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VOL. 59. WHOLE No. 2281.
2*UscellaneoUß. Muller & Yearley, HARNESS, TRUNKS anil BARS, 343 N. Gay Street, BALTIMORE, Md The only store where you can buy Any Style Harness, from a FINK LIGHT RACING RIG to a SIX-HORSE TEAM SET. Horse Collars, Plow Gears, Fly Nets, Lap Covers, Whips, &c., ALL AT OUR USUAL LOW PRIORS. May 30—ly LUMBER FOR SALE CHEAP T At My Mill at Shawan, BALTIMORE COUNTY, Md. 1" 12" LUMBER, $lO to sls per 1,000 feet. er*CAN CUT TO YOUR ORDER*®# Framing Lumber for Barns & Houses. Also Bridge Lumber. —SHIPPING POINT ASH LAND. BALTIMORE COUNTY. Md. Apply to H. L. CRUBE, 1000 American Building, Baltimore, Md. C. &P. Phone—724 Bt. Paul. Shawan, Baltimore county, mo. C. & P. Phone—Cockey 29-11. tinTC • lam in market for a TIMBER INU IC . TRACT of white oak, CHESTNUT, Ac , Ac., 100 TO 800 ACRES. Sept. 12—3 m N. T. BAKER, 204 N. EUTAW STREET, Near Lexington Market, BALTIMORE, Md. FANCY * AND STAPLE Mig CHOICE VINES AND LIQUORS. CIGARS A SPECIALTY. $p- We solicit a trial order. [Apl.2s—ly ESTABLISHED 1870. MAIEH’S PREPARED PAINTS ARE STRICTLY PURE LEAD AND ZINC PAINTS. Guaranteed Equal to the Best. -MANUFACTURED BY JOHN G. MAIER’S SONS, 153-155 N. GAY STREET, Cor Frederick Street, BALTIMORE, Md. Both Phones. I July U—ly Geo. W. Kirwan & Co. 13 N. CHARLES STREET, Between Baltimore and Fayette Streets, BALTIMORE, Md„ I HABERDASHERS I | SHIRT MAKERS. | SHIRTS TO MEASURE-™'^,?£"B! ed special care. All shirts are made on our own premises and our FIT AND FINISH have made ua well known as a SHIRT HOUSE. If you have not tried us, do so by ordering a Bample A Warners’ English Unshrinkable Underwear has been the best for over a hundred vears and will be for a hundred years to come. 7 gy BOTH PHONES. [July 4—ly Established 1886. “CHESAPEAKE” STITCHED CANYAS BELTING Suitable and specially adapted for Saw Mill and Threshermen's Use. Transmits moke power than any other Belt. Thoroughly Waterproof and Fully Guaranteed. pVWrite for prices, etc., to THE CHESAPEAKE BELTING COMPANY, D. HOCKADAY, Propr. 833 McKim Street, Bet. Mudlaon and Eager Streets. Baltimore, Md. Apl. 18—8 m IT DOKBBT COST MONEY. It doesn’t cost money, as many suppose. To have a good time on the earth ; The beat of lta pleasures are free unto those Who know how to value their worth. The sweetest of music the birds to us sing, I The loveliest flowers grow wild, I The finest of drinks gushes out of the spring— I All free to man, woman and child. No money can purchase, no artist can paint, Such pictures as nature supplies For ever, all over, to sinner and saint, Who use to advantage their eyes. Kind words and glad looks and smiles cherry and brave Cost nothing—no, nothing at all; And yet all the wealth Monte Cristo could save Can make no aueh pleasure befall. To bask in the sunshine, to breathe the pure air, Honest toil, the enjoyment of health, Bweet slumber refreshing—these pleasures we share Without any portion of wealth. Communion with friends that are tried, true and strong, To love and be loved for love'a sake— In fact, all that makes a life bappy and long Are free to whoever will take. STARTING LITTLE IKE. BY PRANK H. SWEET. Feopte speak of the noisy city and the quiet country, but there never was a quieter place in the world than Spruce street on this special summer afternoon. There was no street rail way, which was one of the reasons of the remarkable quietude. There was no trees in Spruce street, though the name might have led a stranger to expect them ; nor were there any birds. A man and a woman walked along the warm, red brick pavement in the direction away from the market around the corner. The man was pushing a hand-cart piled up with small, empty flower pots. One could see by his expression that he was thinking of nothing but pushing the hand-cart, but the woman’s face ex pressed a kind of a longing. This quiet city street was too quiet for her. She missed the birds’ songs; she would have liked to hear the rustle of trees overhead, and the tinkle of a cowbell sounding from a grassy fence corner would have been music to her. The hand-cart turned up a narrow alley between two high houses. The man and woman followed it to the end of the alley, and through a white board gate into a tiny yard, where stood a little white house that looked as if it belonged to the country and not to the city. Around at the left side of the little house were long beds of blooming flowers, and a corner of a greenhouse was just visible. But here, too, the trees and the birds were missing, save for a scrubby damson tree carefully propped, and the feath ered occupant of ’a gilded cage in the front window. Every market-day afternoon the old woman returned to the little white house with the load of empty flower pots. Sometimes all were not empty ; but