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VOL. 00. WHOLE No. 2303.
i BANK TALK*? 11 J > Did It ever occur to you why all good business men keep a checkins account 1 , with a Bank? We’ll tell you. , * It enable* them to keep their fund* In a more secure place than the bnrean J > < | drawer or an old sock hid In the rafter*. < | < I It sire* them a better standing In the business world. 4 | * l It enable* them to pay their bill* by check, the returned check being an < | < undlsputable receipt. | > ] > Indlvldnals also And a checking account very convenient and a source of J, < | saving. 1 1 4 J Money In one’s pocket Is often spent on the spur of the moment, while one J * * i is disposed to think twice before drawing on his balance In the Bank. 4 [ < ! Get the saving habit. Lay np for a rainy day. Start an account with "THE , [ ] < OLD RELIABLE.” J > < OTPay yonr Gas Bills at this Bank. | i;The Towson National Bank,;: \\ TOWSON, Md. 11 \ JOHN CROWTHER, DUANE H. RICE, W. C. CRAUMER, <! President. Vice-President. Cashier. !; THE COMMERCIAL BANK OF MARYLAND BELVEDERE AVENUE, Rear Reisteritowa Read, ARLINGTON, Md. . „w—a —.— CAPITAL STOCK, $25,000. < S 3STOW OFEIsT FOR BTJSX3STESS. , , 4-1-.—. Does a general Banking Business In all that Is consistent with safe and careful man agement. The location of our Bank makes It the most convenient place for a large number of residents of Baltimore county to transact their financial business. During the short time our Bank has been open for business the. amount of deposits has reached a success far In excess of our expectations. We have a SAVINGS DEPARTMENT and pay Interest on money deposited there. Call and see us and we will explain why It will be to your advantage to open an aecount with us. Prompt attention given to all collection business entrusted to us. 0 —: OFFICERS: — CHAS. T. COCKBV, Jr., JOHN K. CULVER, Ist Vice-President. CHARLES E. SMITH, President. HOWARD E. JACKSON, td Vice-President. Cashier. —:DIRECTORS: CHARLES T. COCKSY, Jr., HOWARD E. JACKSON, ROBERT H. McMANNS, ARTHUR F. NICHOLSON, J. B. WAILKS, MAX ROSEN, JOHN K. CULVER, GEORGE W. ALT, H. D. HAMMOND, J. FRANK SHIPLEY, H. D. EASTMAN. Dec. 26-ly Second National Bank TOWSON, NEd. BOXES BOXES SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES AT THE SECOND NATIONAL BANK OF TOWSON, a£3.00 FUR THA.R, FOR YOUR VALUABLES. BOXES BOXES -lOPPICBRSi Thomaß W. Offutt, Elmer J. Cook, l Vice-Presidents Thos. j. Meads, President. Harrison Rider, Cashier. THOMAS W. OFFUTT. W. BERNARD DUKE, HENRY C. LONGNEOKER, Elmer J. Cook, Wm. a. Lee, Z. Howard isaao, Harrison rider, Chas. H. Knox, Noah E. Offutt, JOHN I. YELLOTT, , W. GILL SMITH, JOHN V. SLADE. Feb. 6—ly Stuck Karras. fiiWMlI Oakleigh Station, Md. & Pa. R. R., tx Milks raot Towson. Constantly on hand A LARGE STOCK OF IDLES, TO SUIT ALL PURPOSES. —ALSO— Coach, Driving, : TTHTinrin Saddle and : : : MKU K General Purpose lIUIIUIJU FOR BALB OB EXCHANGE. •■hobsesToarded* C. A P. TELEPHONE. DUANE H.~MOE, Prop’r, TOWSON, Md. Oct.24—lv GROVE FARM PALLS ROAD, North of Brooklandvllle, Md. PRIZE WINNING— Guernsey Cattle, Berkshire Hogs, Shropshire Sheep. FOR BALK— A Few Registered Heifers, Between 4 months and 2 years old Apply to JAB. McK. HERRTMAN, B. P. D. Lutherville. Md. C. A P. Telephone—Towson 48. Oct. 84—ly Ralph W. Rider, Livery, Sales and Exchange STABLES, WEST CHESAPEAKE AVENUE, Near the York Road, TOWSON, Md. First-Class Teams and Automobiles -FOR HIRE.- GOOD SERVICE and REASONABLE PRICES. Deo. 18—3 m ESTABLISHED 1876. ~ BOTH PHONES. DANIEL RIDER, 100 l GBEENMOUNT AVENUE, BALTIMORE, Md., COMMISSION * MERCHANT For the Sale of Hay, Grain and Straw. Orders for Mill Feed, Gluten Feed. Cotton Seed Meal, Oil Cake Meat, Salt, Ao., will receive prompt attention. IApL 4—ly ESTABLJSHED^B7<^^~^ MAIER’S PBEPABED PAINTS ARE STRICTLY PURE LEAD AND ZINC PAINTS. GUARANTEED EQUAL TO THE BEST. -MANUFACTURED BY JOHN 6. MAIER’S SONS, 153-185 N GAT STREET, Cor Frederick Street, BALTIMORE, Md. Both Phones. I July 11—ly Geo. W, Kirwan & Co. 13 N. CHARLES STREET, Between Baltimore and Fayette Streets, BALTIMORE, Md., I HABERDASHERS SHIRT MAKERS. SHIRTS TO MEASURE-^M y^ent ed special care. All shirts are made on our own premises and our FIT AND FINISH have made us well known as a SHIRT HOUSE. If you have not tried us, do so by ordering a Sample Shirt. Cartwright A Warners' English Unshrinkable Underwear has been the best for over a hundred years and will be for a hundred years to come. |“BOTH