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The Warner sun. (Warner, Brown Co., Dakota [S.D.]) 1885-1???, August 17, 1888, Image 6

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn2001063565/1888-08-17/ed-1/seq-6/

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From the Dawn of the Morning.
He saw the wheat fields waiting
All golden in the sun.
And strong and stalwart reapers
Went by him one by one.
“O, eould I reap in harvest!’’
His heart made bitter cry.
“I can do nothing, nothing.
So weak, alas, am I.”
At eve a tainting traveler
Sank down beside Ins door;
A cup ol cool sweet water
To quench his thirst lie bore.
And whon refreshed and strengthened,
The traveler went his way,
Upon the poor man’s threshold
A golden wheat sheaf lay.
When came the Lord of harvest,
lie cried: “Oh, Master, kind,
One sheaf I have to offer.
But that I did not bind.
I gave a cup of water
To one athirst, and be
Lett at my door, in going.
This sheaf I offer Thee.’’
Then said the Master softly:
“Well pleased with this am I.
One of my angels left it
With thee as ho passed by.
Thou muyest not join the reapert
Upon the harvest plain,
But he who helps a brothe.
Binds sheaves richest grain.’’
—Eiikn E. Rcxfokd
From Harper's Bazar.
We had been engaged, Mark and I,
since we were babies, so to say; that
is, when he was still in knickerbock
ers, and I was just out of bibs, we
had decided that when we grew up and
had a house of our own, it was to be
our own, his and mine, and there we
were to live together and live alone;
and if the cheif of our diet there was
| to be apple-tarts and butter-scotches,
that was on- own affair.
It is a thousand pities that it was
about that house that all the rout
happened. For the fact is, I had the
gpi strongest sort of a will, and so had
Mark; and when it came to the point
it wasn’t that house at all that I
: V For, you see, the spot where I lived,
|p down on the great meadow farms,
Bpj: was my sole idea of the beauty and
pleasantness of the world. Across the
river, with its high bank crowned with
jSEt feathery and always trembling and
shining birches, the hills rose, far and
faint and purple and vague; but here
there were only the long green levels of
grass fields lying low andeven with the
river that filled and sparkled in reeds
along the edge,and 110 wed by us broad
| and grand on its way to the sea. And
when the sun shone, and the sky was
El§ blue, and the south wind was softly
Nr blowing, one seemed as near heaven 1
living there, as it is given one to be on ,
There were quite a number of dwell
ing-houses here, where the corners of
if' several of the great river farms con
verged, eo that, although their land
stretched out in different directions*
the buildings clustered together like a
15p village, and we always came and went
in each other’s houses, and
knew each other’s concerns, ar.d were
more like one large family than stran
gers; aoid I loved my neighbors, every
one, and didn't want to go away from
them. And when it ca me to the ques
tion of marrying and going away, I
was simply determined that I wouldn’t
go away, but that Mark should come
down to this little Garden of Eden,
where I knew every tint of the ripe
grass on the meadow, eyery sparkle
of the water, every fleece of cloud up- ,
on the blue of heaven.
y | “And why not, Mark?” I urged.
“Here is this immense farm, a really i
great property, and would you leave ]
it to take care of itself, and we goto i
Ny live, two miles away on your father’s j
place, that bleak, lonesome rock up ,
gain the air, shut in by a pine forest. 1
Nil like a great fortress—a prison, areal i
; dungeon?’’ I
“It isn’t a prison to me,” said Mark. ]
“It is the brightest spot in the world.— <
Sgt would be if you were in it, Nan.”
My real name is Pamela; but that is
the way people always used me. i
f - > “And no neighbors there!” lexclaim- ]
ed—“nobody to run in oi an evening, <
nobody to talk to over the garden '
wall, nobody to borrow of, nobody to i
show your new t>.Mgs to, nobody il 1
| you’re sick. One might as well be i
j. buried alive. I always thought eo.” I
I. “I should want nobody but you, ]
| Nan, iwe were married and that was i
a our home. It would be simply para- 1
■pri dise/fj; i
K “It wouldn’t be paradiso to me i
B without any water to see. I never \
P itked the verse in the bibte about there i
i being no more saa. Pretty heaven
WKBthat. without any sea to look 1
|| at! I couldn’t live without my ;
river. I’ve always had it run- ]
|| . "olng by, running up or running down, ,
coming from somewhere,goingto some
where, life and motion. I always look i
•out the first thing in the morning to
its still there, and I iisten^forit
Stare down in the under-world; and
then bv day the color, the chantring
| isgbfs-aad color, and thepuebing of the
tide, taking you right into the myster-
to manage a farm two miles away
from it, I should like to know?”