they were always underneath and did not show to the passer-by. The old man now took up the remaining slate: They were a bunch of purple pansies and a scarlet pink. The woman en tered the house and busied herself with preparations for supper. Once, and it seemed very long ago, there was more in the life of these two people than the mere journeying to and from the market. There was a little tow-headed boy, who toddled among the flower-beds and rendered wonderful assistance in the kitchen, carrying the big dipper clear across the kitchen floor “ ’thout wastin’ more’n a thimbleful,” his mother said. Afterward, when little Ike’s legs grew firmer and his arms stronger, he had hoed in the flower beds regu larly every summer morning before going to school, and had been of much use in the evenings on his return. The boy was not dead, but he had gone out of their life. The old man complained about it often now, and he blamed bis wife for it. He came into the kitchen now and sat down on the wooden bench. “I’m tired,” he muttered, discon tentedly. The woman stirred briskly about, saw that there was enough coal on the fire, lifted and replaced the lid on the potatoes, and then turned toward him and smiled. “Of course you’re tired, father,” she said, cheerfully, “you’d be more’n human if you wasn ’ t tired. Potterin ’ ’round at sun-up, off to market with a load big enough to break a man’s back, diggin’ all day in the park gar dens, and then a helpin’ me home. Of course you’re tired.” She laughed softly as she looked at him with her sweet, affectionate eyes. “When a man gits old he ought ter have some one fer to take his place. I used ter think as I’d hev it that away ; some day, I used to think I’d git my rest.” He shuffled his feet uneasily, and would not meet his wife’s eyes. “I’m tired, an’ I want my rest,” he repeated. It never entered into old Isaac Car ter’s head that his wife might some times be tired, too. She was not as young as she once was; there were lines on her face and silver in her hair. Four days out of the seven she stood all day in the market, then came straight home to the work awaiting her there. If she had grumbled ever so little it would have given him an excuse for grumbling still more, in the endeavor to prove to her how wrong she bad been to let the boy . go ; but she never grumbled. | “An’ you’ll get your rest, father,” i she said, soothingly. “You’ll set in 9 your armchair yet, an’ be glad it was j you that gave the boy the start.” The supper was beginning to give out a more appetizing odor and the old man leaned more comfortably back on the bench and fell to dream ing. Yes, Maria was right. If the ' boy should turn out all that she ex pected, it would be he who had given him the start. He had unlocked the big chest and counted out the money to send him to college, after he had ! gone through the public schools, and he had opened the big chest a second time to get the cash to “set ’im \ a-goin.’ ” But it was a long time ago. He r realized how old he was —how old and tired— but he said nothing more about it now. He looked up at his wife with wishfnlness in his eyes. It would be a pleasant thing to have a strong, young fellow about. He never thought of Maria being old and tired, too —she was so brisk and cheer ful that the thought never came into his mind. “Father,” his wife said, standing r beside him and smoothing back the 7 coarse hair from his weather-beaten , face, “I feel it tonight as I never felt it before, that the day will come when ) you will thank the Lord that you gave our boy the start.” ’ The very next day there came a letter in which the boy asked for > money. But Maria was not dis couraged when she read her son’s letter. She did not lose any of her faith in him. She entered into his plans and speculations with eager ness ; she knew they would turn out as little Ike bad said. She persuaded the old man to go up to the big chest for the money that the lad wanted, and she sent it to him with unshaken trust. Long ago her neighbors had laugh ed a little in their sleeves over Mrs. Carter’s belief in her wonderful boy, even when he was a little fellow, smart enough, but too young for the grammar school. Later, they had not approved of her sending him to college. They heard about the letter that was carrying money in the wrong direction almost as soon as it started, and, one by one, they dropped in, curious to learn how little Ike was getting on, and where he was and what he was doing. Little Ike’s mother, entertaining her callers in the front room with the noisy bird, or in the quiet kitchen, spoke freely on her favorite subject, without any suspicion that they had come from any other motive than kindly interest. “Little Ike was bound to find his fortune somewhere, ’ ’ she said. “He was such a boy for keeping his