PHONES. [July 4-ly WM. J. BIDDISON, FIRE INSURANCE AGENT Fire, Tornado and Windstorm Poli cies Issued. NO ASSESSMENT. —REPRKBKNTING— HOME FIRE INSURANCE CO. OF N. Y., Assets *80,000,000.00: OIRARD FIRE A MARINE INSURANCE CO. OF PHILA., Assets *2,141,263.79. Office—Belalr Road and Haple Avenue. Raspebnrg P. 0., Baltimore Connty, Md. C. A P. and Maryland Phones. share of patronage will be appreciated. Jan. 2—ly Dr. A. O. McOURDY & CO., TOWSON, Md. Orders received for— ALL KINDS OF SLATE. Peach Bottom Roofing Slato, J- Slabs for Walks, Jw 25- ssss "&:■ w 1 Cemetery SRfbs, 1 Imposing Stones, Ac., Ac. AP’Call on or address as above. C. A P. Phone—Towson 83 R. [July 4—ly J. MAURICE WATKINS L SON; —DBA LIBS IK— Staple, Fancy A Green Groceries Fruits In season. Fresh and Salt Meats. Full line of Tobaccos, Foreign and Domestic Cigars. Ac. Sept. 12—ly TOWSON, Md. THE SCAPEGOAT. If anyb4>dy comes In late To dinner and don’t shut the gate. Or doesn’t sweep the porch or go Right out and shovel off the snow, Or bring in wood, or wipe his feet. Or leave the woo4lshed nice and neat— It’s me! If anybody doesn’t think To carry out the cow a drink. Or track mud on the kitchen tUx>r. Or doesn’t shut the cellar door. Or leaves the broom out on the st4>op. Or doesn’t close the chicken C4p— It’s me 1 If anybody doesn't bring The hammer in, or breaks a thing, Or dulla the ax, or d4>esn’t know What has become of so and so That’s lost for maybe six weeks past. If anybody had It last— It’s me! If anything is lost or gone. They've got some one to blame it on; I got the blame for all the rest Because I am the little-est; And if they have to blame some one For what is or what Isn’t done— It’s me! —Ntw York World. STEALIEG A GEAR DM OTHER. BY HUGH PKNDEXTKB. When I got home that night my wife met me at the door with a bright face and told me that she had re ceived a letter from her grandfather stating that her grandmother wonld leave on the morrow to visit us, and would I mind nfVeting her at Iswortb. I had never met the relative in ques tion, but from my wife’s ample dis course I had conceived her to be a little, gracious, old lady, whom any man would be pleased to love—as a grandmother. At this period of my married life I had tieen thoroughly subjugated by my,other half, and at once acquiesced in the veiled mandate by expressing great pleasure in leav ing my work for a day to meet the grandmother. “The city editor may not like my asking for a day off, you know,” I remarked, even while giving in. “Indeed,” she sniffed, “is that ma terial?” “Not a bit,” I hastened to answer. “He is a very immaterial person.” “Then, dear, you go. I have in my letters described you so explicitly that she will be sure to know you. Any way, you will recognize her, for she is the dearest, sweetest woman —” “Old woman,” I corrected. “Elderly woman in the world.” “How does she look?” I asked, wishing to get a few pointers. “Oh, lovely ! When you see a lit tle mite of a thing with the dearest gray hair and the brightest eyes in the world; a woman that —an elderly woman —you can feel like giving a good hug, you’ll know that’s grand ma.” “She’s sure to come ?” “Why, yes, quite sure. If for any reason she cannot, grandpa will tele graph.” In the morning I went down and made my piece with the city editor. When I left him he looked extremely doubtful, and be has told me since that from my conversation he had absorbed the impression that some relative of mine had passed away and that I was going to bring the body home. Isworth was a junction and nothing else. A solitary grocery store and postoffice combined stood a little way from the station, while far and near a dense growth of alders completed the air of desolation. The down train from Waterville had already palled in, and on leaving the car I had only to enter the low waiting room to find the object of my journey. As I opened the door a tall, gaunt woman, dressed iu funeral black, arose and accosted me in a deep, hus ky voice. “Is this James?” “Yes,” I answered dreamily. “I am James, and is this—this—grand ma?” “Young man, it is.” I approached timidly for my wel coming kiss, for my wife had cau tioned me in regard to this very minutely. Grasping my intentions and deci ding that they were honorable, she raised a heavy black veil and gave me a sort of perfunctory sort of a smack. She was fully as tall as I, and would weigh, I concluded, just one hundred and ninety-eight. And this stern visaged woman was the one destined to inculcate in my being