moeris, and this lorms one
of the grounds on which it
has been urged that the elevation
of the land has changed
the conditions of the yearly inundation.
At the present day a rise of
eighteen feet at Cairo is looked upon
as approaching a famine year. Up to
twenty-seven feet is good, and no bad
effects result; but above that height it
becomes a flood and dq?s damage by
carrying away the dykes and other
works connected with irrigation. In
addition to the ruin of crops a high in
UJJLUtttlUil ildO Ot W vyvtciv/v/
disease, not only among the inhabitants,
but among their flocks as well.
The rise of the river was carefully
watched, and the guardians of the
Oleometers announced the height
daily. There were Oleometers at various
places. The one best known to
those who visit Egypt at the present
day is at Rhoda, near Cairo. The daily
proclamation of the rise was to prepare
the people for the proper time to open
the canals.
When this had been done and all the
country was under water, as all occupations
were suspended and none of
i <? i i a ij
tne wonts 01 nusoanary couiu ue performed,
the ancient Egyptians betook
themselves to amusements. They had
games'and gymnastic exercises, wrestling
matches and bull-fights, to which
were added a plentiful supply of eating
and drinking. In this way they passed
their time till the waters subsided.
R. B. Forbes, of Milton, N. Y., has
a mocking-bird hanging under the
piazza, and near it recently was a rob- j
in's nest with young birds. The robins,!
while bringing worms to their brood -,j
were twice seen to stop, angnt on ine
cage of the prisoner and drop worms
into his mouth.
Another Western man is on the high
road to fortune. A Chicago barber advertises
for ten deaf and dumb assistants.?
Philadelphia Press.
The sting of a bee is only one-thirtvsecond
of an inch long. It is your
imagination that makes it seem as
fa&g as a lic^haudle,?Fret Prtui
The VastiGrazinf Interest of Nebraska, and
There may be said to be three great
! cattle belts in the country, to be desigj
nated respectively as the Xorth, the
J Northwest and the South belts. The
j first takes in Montana and Dakota,
| and is tributary to the Northern Pa
cihc road; the second mciuaes ine
western half of Nebraska and the
Territory of Wyoming, and is tributary
to the Union Pacific road; and
the third consists of vast portions of
Texas and the Indian Territory, and
seeks an outlet through the Iron Mountain,
the St. Louis and San Francisco
and other roads leading to St.
Louis. Of the three the Northwest
belt is at present the most important,
but that to the north of it is growing
the most rapidly, and with the com"
pletion of the Northern Pacific railroad
will gain and maintain the supremacy.
I realized this fact from the manner
in which the stockman laughed at me
when I inquired if it was possible for
cattle to go through the hard winters
of that section unfed and unsheltered.
'^:"VyTiy,:aWa^ i? in Dakota," was the
reply, "the cattle come through the
winters better than they do in Texas."
I mav here remark that anvthine like
housing or feeding cattle in the winter
is utterly impossible in any of the
Territories. There is not timber enough
in the Territory of Wyoming to make
sheds for the cattle owned there. And
it is quite as unnecessary as it is impossible.
The cattle ranges of Nebraska begin
about 200 miles west of Omaha. There
is no line to mark where agriculture
leaves off and grazing begins, but at
about the point named timber and
water become too scarce for profitable
agriculture, and the ranchmen take up
wnat ine piowmen. can t use. xue
land is owned in equal parts by the
rancheio and the government, but is
enjoyed free of rent by the cattle men.
The ranches vary in extent to the size
of the herd and the run of the water
course. The first essential in u laying
out" a ranch is water. As for grass,'
there is always plenty of that, summer
and winter. A moderate estimate is
said to be two miles of water front,
running twenty miles back, for
each 1,000 head of cattle. So
that a man with 20,000 head of
cattle?which is about the largest
number owned by any one man, and
more than twice the average of all?
would require forty miles of water
front, running back twenty miles. It
is not always an easy thing to find
this. When found and occupied, however,
the rights of the finder and oc
i. ?i?v?
cupani are respecteu uy ui? uiutuci.
stockmen to the extent that he is allowed
to remain in unmolested possession.
It is a maxim among them that
" stockmen respect each other's rights."
There are persons called jumpers, however,
who look upon the stoikmen as
having no rights which they are bound
to respect, and who make it a business
to pick out the best land in a range
and settle down upon it under the
Homestead or Pre-emption laws, remaining
just long enough to be bought
out, when they move to another
range to play the same part. The
stockmen complain grievously about
this, as an annoyance from which they
should be protected by law. They cannot
buy the hind from the government
in quantities to suit them, and they
think Congress should pass a law allowing
them to lease it for a term of
years, so as to allow them to improve
it, and to give them a fixed tenure.