work, and he had always said he’d make his fortune.” Her eyes grew misty, and she fell to laugh ing softly. “An’ ain’t he seudin’ money home a’ready?” one neighbor asked. She shook her head at this and said, “No, not yet. It takes time and money, too, to make a fortune, but little Ike is sure to make his and ours.” “They’ve been waitin’ seven years,” said the neighbors, smiling, too, “and they ain’t quit waitin’, neither!” “A no-count feller.” Thatiswhat all the people living near the Carters styled little Ike; and down at the market they called him that, though his mother stood there behind her flower stand and cast kindly glances around her, thinking how she was en • vied by them all, and resolving in lier heart-not to grow too proud. iac wiuic w kuciu Kvciai times during the next winter. He must have money to carry out his plans. It did not occur to him that he should not ask bis parents for this money. Was he not working for them all —for his father and mother first, and then for himself? He need ed all the money they could spare. The old man doled it out and grum bled about it after it was gone, but he always gave it the next time. It was starting little Ike over and over again, but his mother was so sure! Little Ike’s mother stepped lightly around the house. Her boy was working for an end; father should rest in his arm chair and smoke his pipe by and by. Just a little patienee and the waiting would be over. Spring came, and one day her hus band gave her the last of the money in the big chest to put in the letter she was writing. She knew that he was angry with their boy, but she felt so sure that all would soon be right that she smiled up at him when he gave her the last of the money, she bade him not to fret. Soon all would be right. It was a hard spring. A strange insect attacked the flowers, and made havoc in Ike Carter’s gaudy beds and in the gleaming green-house. The old mau toiled early and late, but the flowers that he hauled to the market were very sorry specimens. It was hard to sell them ; indeed, he brought back most of them. The old wo man’s hair grew white as snow dur ing that summer, aud the lines in her face deepened, but her eyes and her voice were as cheerful as ever, and her step as brisk. “Father,” she said to the old man, “we’ve no call for to find fault. ’Tisn’t as if we hadn’t nobody. We’ll get our rest j’et.” Then the old man looked np at her suddenly and realized that she needed rest, too. A blaze of anger swept over him. She was sitting in her rocking-chair under the bird cage, with her Bible in her lap. Her head was bowed a little, and the faint light poured in on her snow white hair. The money in the big chest was quite gone. He had given it because she had asked for it, and now she must bear with the grumbling. “Is he goin’ to pay the taxes?” he asked, sharply. She gave a start. “I want to know ef he’s a-goin’ to pay the taxes? They’ll be due a Wednesday.” He rose and walked out into the poor little garden. His wife rose too, and went slowly up the stairs to the room over the kitchen. She took from the bureau drawer an old stock ing and carefully counted the money it contained. “Wednesday,” she murmured. “The Lord’ll give us our daily bread a Wednesday.” Then she came down and began to prepare their meager supper. It was Wednesday morning. If only there had been birds in the air, what a delicious morning it would [ have been with those soft, floating l clouds in the sky, and that brilliant i sun! The old man came into the kitchen : to Maria. She noticed before he 1 reached her how very heavily he t walked, “like ’twas evenin’ ’stead o’ TOWSON, MD., SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1908. : mornin’,” she said to herself. He t came up to her and held out an un i opened letter in his trembling fingers. : A great pain fell on her heart as she l saw his face. He did not stay to ■ watch her read it. She stood a little > time at the window, holding the let ter in her band. • Would it have been better if she i had kept the boy at home, and brought i him up to work like his father ? No 1 ; She saw his bright, eager face, his t restless little hands, that used to get i “so mortal tired” hoeing. How smart he had been at the schools! All the teachers had said —“Educate the boy ; there’s something in him— you’ll be glad of it after a while.' Give him a start in life, and he’ll re pay you.” She thought of the hard-earned savings up stairs. What should she do with them ? They were hefs. Why need the father mind poverty for such a little while longer. * She heard him coming back again, and she tore open her letter and smiled. • She always smiled over her boy’s letters. The old man’s heart had hardened as he looked at his wretched show of flowers. He opened his eyes to speak. He was going to tell her, in harsh