an irrepres sible desire to fold her to my bosom and lavish upon her lips grandfilial kisses! She eyed me sadly for a minute and then remarked: “I had hoped Eliza’s gal had got a better favored man.” My countenance must have ex pressed sorrow, for she said : “But you hain’t to blame for your looks. I only hope that you are bet ter to her than Henry was.” I dropped the black monster sup ; posed to contain her personal effects 1 and gasped weakly : ; “Henry!” ' “Yes, Henry. Her first, you i know.” 1 How we got aboard the home train I never knew. My wife’s first! We had only been married a year, and coming from a distant State I ' had seen my wife only six months prior to our marriage. It was im possible that she could have been married before meeting me. I had to conclude that I was bringing home a crazy grandmother. “Henery was a varmint,” she re marked, after we had arranged divers parcels, among which I remember was a bird cage. “He was a shift ’ less provider,” she continued. “I’ll bet he was,” I said altogether dazed. “When did he die?” “No sich luck. He ain’t dead. He’s still kitin’ ’round th’ country somers.” A queer kind of a feeling took me by the throat. I knew that she was ' crazy, but still my throat felt horri bly. “I brought along some catnip for the cats,” she said at last, pointing to a paper bag. “Ob, but you know that we haven’t r any.” 'Killed ’em, eh? Jest as well. I drowned three ’fore I ketched the cars this mornin.’ ” \ Oh, my wife 1 Even if the “Hen ery” part were a hallucination, to 1 think of the dearest little old lady in the world coming in to see you with TOWSON, HD., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1909. the blood of three cats upon her hands, too! “Well, grandma, you must make us a good, leng visit. Grandpa can’t see you again until he comes after you.” I had determined to be just as cordial as if she had been the per sonification of daintiness. “You needn’t worry on that score. When I packed my traps I told your grandfather that mabbe he’d see me ’fore spring, but most likely be would not.” It was now September. I looked out of the window at the peaceful scene and wished it would rain and be sleety. It seemed as if nature had no business to be so gay. I recalled the first two stanzas of the “Rainy Day.” “Is grandpa well?” She hitched herself into a more confidential position and said impres sively : “Your grandfather would be toler ably well if he’d let old cider alone. But when a man betwixt and between drinks ’bout two gallons of old cider every day it tends to make him feel outer sorts. I think that’s what at tracted Henery to your wife. He thought he could live on Durgin Hill, keep filled with old cider, and have a good time generally. He was work in’ there in hayin’ when he fust met Eliza’s gal. She was up for the sum mer. But when he an’ your grand father went off fishin’ and fell into the crick, I put my foot down and be gut. Your wife never said nothin’ ’bout him, I take it?” “No,” I answered. “Nat’rel,’nough.too. Eet bygones be bygones, sez I. We’ve gut to make th’ best of the futer. Do you drink?” “Never!” “What church do you attend?” “I—l go to the Universalist.” “The idee! An’ our hull fam’ly have been Baptists for ten gen’rations. Why, your grandfather, when he’s filled to the nozzle with cider, will cuss a Universalist on sight. That’s his one good point; he don’t go back on his religion. An’ I tell you, young man, that in the futer you an’ Eliza’s gal will ’tend out on the Baptists’ meetin’s.” I shuddered as I thought of her declaration to grandpa, “Mebbe you’ll see me ’fore spring, an’ mebbe you won’t.” “What do you do with your even ings ?” she asked, adjusting her spec tacles. “Oh, I always stay at home even ings,” I replied, glad of a chance to appear in a favorable light. “We have a quiet game of euchre, or in vite in some of the neighbors and play whist, you know.” “Them’s games you play with keerds, eh?” she asked gloomily. I saw my finish as I weakly an swered “yes.” “Oh, the sorrer of it! Eliza’s gal playin’ at keerds ! Never in Henery’s day did she do that 1 But jest wait! We’ll see if a little moral influence can’t stop sich didoes jest as soon as I get settled,” and the light of con quest flashed from her cold, gray eyes. With a sigh of relief I helped her into a cab when we reached the sta tion, and told the driver my number. To my surprise no bright-eyed wife bounded down the steps to meet us; instead, the bouse was gloomy and dark. And what’s more, when