“I know,” said Mark. “Easily;
just as you do two rods away.”
“It’s impossible,” said I. "You
don’t understand anything about
the oversight an.d care that a 'great
farm needs if you think that.”
•’Well, we could sell the farm you
“Sell the farm!” I cried, starting up.
•‘My father's, my grandfather’s, my
“Your Noah’s your Adam's—”
“How do you dare talk so to me,
Mark Myers, about my home!” 1
cried, more vexed and more.
“I shouldn’t think you had called
my home a prison and a dungeon,”
he retorted.
“Well, it is! the gloomiest, the—’
“Now hush, my darling; hush, you
little vixen,” said Mark, laughing,
with his hands on my lips, “or you’ll
say something you'll he sorry for.”
“You’ve said something you’ll be
sorry for,” 1 cried—“calling me a
vixen. I may be a vixen, but
if you were a gentleman— But
the Myerses always were tyrants,
and I’m glad I’ve found you out in
time—so calm and so cool, and so
fixed in your own way. And I’ll nev
er, never, eo and live in your old pris
on house,” 1 cried, growing angrier
and angrier, Heaven only knows why.
“And you may just whistle for your
dog, and go there yourself, and go
alone. I never want to see your face
again.” And before he could grasp
me and prevent me, I had flashed in
to the house, and had shut and bolt
ed the door.
He waited then; he waited, I should
think, an hour. And I sat inside,
burning with anger, and with an un
conscious sense of shame, very likely,
and a bitter disappointment, and
a wild, unnamed fear. And at last he
rose slowly and looked at the win
dows, and turned away and called old
Roland, and went slowly down the lane.
And he never came back. I could
see him walking along, ever so slowly,
in the clear moonlight, with the dog's,
nose in his hand, till the road turned
into the wood that mounted the hill.
And when he had gone 1 just threw
myself on the floor, and all but dis
solved in my mad tears. And I didn’t
know what the tears were for—wheth
er for fear of losing Mark, or for fear
cf losing my home, or for fear of giv
ing up ray will; but it seemed to me
that the end of the world had as good
as come.
We were both orphans, we both had
these great properties, and we had
both better have been beggars.
That was June, and the full moon.
I didn’t sleep any that night—l hard
ly know why; a presentiment of evil
kept me waking, although I was so
tired. I remember that moon now,
hanging in the purple sky. with her
wide wings, lik“ a great boding ghost.
Every time I looked out, there she
was. By-and-by she began to frighten
me, and I shut her out, but lay r ake
all the same, my mind in a wild whirl.
The next evening, in the long after
glow of the sunset, I tripped down
the lane to the wood, sure that I
should meet him, as I had always
done, on his way to me; but the shape
I had been used to see bounding down
the path I did not see again. I went
close to the shadow of the wood, but
only old Roland came and put his
nose in my hand, and waited with me
while I waited, and went back with
me a little way when I went back. It
did not occur to me to think that
where Roland was his master was not
far distant. And I went down the
lane no more.
After that, then, one day crept by,
and another, and life continued in
the old way, and all the business of
the great farm thrived in the hands
of Bryan, the directing overseer, and
all seemed to be mere idleness. The
moving machines were humming all
day in the meadows, and the huge
loads of fragrant hay came laboring
into the barns, and thunder-clouds
made panics, and the lightning fell, as
it always did on the wet low grounds,
and burned one or two hay-stacks;
and then the gundelows went down
the river for the salt hay, and camo
back, days afterward, with their dark,
square sails set atop of their square
loads of thatch; and one by one all
the concerns of ripening and harvest
ing had their season, and past, and
August was over. And Mark had
never once been up to the lane again;
and September had gone, and the
harvest-moon; and the hunter’s moon
had poured its silver floods of light
out of a great lonely heaven; and still
Mark had never come.