words, just what he thought of the whole affair from beginning to end. But before he could utter a word, his wife’s voice called from the window : “O, father!” He hurried over to see what it meant. She gave him the letter and asked him to read it aloud. She could not make it all out, “for the water in her eyes.” “Very slow and carefully the old man read the written pages, his voice growing prouder and firmer as he went on ; and then he laid the letter down, and smoothed between his hands the wonderful check the lad had sent —more than all the money that had ever been in the big chest, and the promise of plenty more when needed I He gazed into the tender eyes of the mother of his boy. Those other words he had intended to say five min utes ago were entirely forgotten. “I —I give him the start, Maria,” he said. “He chose fer himself, but I give him the start.” She was gazing beyond him at the floating clouds. “I give him the start, Maria !” “Yes, father, I know.” — Country Gentleman. MOSBY WAS THEBE. General John S. Mosby, the Con federate cavalryman, used to tell of a comic incident which happened in the Shenandoah Valley in 1864. Near Millwood a regiment of cavalry halt ed one night and went into camp. —X *Vlc man . ntUn f ol ——y want off m to* neighborhood to get sometmng to eat. He rode up to a cabin on a farm in the dark and called for the person in side to come out. A negro woman, known at that time as an intelligent contraband, opened the door and asked him what he wanted. The soldier wished to be assured of his safety before dismount ing and while eating his supper, so he inquired of the woman if any one but herself was there. Shereplied, “Yes; Mosbyishere.” “What!” said he in a whisper. “Is Mosby here?” “Yes,” she said; “he is in the house.” The soldier put spurs to his horse and dashed off to his company to car ry the news. When he got there he informed the colonel that Mosby was in a house not far away. The regi ment was soon mounted and went at a fast trot, thinking they had Mosby in a trap. When they arrived at the negro wo man’s house the colonel ordered his men to surround it to prevent Mosby’s escape, while he went in with a few to take him dead or alive. The woman again came to the door of the cabin. The colonel inquired, “Is Mosby here?” She innocently replied, “Yes,” so he walked in. After the colonel got inside he looked round. But the woman seem ed to be all alone and utterly uncon scious of having so important a per son for a guest. In a loud voice the colonel demand ed, “Where is Mosby?” “’Ere he,” answered the terrified negress, at the same time pointing to a cradle on the floor. The colonel looked into the cradle and saw a little African pickaninny sucking its paw.— Youth's Companion f WAS HEAVILY MORTGAGED. I had a seat on the veranda of a ho tel in a southern town when an old colored man came along and removed his hat to say : “Mars’, don’t you want to help a poo’ ole cull’d woman a bit ?” “Is she ill?” I asked. “No, sah, not zactly ill, but she’s ole an’ feeble, an’ de sheriff am gwine to sell her furniture on a mortgage.” “How much is the mortgage?” “Fifty dollars, I believe.” I said I’d go along with him and he took me to a dilapidated old cabin about six blocks away. There we found the old woman mentioned. I also saw at a glance that the furniture consisted of a shackelty old cook stove, a wretched bed and a rocking chair ready to fall to pieces. “You said this stuff was mortgaged for $50?” I said to the old man. “Yes, sah.” “But I don’t see how anybody would advance over $2 on it.” “No, sah, dey wouldn’t.” “Then how do you make themort : gage 850?” “Why, sah, dere am twenty-nve mortgages at $2 apiece.”— Detroit : Tribune. City Girl —How do you tell the l ripe berries from the green ones ? ; Farm Hand—ltseasy, miss. When ; blackberries are sorter pink, why ’ then they’re green. e Avon) FACIAL XAFFSBISXS. , While a statuesque face is far from * being attractive or magnetic, it is bet -0 ter to have than one which has been marred by ugly facial contortions. It is so easy to get into the habit of twisting up the mouth, screwing up the eyes, wrinkling the nose. t If a woman were in front of a glass • and saw herself indulge in all these ‘ queer grimaces while she was talking . she would instantly resolve to lead a better life in that respect. , It is one thing to illustrate talk with , effective hand gestures, but quite an ' other to illustrate it by contortions of the features. ’ It does not add to the force of what one says to make marionettes of the , mouth, the eyes and the eyebrows k ' fulled about by the nerves. ! The eyes illustrate conversation by *. expression, and the mouth, with its smile or lack of it, or some pretty little turn it may have when talking, j does the rest of the necessary work. It is rather