The cattlemen have their own association
and their own regulations, which
seem to be intended not only for the
benefit of those who ;tro in, but for the
exclusion of those -who are out. No
cattleman has ever been known to encourage
an outsider to embark in a
cattle-raising enterprise.
After a good deal < f cross-questioning
and figuring I arrived at some conclusions
as to the profits of cattleruising
as a business. I met one man,
for instance, who had just arrived from
Chicago, where he had sold a thousand
head of cattle at an average of $40.
They were a little ovt r three years old, :
and had been on his ranch two years.
He bought them in 1880 for $8 a head.
Counting interest, care-taking, loss by i
death, and all other items of expense, :
tney stood mm, wnen pui on tne cars,
at $11.50 each. Add to this an average
of $5 each for transportation from
Ogallala, Xeb., to Chicago?$100 per
car the actual cost, and an average of
twenty head to the car?and the animals
on the market have cost him
$16.50 cach, leaving a net profit of
$23,500 on the herd. This was simply
one?and not a large one?of many
transactions made in the course of the
year by the same stockman. Indeed, it '
was in the nature of an outside trans- action,
because the rule is to raise the
cattle from birth, instead of buying
them at a year old. This gentleman :
has already sold 16,500 head of cattle <
tliir vear. and now has on his ranch
13,500 head, of which he expects to
send about 5,000 head to market before
the close of the season. It is
very safe to say that "a man starting
with 2,500 head of cattle can, after
the second year, keep up his herd and
sell $25,000 worth of cattle every
year; that is to say, he can net that
amount after paying every dollar of
expense. But 2,500 head of cattle are
considered a small ranch. The average
is more than twice that number.
Of possible and actual losses to the i
business there are really none to speak 1
of. Two per cent, will cover all the :
losses by death for a good year, "winter !
and summer, and, strange to say, the ]
losses are greater in summer than in i
winter. In a very bad year, when <
disease is prevalent, the losses never <
exceed five per cent. <
The stockman's year begins in May i
with what is called the " round up." !
At the close of the season in i
the early winter, the cattle <
are turned loose without herds-men,
and allowed to roam through the ;
whole of "Western Nebraska and ]
Wyoming, finding food and shelter as 1
they can. When the spring opens a <
small army of cowboys is employed? 1
each stockman contributing to the 1
force in proportion to his interest?to i
range the whole plains, gather up the 1
cattle, and drive them to certain ;
stations or places previously agreed
upon at a meeting of the stockmen :
held at Cheyenne. From these immense
gatherings each owner selects
the cattle bearing his brand, and forms
them in to a herd to be driven to his
ranch ; ho also brands the yearlings of
his herd, who have up to
this time run with their mothers.
After this grand division the
cattle are put in charge of cowboys
for t.hp summer. The. cras-s is fine and
they improve rapidly, and are ready
for "the market in June or July. For
the largest ranch the expense up to
this time is not over $600. The cowboys
get about $30 each for the "round
up," but no stockman is allowed
to furnish less than twelve, no
matter how small his herd may be.
Some are taxed as high as twenty cowboys.
The matter is all arranged at a
meeting of the stockmen, held under
tha aunnifffli nt fikvdimim'* uimI.
ation. "When the cattle are all gatnereu
in and branded for the summer the,
only help needed for the rest of the
year is a sufficient number of cowboys
to watch the herd, which is generally
done by sleeping in the grass under ..
some friendly shade. Three cowboys
will take care of 5,000 cattle, keep
them all together, and drive to the
railroad station such as are to be sent
to market.?St. Louis Globe-Democrat
A Battle of the Deep.
"We were swinging idly at anchor off
Mahukona, island of Hawaii. Swing- ^
ing idly at anchor in the South sea on
a summer's day is eminently poetical,
but one may get too much of poetry.
Suddenly there were wild exclamations
of delight and excitement by some
native passengers, who pointed a little
way off, where at first we could see
only occasional foamy spurts of water. * '
The captain, who had just came on
deck, looked with increasing interest
at the commotion in the water, and
finallv said, decidedlv; " It's a thrasher
and sword-fish attacking a whale, and
if they only come this way you'll see
some fun that land lubbers seldom see
?meaning no disrespect for the
ladies." It was seldom that our cap- .
tain displayed as much interest as he
did then, so we all the more eagerly
watched the nearing fight. H^gavt?
no further explanation then.
For some time longer we saw no
bodies, but the disturbance in the
water steadily grew plainer as it came
nearer. The water would be upheaved
and then lashed into foam; there
would be flurry, and then the water
would subside into a bubbling wake.
Finally, so near "to us as to be almost
startling, the ponderous body of a
whale plunged through the water almost
beneath us, and with a swiftness
that in so huge a thing was frightful,
rose to the surface, dashing the waves
with its irreat blunt head afar on either ^
side. Almost before the sparklir.;; .
showers had fallen the steam-like breatn
of the monster shot up in a jet, but only
for an instant. A great ugly fish, fiat
like a flounder, but larger than a shark,
darted through the water and almost - * J
leaped upon the whale, covering with
its great flat body the whale's blowhole.