I suppose Mrs. Wells, my next
neighbor, know all about 1':. And
Mrs. Sawyer, on the other side, of
course knew all that Mrs. Wells did.
They were very good to me, and they
and the girls were always running in
to see me, or sending for me to run in
and see them. I don't think I was
trying to carry things off with a high
hand, and I know I wasn’t hanging
my head and crying over what was
not to be helped; X simply made up
my mind to the inevitable. I was
never going to have Mark beside me
any more, and I must endure it, and
get through life as well as I could.
I had this farm on my hands, and all
the people who had their living from
it, and 1 must do my duty. And per
haps in time fats would be kinder,
and give me a fever or cough, and let
me lie down and die; and he would
com* then and look on me, and re
member how I had loved him, and be
sorry. And thinking how sorry be
would be was a joy I hugged to my
heart, only joy I had.^
see Mark'sd ear face egaim his j
j Hon of my soul-and comeback to me;
river that I had used to love so in the
sunshine, all blue and silver; that I
had loved so, dimpling in its so:t grays
in rainy weather; where I had never
tired of seeing the ice-boats dart along
when it lay white under itswintiy
mail—the river that now, in my grief
and trouble and weariness, flowed
past as calmly as if I had never seen
it. How could it be so irresponsive,
rolling on bright and strong and
steady, giving me back no sympathy
now in my sorrowful mood. Hiv
ing me even no vantage-ground?—for
I should have had to wade into it if 1
had wanted to drown myself. Yes, 1
began to hate the river. J began to
bate, too, these long, tiresome, mo
tionless levels of the grass lands—Oh,
so llat, so monotonous, so low! “One
is simply under-ground here,” I said
to myself. “One has really not the
air to breathe. One Jjecomes like
those slugs that live under the damp
side of a stone. lam under a stone
myself. Oh, for just a breath of air
from some point a little way up the
sky!” I began to hate, I say, the
long green grass fields; and than I be
gan to hate the farm life. “It is dull,
sordid, base work, let them say what
they please,” said I, “from the pitch
ing about of the barn-yard muck to
the last results of it. It is all non
sense about its being the one noble
occupation. So is the cook’s, then,
too.” And I hated the great cattle in
the yard, the smell of the frothing
pails of milk, the click of the stanch
ions, the cheese making, the butter
packing—everything that belonged to
all the dull round of the farm duties.
I went about to see t.he work done,
and said a word to the maids, here,
the men there; and I went and sat
down by my kindling autum fire, and
felt that if I had to live here forever I
had better die and be done with it. I
had rather die and be done with it
anyway, If I was never to see Mark
any more; but then that was no new
Do what I would, my thoughts
would follow Mark. Was he there
alone in his father’s house? Was he
riding gayly round the country, visit
ing other houses, other girls happier,
than I, hearing music, joining in laugh
ter? Or was he traveling off in distant
regions, seeing new sights and forget
ting the old, forgetting the past and
me in fresh experience? Or was he sit
ting at home there in the long dim
room whose windows looked through
the pine-wood vista over the broad
valley and away to the blue mount
ains? No one told me;’no one ever
ventured to mention his name to me.
But somehow I placed him there inthe
long dim room, and there my fancy
kept fouowing him and hovering about
him. Now he sat by the fireside there,
in the deep chair, reading, now he was
busy with maps and pictures at the
table; now, in the big bay, the moon
light, that had pale green reflexions in
it cast up from the emerald depths of
the woods below, fell about him.
I dare say that, in reality, busy
about tbe place and his affairs of one
sort or another, and doing his best
t o live and to forget, he was very little
in that room; but there I chose to
place him; and it grew strangely sweet
to me, and every moment when I
could sit down alone my fancy took
me und I sat down in that room, or
else I wandered up and down the
great staircase and the hall where his
people’s portraits hung; but I always
came back again to the hearth of tne
long dim room if it were day, to the
dancing fire-cast shadows there if it
were night, and the place grev, dearer
and dearer to me every hour, and I
upbraided myself in thoughts too bit
ter for speech for the tolly and angry
temper that had shut me out of it,
that had drawn comparison between
that ancient lofty place and this low
and tiresome stretch of nothing but
common grass lands,, between that
manor and this plain farm-house, al
though in real truth my farm-house,
was quite its equal at any other time.