exhausting to listen to a person talk who has unpleasant facial mannerisms. One almost for gets what is said in the fascination of watching the features twist and turn and screw into all kinds of grotesque lines. But the listener suffers only for the moment. The woman who makes all her features dance up and down at the slightest cause when there is no neces sity to be excited is the loser for all time. The Egyptians say that of our vices God makes scourges to punish us. After a few years of ugly facial grim aces a woman finds herself truly ugly. Her features are out of shape. They have taken on uncertain, twisted lines. The skin is indented and furrowed. An observer can see at a glance that she is the kind of person who wears herself out for the slightest cause. She looks ten years older than she is. Serenity, that most beautiful thing in a woman’s face, is gone. There is nothing soothing or rest ful about her. An invalid would in voluntarily hope that she would never nurse her. A nervous person would seek for companionship in some one with a quieter face. She might have strength of charac ter, but she goes through the world without being credited with it. If a girl would stop herself in the beginning; if she would be serious about watching herself to see if she twists and turns her face when she is talking; if she would be vain enough to constantly watch herself in a mir ror, she could break up this habit* or keep it from gaining. She would be the victor, not only over the moment, but over the long to come. By such self-control in the beginning she would be able at Iftcsertntf thfce'or a lOVeiy Oia lady. DICK’S chum! A newsboy sat on the curbstone crying when a pedestrian halted and laid his hand on the youngster’s shoulder. "What’s wrong, sonny—lost some thing?” "Naw, I ain’t. Oh, oh, me chum’s dead.” "Oh, that’s too bad ! How did he die?” "Runned over!” "So! Was there an inquest?” “Inques’nothin’. He just holler ed oncet and rolled over dead; and I wish’t I was dead, too, along of him.’ ’ "Cheer up, you can find another chum.” "You wouldn’t talk that way if you’d knowed Dick. Tnere warn’t nothin’ Dick wouldn’t a done for me, and now he’s d-d-dead and buried. I’m a-wishin’ I was too.” "Look here,” said the man, "go and sell your papers and take some poor little ragged boy and be a chum to him. It’ll help you and do him good.” "Pshaw! mister, where’s there a boy wot’d go ’round nights with me, and be cold and hungry and outen doors and sleep on the groun’ like Dick? An’ he wouldn’t tech a bite till I’d had enough. He was a Chris tian, Dick were.” "Then you can feel that he’s all right, if he was such a faithful friend and a good boy.” "Boy? Dick a boy? Dick warn’t no ragged, good-for-nothin’ boy, mis ter. Dick were a dog.”— New San Ftanciscoan. A THIK CAT. The skeleton of a cat walked into a butcher shop. Ryan seeing her bawl ed out: “Mickey, didn’t Oi tell ye a month ago to fade that cat wid a pound of mate a day until ye had her fat?” "You did! An’ Oi’m just after fadin’ her wid a pound.” "Has that cat ate a pound this mornin’ ?” “Yis sor. M "Sure, Oi think it’s a lie ye’re tell i in’. Bring me them scales. Now bring me the cat.” The cat turned the scales at exact ly one pound. "There, didn’t I tell ye that she’d 1 ewten a pound of mate this mornin’ ?” "All right, me boy; there’s the i pound of mate, but where’s the cat ?” WHY THE QUITO BOY WAITED. An old gentleman, rather portly and clad in a somewhat youthful suit of light gray flannel, sat on a bench 1 in the park enjoying the pleasant day. "What’s the matter, sonny?” he asked a small urchin who lay on the ' grass just across the walk and stared intently. "Why don’t you go and play?” "Don’t wanter,” the boy replied. "But it is not natural,” the old gen ! tleman insisted, "for a boy to be sc t quiet. Why don’t you run about?” “Oh, I’m just waitin’ till you gel up. A man painted that bench aboul e fifteen minutes ago.” a It does not follow that a man is y honest because he is poor—some verj big rascals have had hard luck. BAD FOB JOHF. a They went to see the lawyer yes - terday—Mary Ann and her mother, i When they spoke about a breach of promise the lawyer said : f "What evidence have you?” a "Mary Ann, produce the letters,” commanded the mother; and the girl s took off the cover of a clothes basket i and remarked that she thought 927 r letters would do to begin with. 1 "And outside of these letters?” queried the lawyer. 