I mounted the stairs I found the door locked. I could appreciate the spirit that prompted my wife to keep the grandmother out, but I thought it was rather hard on the husband. However, I used my latchkey and ushered grandma in. I was pleased to note that the lighting of the gas impressed my relative quite a deal. “Hain’t there no danger of that bustin’ ? Hain’t kerisine ile safer?” I quieted her a bit, and then snap ped a few parlor matches to complete the effect. Then I set out to find my wife. She was not in the house. I returned to the sitting room and found grandma hanging the bird cage to a hook, while the inmate croaked feebly. “Where’s Eliza’s gal?” “She must have stepped out to the neighbor’s,” I explained, “but make yourself at home and I will look her up.” My head was in a whirl. My wife’s desertion, the question of “Henery the fust,” were problems I could not solve. There was no doubt in my mind but that my wife was the sweet est little woman in the world, but I wished she had been at home. Of course my grandma was crazy, and yet I felt badly to think of “Hene ry’s kitin’ ’round over the country.” He ought, even iu hallucinations, to be dead. On inquiring, Mrs. Engels inform ed me that my wife had gone to spend the night with our old friends, the Atelys. This was a little too much. Did she fear to face me, now that I had learned the truth ? A hansom quickly took me to the Atelys’, and I brusquely asked for my wife. “Why, James, dear, back? Didn’t you get my telegram at Isworth ?” “I did not,” I replied, not noticing her advances to give me a caress. “Why, I wired that grandma was not coming until tomorrrow morning, and that you were to stay over and wait for her. But I’ll put on my things and come home.” Once we were inside the carriage I asked: “How much loogeris this farce to continue ? Do you think lam of the same calibre as ‘Henery’ ?” She began to cry softly. “Perhaps you imagine that the oc cult influence of Durgin Hill has cap tivated me,” I suggested. She was now weeping violently. “Or possibly the fact that grandma has killed three cats this morning ought to squelch me.” “Oh, James, you have told me so many times that you never would and I believed yon.” “Never would what?” “Drink.” Yisions of grandpa’s cider were evi dently before her. Perhaps she thought that the most lovable lady in the world had brought me down a jugful. “And you met him in haying time,” I remarked. “Oh, dear, oh, dear ! I only wish mother or grandmother was here.” “Grandma is here,” I replied bit terly. “So is the catnip and the lit tle bird and the seed onions and God knows what else.” “Stop! I will no longer ride in the same carriage with you ! What a beast rum can make of a man ! Ter rible ! terrible! ” But we had reached our house now, and she ran ahead of me up the steps. “Why ! this hain’t Eliza’s gal!” I beard onr guest cry out. ‘ ‘And this surely is not grandma !” my wife exclaimed. “Wei!, who in the name of the Evil One is it ?” I muttered to myself. Just then a man stepped up to the door, grinning broadly. “My name’s James Whitten, an’ I guess my wife’s grandmother’s here, eh ? They told me at the station that she was brought here. I bad calker lated on meetin’ her at Isworth, but missed my train,” and he laughed at the excellence of the joke. And I laughed. Never has anything since struck me so deliciously good. * * * * * * The real grandma was all that my wife had pictured, and my wife went in person to meet her. She can no longer trust me. My first name is James, and my mother-in-law hap pens to be named Eliza, but none of us ever lived on Durgin Hill, and my wife now feels assured that I never drink. “Henery, the fust,” is, I suppose, still “kitin’ ’round the country,” but we have never met him, and yet my grandma, dear old lady, often re moves her spectacles and wipes away the tears as we talk over my wife’s first marriage.— Pottland Transcript. RULE OF THE ROAD. “The first day in England,” says an American traveler, “my heart jumped into my throat several times. Riding on top of a bus, the driver would always turn toward the left when we were about to pass another vehicle, and, although I knew that that was the English custom, I held on tight and got shivers anticipating a collision every time. One morning I stepped up to a policeman at King’s Cross to get my bearings, and, as he was disposed to be talkative, I kept him company. “Among other things, I asked him whether there was any rule requiring pedestrians to keep to the left. No, he told me; it was only for the road way that the rule held. “I then asked him why it was that in England they always turned to the left, whereas in all other countries the rule was to turn to the right. “ ‘Oh, it’s very important to keep to the left,’ he said seriously. I knew it was very important to observe the rale of the road, but why turn to the left ? “ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘l’ll show you. Now you come here,’ and he led me to the middle of the roadway. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘how the traffic moves along the two sides of the road ?’ “Yes, I saw, and a pretty sight it was, too —a string of all sorts of con veyances coming toward us on our right and another moving away from us on the left as far as the eye could see. “‘Well, now’—and he was very impressive—‘suppose you were driv ing along in the middle here and an other kerrige was coming the other w’y, and suppose you turned to the right, don’t you see you would be get ting in the w’y of all those vehicles?’ “Yes, I saw that. “ ‘Well, that’s why we always turn to the left.’ “I learned afterward that the‘bob by’ expected a tip for all the informa tion he had given me.”— Youth's Companion. • CHURCH DUIKERS. Bliss, of the Hillsboro News, the weather man, takes very little stock in church dinners. In a recent issue, he says: The church dinner is one of the greatest fakes perpetrated on the American people. It is supposed to be an easy way of making a barrel of money for the church and when pro posed every lady vows she will make the venture a success. When the dinner is to be “pulled off,” however, about half a dozen or possibly a dozen women rally to the support of the movement and they are expected to do all the dirty work, while Mrs. Simpkins, who did most of the talking when the dinner was being planned, sits around in her Sun day clothes and entertains the visitors. When the dinner is at an end it is found that the barrel of profits looks more like a pint cup of experience. Mrs. Simpkins congratulates herself on the success of the undertaking and insists that she is completely worn out from the extra work the dinner cost her. In nine out of every ten church dinners given the receipts would be increased if the raw material contri buted and used was sold at private sale and the women would be relieved of the work and worry that such a dinner necessitates, bat we suppose as long as time lasts the average American woman will insist that her ' time is worth nothing much when she contributes acoupleof chickens, some cold slaw, a few loaves of bread, a dozen deviled eggs, two cans of fruit, a chocolate cake, and then calls on her husband to cough up a dollar for ' four tickets, so that he and she and the two kids can eat up the stuff they ! have contributed. “Young man, you rescued my wife 1 from the water.” “I beg pardon, sir. 1 I thought it was your daughter.” There are many good rabbits play ing lion parts. LARRIE O’DEE. Now the Widow McGee And Larrie O’Dee Had two little cottages out on the green. With just enough room for two pig pens between. The widow was young, and the widow was fair. With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair. And it frequently chanced when she came in the morn With the swill for the pig, Larrie came with the corn. And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow was sure to land. One morning said he: “Och! Misthress McGee, It’s wasthe of good lumber tbisrunnin’ two rigs, With a fancy patition betwane our two pigs !’ T “Indade. sure it is!” answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O’Dee; “And thin it looks kind o’ hard-hearted and mane Kapin’ two friendly pigs so exadin’ly near That whiniver one grunts thin the other can hear, And yet kape a cruel patition betwane!’’ "Swate Widow McGee,” Answered Larrie O’Dee, “If ye fale in yer heart we are mane to the pigs. Ain’t we mane to ourselves to be runnin’ two rigs! Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, last March, at yer sh wingin’ yer ax, An’ a-bobin’ yer head, an' a sthompin’ yer fate, Wld yer purty white hands jist as red as a bate, A sphlittin’ yer kindlin' wood out in the sthorm, Whin one little sthove—it would keep us both warm.” “Now piggy,” said she, “Larrie’s courtin’ o’ me, Wld his dilicate, tinder allusions to you; So now you must tell me jist what to do; For if I’m to say yes, stihr the shwill wid yer shnout: But if I’m to say no, you must kape yer nose out. Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin’ a handful of corn in his shwig.” “Me darlint, piggy says yes,” answered be. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. THE DIAKY. The look of satisfaction on Caleb Jenkins’s face when he came home one afternoon attracted attention al most as soon as the bulky parcel that he carried in bis hand. “What on earth.have you got now that you’re so tickled over ?’ ’ demand ed his wife. She took the parcel from Caleb’s unresisting bands. He watched her with a kind of fas cination while she impatiently tore off the brown wrapping-paper, and as she brought to view something that looked like an overgrown account book he found voice to say. “It’s only a diary.” “Adiary!” echoed Mrs. Jenkins. “Just as though you had patience enough to keep a diary! I should judge by the size of the book that you expected to write in it every day, and live to be hundred, at that!” Then, as she opened the book, she exclaimed, "Why, it’s been used 1 Somebody has palmed off a second hand diary on to you, Caleb Jen kins?” “Oh, that’s why I bought it. I wanted to see if I couldn’t floor Zen as Perkins with it once in a while. You see, Zenas has got to be consid erable of a nuisance with that diary of his, that he’s kept for a dozen years or more. “He doesn’t allow anybody else to know anything. If anybody remarks that this is the warmest October that he ever see, why, Zenas is ready to prove that the mercury averaged to run higher in October only two years ago. “Then he’s always wanting to know if we remember that it is just so many years ago to-day that Joel Pike’s barn burned, or that something or other else happened. Only the other day I was saying that Cap’n Baker’s third wife hadn’t been dead more’n six month’s when he married his fourth, and Zenas took me right up, and got his diary, and showed by it that the cap’n had remained a wid ower just eight months and eleven days. “You can’t bring up a nameable thing but Zenas is waiting to pounce on you with his diary. And I don’t believe he’s right more’n half the time. I calc’late he doesn’t keep the diary along regular, but writes it up at odd jobs rainy days.” “I s’posed Zenas spent his rainy days hanging about the ire, like some other folks I know. “Time and again,” conunued Ca leb, disregarding his wife’s thinly veiled allusion, “I’ve thought of keeping one myself ; but a diary has to have some age before it’s good for mnch, and Zenas had most too much of a start. “One day, when I had an errand at Uncle Artemas Baxters, I found him writing in a big book, and he re marked that he had kept a diary for thirty odd years, and I thought then that I’d kinder like to get hold of it. Well, when the old gentleman passed away, and I heard that his son-in-law, Seth Strout, was a-disposing of the household goods, I rec’lected the di ary, and thought I’d see if I couldn’t dicker for it. I’ve just come from Seth’s, and there’s the book. I’m going to read it all through, and then I’m going to keep it along myself, and we’ll see if Zenas Perkins will be the only authority on happenings in Pondtown!” “How much did you pay lor that book?” asked Mrs. Jenkins. “If you paid for it by weight it must have come to considerable.” “Well, I paid three and a half for it. I offered two, and Seth wanted five, and finally we split the differ ence.” “Three dollars and a half! Well, I never did !” and Mrs. Jenkins re tired to the kitchen, leaving her hus band to the undisturbed perusual of bis dearly bought treasure. When she looked in on him, an hour later, Caleb was still poring over the book, but the exultation had faded from his eyes. “Alvira,” he said, mournfully, “I’ve spent three dollars and a half dreadfully foolish.” “I guess that’s no news, Caleb Jenkins,” was the curt reply. "Now just listen to this,” said Ca leb, too much-absorbed in his trouble to notice his wife’s displeasure. “This is one day’s record : ‘October the eighteenth. Oh, the wickedness that stalks abroad 1 We have indeed fallen upon evil times. I myself am as prone to evil as the sparks to fly upward. Rheumatism about as yes terday. Applied skunk’s oil, bnt de rived no benefits.’ “There, it’s just like that, Alvira, all through the diary. There is plen - ty of the old gentleman’s reflections and accounts of his ailments and noth ing about the weather, and I have not run across a single event yet. "This book isn’t wuth a red cent to me, Alvira,” he continued, bitter ly. “Of course Seth wouldn’t take it back. I believe I’ll beave it into the stove.” “Oh, no, Caleb, don’t do that!” said the good woman, her heart soft ened by her husband’s dejection. “I need just such a book. I’m always wanting to press leaves and flowers, you know, and pretty much all of the books in the house are full. That di ary will be just the thing. I’m prop er glad you got it, Caleb.” SIGNS OF GOOD BREEDING. A bow should always be returned even though one may be mistaken for some one else, for to give the cut di rect is a discourtesy of which no per son of good breeding should be guilty. It is perfectly easy to acknowledge a salutation with such dignity but brev ity of glance as to plainly show that one does not care to have anything but a very formal acquaintance with the person spoken to. A man always raises his hat when presented to a woman or to another man. He should also raise it when meeting or taking leave of a woman, when she first speaks to him for whatever reason, when he offers his services in any way, even though she may be a stranger to him, such as when entering an elevator where women are present or in opening a door for a woman to pass through. In fact, a man cannot be too careful in showing this little act of courtesy whenever the least apology would be in order. A man always lifts his hat when a woman under his escort receives some courtesy from a stranger or if she bows to a person that he is not ac quainted with. He also raises his hat upon recognizing an acquaintance who has a woman with him whom he does not know. A man should be as particular in bowing to his mother, father or sister when meeting them on the street or in taking leave of them as he would be with his friends or formal acquaintances. Men shake hands with each other at introductions ; women only when desiring to be especially cordial. A man, of course, always waits for the woman to offer her band first, and if possible he should remove his glove before doing so if her hand is un gloved. When acting as a woman’s escort a man should pay all the fares and fees. When entering a street car or any vehicle he should allow the woman to precede him, assisting her as she does so. In leaving the car or cab he alights first, offering her assistance as she follows. BOSS OF THE HOUBE, The insurance agent climbed the steps and rang the bell. “Whom do you wish to see?” ask ed the careworn person who came to the door. “I want to see the boss of the house,” replied the insurance agent. “Are you the boss?” “No,” meekly returned the man who came to the door; “I’m only the husband of the boss. Step in; I’ll call the boss.” The insurance agent took a seat in the hall, and in a short time a tall, dignified woman appeared.” “So you want to see the boss?” re peated the woman. “Well, just step into the kitchen. This way, please. Bridget, this gentleman desires to see you.” “Meth’ boss 1” exclaimed Bridget, when the insurance agent asked her the question. “Indade Oi’m not! Sure, here comes th’ boss now.” She pointed to a small boy of ten years who was coming toward the house. “Tell me,” pleaded the insurance agent, when the lad came into the kitchen, “are you the boss of the house?” “Want to see the boss?” asked the boy. “Well, you just come with me.” Wearily the insurance agent climbed up the stairs. He was ushered into a room on the second floor and guided to the crib of a sleeping baby. •‘There!” exclaimed the boy; “that’s the real boss of this house.” BEAUTY IN OLD AGE. We occasionally meet a woman whose old age is as beautiful as the bloom of youth. We wonder how it has come about —what her secret is. Here are a few of the reasons: 1 She knew how to forget disagreeable • things. She mastered the art of saying pleasing things. i She did not expect too much from her friends. She made whatever work came to her congenial. I She retained her illusions and did not believe all the world wicked and unkind. i She relieved the miserable and sym • pathized with the sorrowful. She never forgot that kind words f and a smile cost nothing, but are priceless treasures to the discouraged. 1 She did unto others as she would ; be done by, and now that old age has l come to her, and there is a halo of white hair about her head, she is loved and considered. This is the secret of Ea long life and a happy one. > Each Sunday the parson rode three miles to church. On this particular - Sunday it was raining very hard. ; He rode the distance on horseback - and, when he reached the church, r was soaking wet. > Several of the good old sisters who 1 were there early placed a chair before l the fire for him and hang his wet r coat up to dry. “I am so afraid that I won’t be dry - enough to preach,” he said. “Oh,” said one of the sisters; , “when you get in the pulpit and start - preaching, you will be dry enough.” 