But the new year came in without a
sign from Mark or a sign from me;
and the country was white with snow,
and the river ice was strong enough to
bear un sledges and teams of horses,
and the iceboats were splitting the
wind before them. It a!l made no
odds to me. I was completely wretch
ed. I didn’t pretend to go to church
or to any of the society meetings; and
if the Sawyers and Wellses came to
me, I suppose I treated them prop
erly—l'm sure I don’t know—but I
never set my foot out-doors the win
ter long.
There were furious storms that win
ter. The snow fell as I never remem
bered it before. The drifts seemed to
wall us in from all the world. “A liv
ing tomb,” I used to raormer. “I wish
it were a tomb indeed, and I in my
last sleep.” At twenty, one can be so
very miserable; and at thirty, if one
lives so long, one can be so profane
as to laugh at it.
Sometimes Bryan and Thomas
brought word of the outside regions,
of the way people up-river were sleigh
riding over the tops of fences, of the
immense snow-fall m the mountians,
and tiie fears of what would happen
from it in the spring if there should be
an early thaw. And I remembered
some words that Mark osed to quote
from a play he had seen, “Wbeu this,
snow melteth there shall come a flood.”
I didn't care how many floods came.
And bo, with storm after storm, the
winter wore away, Jane and Maria at
their home-keeping tasks, and I busy
with my rugmaking, hooking strips of
woollen cloth through coffee-bags, not
because the house was net full of
them, but because I had nothing bet
ter to do. For I couldn’t read;; if I
tried my eyes swan, and I could not
make out a word of what it was all
about. And people went and came
like shadows; and the days had grown
short, and now they grew-long, aud
what did it all matter to me?
March had come, but without a sign
last April loitered on. and April suna
the drifts of snow in the lades and in
day it began to snow, and the snow
turned to rain, and it rained that day
and rained in rivers, and it rained the
next day,and it rainad till it had rain
ed a week—a long, dreary week that
bade fair to end only in deluge. And
on Saturday the sun came out warm;
and when I looked, the crocuses
bloomed under the windows, and
Thomas said it was very like the May
flowers were opened in the woods, if
anybody could get to them for the
roads ail being under water, although
the river was still locked in solid ice
lrom shore to shore. And in the late
afternoon of the second day of this
same sweet sunshine and south wind,
as we sat there, Jane and I, Maria
ran in and said there was water inthe
cellar, as much as six inches.
“That is nothing,” said I. “I should
think there would be, after such a
melting of snow and such a raining of
“It’s more likely it’s the land suck
ing up the river, miss, said Maria.
“The river’s just raging full under its
icecoat, I shouldn’t wonder, and is
letting itself out through the land.”
And as she spoke there came a great
shock and thrill, a rumble, a roar,
and a mighty hurst of sound.
“Great mercy, miss’” cried Jane,
“it’s the ice cracking and rending from
shore to shore. I never heard the like
before, many springs as I’ve lived be
side it.” And before she had done
speaking the sound came again—the
sound oi great guns, the trembling oi
an earthquake.
“It is an earthquake,” said I. “It
must be. But earthquakes up here
don’t amount to anything.”
“That’s no earthquake,” cried Jane.
And then we sat there an hour or
more, looking out on the river, and
listening to the sounds, and wonder
ing, and telling stories ofearthquakes,
and hardships, and what not, curd
ling our blood as we talked. And at
last Thomas came in; he had been
down the lane to the highway, and a
person who had come from up coun
try had told him that the freshet was
<>a the river, and the high water had
carried away Ford’s mills, a dozen
miles above us.
“But how can it do that?” said I.
“How can there be a freshet where it’s
all ice?”
“Just because it is all ice, miss,”
said Thomas. “The streams are full
up-country, and the frozen riverdown
here is giving the water no outlet.
Half the country between here and
there’ll be afloat before morning.”
And then came the dull roar and rum
ble, the shock, the thrill, the explosion,
once more.