1 "Mary Ann, produce your diary,” - said the mother. "Now turn to the f heading of ‘Promise,’ and tell him how many times this marriage busi t ness was talked over.” * "The sum total is 214.” ; "Now turn to the heading of ‘Dar ling,’ and give us the number of times r he has applied that term to you. ” ) "If I have calculated rightly, the t number is 9,254 times.” "Now turn to the heading of‘Wood bine Cottage,’ and tell us how many 1 times he has talked of such a home : for you after marriage.” "One thousand.” ‘ ‘Very well. How many times has John Henry said he would die for you?” ‘ ‘Three hundred and fifty, ’ ’ answer ed the girl. "How many times has he called you an angel?” "Over 11,000, mamma.” "How about squeezing hands?” "Over 384,000 squeezes.” "And kisses?” "Nearly 417,000.” ‘ ‘And about reading poetry, singing duets and taking moonlight walks to gether?” "The numbers are on the paper,” said the girl, handing a slip to the lawyer. "That’s our case,” said the mother, as she deposited the basket and diary on the lawyer’s table. "Look over the documents, and if you want any thing further I can bring a dozen neighbors to swear to facts. We sue for £IO,OOO damages, and we’ll call again next week. Good day, sir.”— Tit-Bits. UP IF KAIHE. They were discussing nasty weather at the postoffice the other day. There had been a heavy fog over the place 1 for two days, and it naturally became a topic of conversation. "Ya’as, it’s foggy—quite foggy,” < said Uncle HezekiahTorpyhue, filling 1 his corncob pipe and puffing vigorous ly on the stem. "But it ain’t nothin’ < to the one we had back in ’79. By 1 gorry, boys, that was a fog an’ no mistake ! Why, it was so thick that 1 when I went out to the barn one night to feed the animiles I had to get three 1 °’ the ft* \ 1 some fog. I remember that there ’79 i affair very well, but it warn’t a marker 1 along side o’ the one we had in ’73, t when me and Joe Sillsbee had to take t a plow to cut our way through to the 1 henhouse, an’ by ginger, when we got there we found the hens a-settin’ < on it instid of on their nests, an’ some 1 of’em laid their eggs right onto it, like as though it was made o’ hay, 1 b’gosh.” < "Ya’as,” put in old Gran’ther | Smoggs, the village patriarch, "them there two fogs was dandies, an’ every thing you fellers says about ’em is Gospil trewth, but fer real fog ye’d oughter been around here back In old Andy Jackson’s time. I tell ye they j was solid, them days. Why, we boys > used to set on the fence down in front o' the meetin’ house and make fog balls outen ’em an’ peg ’em at people as they went by. Seems to me I ain’t seen no fogs since that time that ye could make snowballs out of, have you, Bill?” "Ye’ll have t’ excuse me, Gran’- ther,” returned Bill. ‘‘l got religion last Tuesday, an’ I got a bet on with Jim Stiggins that I'll keep it a week. Ef I begin backin’ you in what ye say about Andy Jackson’s time I’m like to lose two dollars afore I get threw, an’ I need the money.”— Harper's Weekly. HISTOBIC CAFFOF BALL. The United States National Muse um has received as a gift from Dr. W. Hutson Ford, now residing in Wash ington, a 40-pound cannon ball fired from Fort Sumter at the beginning of the engagement on April 12th, 1861, which marked the opening of the Civil War. In connection with the history of this shot Dr. Ford says: "This cannon ball was fired by Major Anderson from Fort Sumter on the 12th of April, 1861. At the be ginning of the fight Major Anderson devoted his attention to the floating battery, which was moored in the cove i at Sullivans Island near the western extremity, about a mile and a quarter from the fort. Three of his shots • struck the battery and rebounded t upon the sand bar, failing to pene trate more than three inches. I was ■ one of the surgeons of the hospital at Mount Pleasant nearby, across the l lagoon back of Sullivans Island, and ’ as there was nothing to do, being no i wounded, in company with a col ’ league I paid a visit to Sullivans Island on the 13th of April, and see ing these shots lying in front of the r floating battery on the sand bank, I t caught up one of them in my hand -1 kerchief and brought it away, fore . seeing its historic value. I then took ; the ball successively to Charleston and e Aiken, S. C., thence to St. Louis, 1 where it remained until I brought it i to Washington/’ Mrs. Scott— “l like to hear my - husband whistle, it shows that he’s 0 satisfied and happy.” Mrs. Mott—“ls that a sign? Why t mine whistled yesterday when I show t ed him my dressmaker’s bill, and the symptoms were entirely different.” s "She stoops to conquer” does not y apply to a woman when she sees a poor little mouse. DAFFY. BY MABGABET F. PLUMER. "Say, Danny! Dan Leary! Why don’t you wait for us?” called some boys on their way from school to a boy just in front of them, in a little town in New Hampshire. Danny Leary was a little Irish boy about twelve years old. He also was on his way home, when the boys called to him, both hands in his pockets, boy fashion, whistling as he went along. Danny stopped when he heard his boy friends’ voices. Soon they reach ed him, laughing and talking as hap py as could be. "Danny, what