The jet was as instantly and completely
cut off by this astonishing
operation as is a faucet stream of
water by a reversed spigot. The great
clumsy monster struggled as if for
me. its tan aasaea tne smocui sum- ? -m
mer sea into a fury of foam, and the
whole great length of its body seemed
shaken by a tempest of rage and agony.
The whale sank slowly, and as the
troubled water became clear, we saw it
part off again, but pursued and at
tacked by a swordfish that with lightning-like
strokes would plunge its
weapon into the whale's body, draw
back for a fresh start and shoot ahead
again, inflicting wound after wound
upon the tortured monster. Stabbed
from below, deprived of its breath
from above, the whale wildly plunged
ahead silently, followed closely by the
thrasher, waiting for its turn to
attack. Soon they came again; not
quite so close to us as before. Again
the vast body upheaved the waters;
again the thrasher cut off the persecuted
whale's desperate struggle for
air; again the great thing lunged af?
lurched about in awful, frantic efforts
to free itself of the merciless enemy; ^
again it slowly sank to be again attacked
from below. This most strange
battle raged about us for fully half an v
hour, the intervals between the. sur- .
face attacks becoming shorter as the
whale's increasing exhaustion prompted
it to rise more frequently." The
attacks of both its enemies gave the
impression of utmost ferocity. The
silpnrA nf t.liA warfarA.
too, added to its terrible aspect
I have spoken of it as a battle, and
such it was, although the small, savage
attackers were, of course, never injured
in the tremendous plunges the maddened
whale would sometimes direct
toward them. Gradually the scene of
action drifted further from us, and ;
suddenly ceased, the whale sinking ; * j||
finally out of sight. Then, we turned . " ':'0
to the captain and asked of that worthy
individual 'an explanation. Of course,
he had one ready, and it was this:
There was another fish highly interested
in the battle that we had not
seen. This "was the fish that came in
at the death. " I'm sorry." the ca.nta.in
said, "that the whale was not finished
near enough for von to see, for then
you would have been astonished. Now
what do you suppose that thrasher and
likewise that sword-fish was giving
that kind of battle to that whale for?
Now none of you know, yet some people
think they do." - ;Mj|
" Some people," the captain continued,
"mostly scientific chaps, think they
know all about the matter. I had one
of 'em down here once. I think ho
was a skipper or somebody high
up in the 'Cademy of Science
in San Francisco. Well, what yc?|g
ao you tniiiK that cnap says?
Why, he spins a yarn like this: lie
says, says he, that the thrasher, which
the same chap had a Latin name for as
long as a capstan bar, the thrasher.
he says, eats the same kind of small
fry as the whale takes kindly to. Well,
the thrasher don't like him on his
ground, natural enough, and he can't .
drive him off alone; so he hires the
swordflsh, a kind of a pirate fish, to
help him. Now, there's a yarn for you.
But the yarn I tell, which the same
any sailor who has been whaling will
make affidavit to, is this: That sworrfSsh
sticks the whale from below ?.>
make it rise, and the thrasher calks up
his spout-hole to make it open its
mouth. But why don't it open it*
mouth at once ? And this same I asks
of the scientific chap. "Why don't ho
open his mouth at once?" "Why
ion't the whale open his mouth tuo
first time the thrasher covers hi> '
3pout-hole? Because it knows byinstinct
that the instant its mouth is
opened its tongue is bit out."
"I spoke," resumed the captain, "of
a, little fish that you didn't see. "Well,
he follows close along, and whenever
the whale becomes ?0 used up for want
af breath that it must open its mouth
then the little fish darts in, bites off the
big fellow's tongue, and is away with
it in a jiffy. The little fish, the swordfish,
and the thrasher divide the tongue,
rUlU it S> LllOv invioca tuc uuyic uovvxc 10 ^ v_^?
for." Since the captain tcld us the
story I have heard the same thing
asserted by land authority.
A canary belonging to a lady in Dubuque,
on being given its liberty in a
room one day, flew to the mantel, whereon
was a "mirror. Thinking he had
found a mate, he went back to the cage
and brought a seed to offer to the sfi
stranger. Getting no satisfactory reply,
he poured forth his sweet notes,
pausing now and then to watch the
effect. Finally lie went back to Ins
perch, and, with his head hanging, remained
silent the rest of the day.
George TV. Brown and wife, of Yell
county, Ark., had a child born who h:w
living two parents, three grandparent?,
three great-grandparents, and thrr-e
great-great-grandparents, all but one
uriafinY?ucofutf< ^
joy - ^

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