“Why, this is terrible,” said 1. "It
seems as if elemental things were at
work; as if the earth was splitting and
opening.” And while we waited and
shivered, as one after another
of the great explosions came, the
door opened so quickly as
to make us start, and Mrs. Sawyer
ran in, her face as white as ashes.
“A messenger has just gone gallop
ing by,” she gasped. “My husband
met him. He says the dam at the
falls has been carried away, and the
mayor at Fallstown has sent word by
him to the mayor of Harborbar to
look out for his bridges.”
“And the explosions,” said Bryan,
joining us, for we were all looking out
now, in the late twilight, at the long
glass door opening on the river, above
which a purpling mist was hung, “is
the Fallstown people trying to break
up the ice below them with dynamite.
I guess we are in for it.”
“I don’t know what we are going to
do,” cried Mrs. Sawyer. “Of coarie
the moment the ice breaks up and
goes sweeping down it will make for
the first outlet, and that is on these
grass lands—running in here on the
very first low shore along the whole
course of the river. It i« terrifying.
If it were only daylight I wouldn't
mind it so much. We could see our
way. We could see what was coming.
We should know where we were and
what to do. But in the dark! You
had better come over to our house,
Nau, and whatever we do we will all
do together. Merciful powers! what
was that?”
It was only the wind coming up—
that strong, sweet south wind. It
had broken a bough from the old elm
that had fallen on the house, and at
the same moment the last explosion
of the dynamite sounded. But it was
enough. Mrs. Sawyer’s words were
ringing in my ears. In the dark all at
once I thought I could see the torrent
of broken “ice, the great blocks
and sheets of pointed jaggad ice, lift
ing themselves into one huge wall
and sweeping round the bend and up
the land, pushed by the mighty swell
ing of the tide behind—mounting, grind
ing, sweeping across all this low in
terval, over which it wou’d crash and
pour and flow, to find the river at a
point below and reach the sea. The
rush ol the great black cold waters
was already upon me, the sound of
them in my ears, the blowing of the
wide dark water breath.'l felt my
self a helpless straw before them. I
did not wait an instant. I never
thought of the others. I was not con
scious of any thought at all; but I
screamed, and turned and dashed out
of the house and down the lane, as
fast, an breathlessly, as 1 could race,
through the mire and slush, and up
the narrow road into the wood, feel
ing still that chill water breath blow
ing on me, hearing the terrible sound
of the rasping piling, tumbling, roar
ing ice, and I never stopped till 1 fell
panting and breathless and fainting
at somebody’s feet, with the warm
breath of a great stag hound in ray
face, and was being lifted in some
body’s arms, and saw when I opened
my eyes, by t.ha light of the young yel
low moon through the wooa, that it
drowning! take me up-to your house, j
to your dear old high house, and don't
let me ever leave it. Oh, Mark, I loved j
you all the time! Take me homo, j
love im. Tdon’t see howyo?eln lETve !
soon as he had the chance. “Do you
suppose I will let you go again? I
shall have to forgive you. What else
is there for me to do? I heard about
the freshet. I was just on my way to
you. We will have the minister up
this very evening, if we can get Him,
and you shall never so much as go out
of my arms again.”
And he did. And here lam, perfect
ly happy in this fortress, tins prison
on a rock, this dungeon—so nappy
that I have not yet been able to bring
my shocked nerves to the pass even
of going down again to the grass lands,
where Mark goes down and manages
everything for me.
And the freshet? Oh, to bo sure!
Why, you see, that south wind shifted
to easterly, and it froze again that
night. And when it melted, it melted
so gently that the ice went out of the
river without anybody’s knowing it.
And there never was any freshet.
Learn to Tell Stars,
Modern astromomy is so rapidly
and wonderfully linking the earth and
the sun together, with all the orbs of
space, in the bonds of clooe physical
relationship, that a person of educa
tion and general intelligence can af-
ford no valid excuse for not knowing
where to look for Sirius or Aldebaran
or the Orion nebula, or the planet
Jupiter. As Australia and New Zea
land and the islands of the sea are
made a part of the civilized world
through the expanding influence of
commerce and cultivation, so the
suns and planets around us are, in a
certain sense, falling under the domin
ion of the restless and resistless mind
ol man. We have come to possess
vested intellectual interests in Mars
and Saturn, and in the sun and all
his multitude of tel ows, which nobody
can afford to ignore.