do you think of the new teacher? Not much to look at, is she?” "Oh, she is all right! I tell you what, when you see Miss Gray look at you with those kind eyes of hers, it makes a fellow feel as if he might be something. Couldn’t do wrong while she is looking at you. Say, some of us will have to work hard if we wish to go into the High this year !” "That’s so.” With shout and laugh, off they all scampered, leaving Danny once more alone to his thoughts, thinking what he would like to do if he had it in his power; for Danny was a poor boy, and work ed bard after school to earn a little money. Danny was a boy full of fun, had the real Irish wit. When he was working for any one he said: "The time is not mine to fool away. I will do the best I can for the one who was kind enough to give me something to do.” If that is the feeling he had, is it any wonder that one felt that they could trust the little fellow, knowing he would do his best ? When he said he would do it, one might be sure he would keep his word to the very letter, as far as it was in his power. Miss Gray was very much pleased with the bright faces of her new scholars. Some one had told her about Danny Leary. What a brave little fellow he was! poor ; in spite of it all, just brimming over with mis chief? She thought to herself, — "Perhaps this is a chance for me to do some good, and bring pleasure into Danny's life.” From time to time she took notice of Danny, trying in every way to make him feel that she was his friend as well as teacher, wishing to know him out of school as well as in. She used to say: "Danny, how would you and some of the boys like to spend the evening with me ? Bring your book and we’ll see if we can make that hard lesson for tomorrow somewhat easier.” "Thank you, Miss Gray, that is veiy kind in you. It is a horrid hard lesson, and I know that the other boys as well as myself will be only ing was spent with Miss Gray, wne would have something bright to tell them, or strange and interesting things to show and talk about; then a pleas ant surprise awaited them before the evening was over; sometimes it was candy making, popping corn, or they would play games, etc. "Miss Gray always has something to make a fellow have a jolly time, don’t she, Danny,” said one of the boys. ‘ ‘You bet!” was the reply. ‘ ‘ Now, what do you think of the teacher?” "Ob, she is all right!” Danny was the one always ready to help his teacher; for, strange though it may seem, he was the only one that seemed to notice that from day to day Miss Gray was losing strength and color. . Many a pleasant talk did Miss Gray and Danny have, they were such good friends, he telling his teacher his many plans and boyish secrets and Miss Gray would look at the bright, earnest face before her. "I am proud of you, my boy, and hope some day I may feel even more so, Danny, if you live to carry out all your plans. I think you seem to have it in you to do so. Some day you will make a splendid man, one that we all can honor; only remem ber to be true to yourself and others. When tempted to do wrong, if you do wrong you not only bring sorrow to yourself, but to those that are dear to you.” A few weeks before Easter Miss Gray told Danny that the doctor said she must go into the city hospital; there the doctors might help her, so she could be well enough to be with them again. Poor Danny, he was almost heart broken when he heard the sad news. His first thoughts were, "Oh, how can I ever do without my teacher, go to school and see a new face in her place? I never can !” “Now, Danny, you shall hear from me quite often. Some one will let you know just how I am. I shall want you to help the other >oys all you can. I shall not forget you or the others.” Miss Gray said the morning she left for the city. While Miss Gray was in the city, Danny thought he would earn some more money after school, so as to have a pleasant surprise for Miss Gray on her birthday, which came soon after Easter. Danny did not tell his secret to any one. In doing this, it helped him from missing his teacher so much. He would wonder what he would buy for Miss Gray. It must something nice for her birthday. So Danny kept real busy, and tried so hard not to miss his teacher too much. At first the boys had good news from Miss Gray. Then the news was: "Miss Gray not so well, but sends love to Danny and the boys. Hopes to meet them some day in our heavenly Father’s home. ” This was her last message. When Danny heard this, his heart was too full of sorrow to say one word. The little fellow took the money he had saved for Miss Gray’s birthday, went to a florist, and bought some beautiful white Easter lilies. They ESTABLISHED 1850. wereplaced in his dear teacher’s white hands, —the last thing Danny could do for her. All knew that the flowers were ! from Danny