Perhaps one reason why the average
educated man or woman knows so lit
tle of the starry heavens is because it
is popularly supposed that only the
most powerful telescopes and costly
instruments of the observatory are
capable of dealing with them. No
greater mistake could be made. It
does not require an optical instrument
of any kind, nor much labor, as com
pared with that expended in the ac
quirement of some polished accom
plishments regarded as indispensable,
to give one an acquaintance with the
stats and planets which will be not
only pleasurable but useful. And with
the aid of an opera-glass most inter
esting, gratifying, and, in some in
stances, scientifically valuable obser
vation may be made in the heavens.
I have more than once heard persons
who knew nothing about the stars and
probably cared less, utter exclama
tions of surprise and delight when per
suaded to 4 »ok at certain parts of the
sky with a good glass, and thereafter
manifest an interest in astronomy of
which they would formerly have be
lieved themselves incapable.—From
“Astronomy with an Opera-Glass,”
by Garrett P. Serviss, in Popular Sci
ence Monthly for April.
White Furniture.
A writer in the New York Mail refers
to the new craze for white furniture:
No sooner had we furnished our
houses in sombre colors, with dark
mahogany and early English furniture
of black oak, which appeared wornr
eaten, if it really was not, when 10l
the dealers inaugurate a perfect craze
in white furniture, light colored up
holstered goods, and from the dignified
and aristocratic English or colonial
styles we become imbued with the
period of Louis Quinze. However,
the dark, rich furniture is too beauti
ful to give up without a struggle, and
fashion now dictates that those who
can afford it shall have each room in
their residence furnished to represent
not only a distinct period, but a cer
tain country as well. Thus we have
English rooms, French rooms, colo
nial, Egyptian and Japanese apart
ments, according to the purse or fancy.
The first “white room” built in New
York of any prominence is she music
room in the Villard mansion, now
owned and accupied by Whitelaw Reid.
The floor is highly polished in light
colored woods, and the entire apart
ment is of ivory white, picked out with
gold, and in the panels of the walls are
medallions of lutes, ribbons and scrolls
of music. A handsome “white room”
has the floor of polished wood, with
here and there a white astrakhan rug;
the furniture is of white picked out
with gold, upholstered in white satin
brocade; the curtains and other
draperies are of white plush, embroid
ered with gold; the picture frames are
white and gold, a white easel stands in
one corner and a white and gold, piano.
It makes a most beautiful apartment.
The Russian Rome in Asia.
f k . ;•<} ■■
Just now there are no war rumors
in the air, but it is settled that the
Russian headquarters in Central Asia
will be moved to Samarc&nd. This
means business. A foreign corre
spondent says:
“Now, Bmarcand,the Rome of Asia,
the queen city of the Oxus is to be
come Russian m character, ae for 20
years it has been Russian by conquest
and cession. Its possession for more
than 2,000 years has been accounted
the final stamp of imperial domina
tion. Greeks, Arabs, Mongolians, Us
begs won it in turn. Here Tamerlane
listened to the homage of the prince
of the eaet. Here the devout Turani
ana knelt in dumb submission before
the sacred pedestal ol the throne of
Timour. But no Christian bad entered
it as master until the Russian Kauff
man and his men won it for their lord
the czar. It is to-day the fairest jewel
of his Aslan crown. It may be onca
more the queen of the east* It may
again be the ‘Holy City’ of a mighty
ompire. Now it is merely an array
headquarters and the center ol a cot
-1 ThtSwoJof Russianizing Asia
. ' • .V.’ -- i;i *
Wljjsky is a kind of lingering RonglfH'
on ItaU Youngstown Telegram, , i
Why is a lover litre a kernel of oorsf
Because he turns pale when he pops... . J
London Hare Hits. v||
••Your uncle Will probably renietubgJlH
you when making his wjlL” “Cq%|B
ifouml it! That’s what I’m afraid o't,S 1
It he remembers me it’s all up wiflj’W
me.” — Boston Transcript. j
Inebriated Traveler (to farmer)—
“Will thish road take me to-di W
Wilsontown?’’ Farmer —“Yes, sirfltN
Inebriated Traveler “Well, kotfqll
slioou do you think sheTl start?”— !:
Puck. J
“Why,” said the young wife of a A
physician, who was given to boasting j
of her husband’s professional skillj
“he cured a patient of convalescence I]
in less than twenty-four hours.”— Ex- 1
Brown—“ Have you got a quarter’!*
about you, Robinson?” Robinson— M
“Certainly.” Brown “Thanks, I’m lfi
just back from the races, and I want $
to get a drink and have my boottlS
shined.” New York Sun.