to his best friend and teacher. Only Danny will ever know what a great loss this was to him. Forget Miss Gray ! not so long as there was any Danny Leary living. He would be a better boy and man all his life for knowing Miss Gray. grajtifg! My neighbor Brown came to the garden fence and said : "How do you do your grafting?” "My grafting?” said I. "Yes grafting apple trees. I want to try it myself.” "Oh!” I exclaimed. "Yes, yes! Well, in the first place, I begin by lying—that is, I lie in bed to think the whole thing out in every detail. I watch my opportunity, and on the first fine day I steal a few hours from my business. Then I borrow a saw— a steel one—and with it I rob the tree upon which I want to graft of some of its larger branches. This I try to do in such away that the loss of the branches will not be noticed. These limbs should not be left lying —that is, lying on the ground. They are unsightly and may attract the at tention of passersby. They should be hustled behind the latticework screen at once. So far so good. Now, let me see —oh, yes ! I rob another tree of a few twigs having buds on them and insert them in the ends of the sawed branches on the tree. Then I take some beeswax and tallow and melt them together. This must be thoroughly mixed. Work it for all you’re worth to make it pliable. Finally with this I try to hide all ap pearance of the graft, from sunlight and air and there you are—the job is done.” "I see,” said Brown, "and I think I’m foxy enough to do the trick the first time trying. Many thanks.” Shortly after I heard Brown telling his wife how I explained the process. This is the way he had it: "First,” he says, "you must be a good liar; then you watch your chance and steal a half day from the company’s time; then you steal a saw; then you defraud the tree of some branches, which you must hide, so nobody will get on ; then you rob somebody’s tree of twigs, put them in the ends of the branches and cover your tracks with beeswax and tallow. ’ ’ Said Brown’s wife: "I don’t think that man can be trusted. He has two kinds of grafting mixed, and, besides, he didn’t tell you where to steal the apple trees.”— Judge. THE ROAD TO WEALTH. "The thing that counts,” said a WAJB Pi independfntly large means ac sand dollars; when you’ve got that amount together you are beginning to get somewhere, and with that start you will want to keep on. "The red ink interest entries that you see put down in your savings bank book twice a year will strike you very pleasantly indeed. As in terest on your thousand dollars you’ll get $35 or S4O in a year ; your money has begun earning money for you. "You get an income now and you’ll want to add to it. You will leave that interest in the bank to be added to your principal, and now your in terest will begin to draw interest, and to be sure you will keep right on add ing to your principal too, and every six months you’ll see those red figures growing bigger and bigger, pretty figures to contemplate, and you’ll keep right along saving. But the thing that really counts is the first thousand dollars. Get that and you’re all right. And you’ll always be glad you saved it. "For there really is nothing like financial independence, or like having at least some money laid by. Then if you want money you have got it. You don’t have to go to friends to borrow and take the risk of being refused, the risk of being compelled to go without what you need. If you’ve got the money in the bank you can go there and get it. There might come a time when you would need money for your family or for yourself very much; it’s a grand thing to have it where you can get it. "There’s nothing mean about be ing saving and accumulating money ; on the contrary it is every man’s duty to make himself financially indepen dent. I don’t mean at all that a man wants to set out to accumulate great wealth ; there’s no great fun in that, but what he does want to do is to get together enough to live on modestly.” —N. Y. Sun. ahgel without wifgs. "So you have come in answer to my advertisement for office boy ?’ ’.said the old broker briskly. "Do you smoke cigaretts?” "No, sir,” replied the saintly youngster in the doorway. "Chew gum or read novels?” "Never, sir.” "Play juggler with the paper weights or talk nonsense through the telephone when your employer is ab sent?” "No, sir.” "Ever go to the circus?” "Never.saw a circus in my life, sir.” "How about baseball ? Do you take two or three afternoons a week to see the game?” "Don’t like baseball, sir.” The old broker bit the end off his cigar. "My boy,” he said quietly, "this is the twenty-ninth story, isn’t it?” "I think so, sir.” 1 "Well, it is not high enough for you.” • ‘Not high enough for me, sir ?” ‘ ‘No; you belong up in Paradise.” s —Chicago News. k Trifles make r fection is no trifle.