Editor’s young wife—“My dear, you
must pardon me for coming down in * 111
wrapper this morning.” Editor— f||
“Don’t mention it, my love. Some ol *
our most valuable exchanges come to 'j*|
us in wrappers.” Hurting ton Free'ik
Miss Budrose (getting vaccinated)— :;'i|
“Do you think it will take, I)n *l|
Montague?" Dr. Montague (gallantly) ,
“If it doesn’t take on such an arm,
my dear Miss Violet, I shall have but t
little respect for vaccine hereafter."— j|
Epoch. *:Wk
Wife—“ How groat, how overwhelm
ing, how beyoud all compare, how
exceeding a!! the wildest fancy paints,
the most extravagant imagination con- !
ceives.” Husband—“ What, my dear?
The falls or the hotel bill?” Washing
ton Critic.
St. Peter—“ Well, stranger, who are j
you?” “I’m an American. 1 died :
last night” “I see your record is ,
pretty good You may go in.”
Where'll I get my lyre and crown?” |
"We don’t give them to Americans, |
but you’ll find a bat and spiked shoes <
inside the portals.” Toronto News.
A friend was speaking to the father j
of a pretty daughter about a young N
man who wanted to marry her. “What
does the young man do?” asked the
father. “Oh! he is a young man of
letters; he writes for the magazines
under four different norus de plume.”
“And under which of these names is
he the most—unknown?'* —New York
Playing Confidence Games.
“A new class of swindlers have be
gun operations in Fifth Avenue and
Upper Broadway,” said one of Inspec
tor Byrnes' detectives this morning
while watching a well-dressed woman
across the street
•That ‘lady’ over there is a leading
member of the gang,” he continued.
“She would make $lO or sls to-day if
let alone. She used to be a shop
lifter. Because of the danger of de
tection, and a certain knowledge that
she’d be sentenced for the longest
term possible if again arraigned be
fore any justice in this oity, she and
some of her former companions hare
conceived the idea of making a good
living as aristocratic beggars. You
see they dress fashionably, have pleas
ing manners and know just whom to
“A good natured business man is
their victim every time. One of the
gang will accost him in the middle of
a block, oat of heaving distance. Her -
manner of greeting him would lead
any one across the street to think her
an acquaintance. In a low tone she
says she has lost her poeketbook or
been robbed. Her husband or brother,
of course, is a member of the same ex
change as the gentleman addressed.
Her name is given and reoogn zed,
and then, with false embarrassment
and blushes, she would trouble her
victim for a few dollars.
“Nine times out of ten the unsus
pecting individual will say, ‘Why*
certainly; pray don’t mention it,’ and
pass over a five-dollar note In a har
ry. glad at the opportunity to do it
The swindler asks for his card and
goes in search of another victim, after
expressing her hearty thanks. The
same person is never •struck’ twice;
and in this way the swindlers escape
positive detection. A few of the fra
ternity will tackle members of their
own sex with a story calculated to
win a dollar or two; but this is only
done when there Is a scarcity of male
prey. They work all sorts of dodges,
and are often successful simply be
cause of their fine appearance and
good manners I tried hard to get a
well-known society man who had been,
swindled by that woman across the
yyay to prosecute her, but he declined, .
■buying it would be a shame to lock up
such a pretty woman.”—AW* York
A Curious Negro Custom.
There is a very enrions custom pre
valent among the negroes of Georgia
as to their dead. The dead man is
generally put Into a cheap plank coffin • j
and laid away in the grave with no
ceremony whatever. A year after
wards a preacher’s services are pro
cured and the funeral sermon ft
preached amid weeping aud walling
md other manifestations of grief.—

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