3 * Those individuals are happy who t look upon life as a story book ; they always believe there is a pleasant sur t prise in the next chapter. ESTABLISHED 1850. LINCOLH'S GREAT HEART. Friday, February 12, marked the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of Abraham Lincoln, America’s im mortal martyred President, he having been born February 12, 1809, in a lowly cabin in the backwoods of Ken tucky. In all the cities of the country, the South as well as the North, the day was commemorated in a suitable man ner, and the people from every walk in life joined in paying their tithes of reverence and respect to his memory. In the American Magazine Ida M. Tarbell tells a really great Lincoln story. It is presented in the form of recollections of Lincoln told Billy Brown, a Springfield, 111., druggist, who knew Lincoln intimately. Fol lowing is an extract from a talk Lin • coin once gave his old friend Brown. It is presented just as Brown told it: “Then there’s that pardoning busi ness. Every now and then I have to fix it up with Stanton or some officer for pardoning so many boys. I sup pose it’s pretty hard for them not to have all their rules lived up to. They’ve worked out a lot of laws to govern this army, and I suppose it’s natural enough for ’em to think the most important thing in the world is havin’ ’em obeyed. “They’ve got it fixed so the boys do everything accordin’ to regula tions. They won’t even let ’em die of something that ain’t on the list— got to die accordin’ to the regulations ! But by jingo, Billy, I ain’t goin’ to have boys shot accordin’ to no dumb regulations. I ain’t goin’ to have a butcher’s day every Friday in the army if I can help it. It’s so what they say about me, that I’m always lookin’ for an excuse to pardon some body. Ido it every time I can find a reason. When they’re young or when they’re green <sr when they’ve been worked on by Copperheads or when they’ve got disgusted lyin’ still and come to think we ain’t doin’ our job —when I see that I ain’t goin’ to have ’em shot. “You can’t make me believe it’s good policy to shoot these soldiers, anyhow. Seems to me one thing we’ve never taken into account as we ought to is that this is a volunteer army. These men came down here to put an end to this rebellion and not to get trained as soldiers. They just dropped the work they was doin’ right where it was —never stopped to fix things up to be away long. Why, we’ve got a little minister at the head of one company that was preachin’ when he heard the news of Bull Run. He shut up his Bible, told the con gregation what had happened, and said: ‘Brethren, I reckon it’s time for us to adjourn this meetin’ and go home and drill,’ and they did it, and now they’re down with Grant. When the war’s over that man will go back and finish that sermon. “A while after Bull Run I met a boy out on the street here on crutches, thin and white, and I stopped to ask him about how he got hurt. Well, Billy, he looked at me hard as nails, and he says : ‘Be you Abe Lincoln ?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘all I’ve got to say is you don’t know your job. I enlisted glad enough to do my part, and I’ve done it, but you ain’t done yourn. You promised to feed me, and I marched three days at the beginning of these troubles with out anything to eat but hardtack and two chunks of salt pork—no bread, no coffee—and what I did get wasn’t regular. They got us up one mornin’ and marched us ten miles without breakfast. Do you call that providin’ for an army ? And they sent us down to fight the Rebs at Bull Run, and when we were doin’ our best and hold in’ ’em —I tell you, holdin’ ’em —they told us to fall back. I swore I would not—l hadn’t come down there for that. They made me—rodemedown. I got struck —struck in the back. Struck in the back and they left me there—never came for me, never gave me a drink, and I dyin’ of thirst. I crawled five miles for water, and I’d be dead and rottin’ in Virginia today if a teamster hadn’t picked me upand brought me to this town and found an old darkey to take care of me. You ain’t doin’ your job, Abe Lincoln, you won’t win this war until you learn to take care of the soldiers.’ “I couldn’t say a thing. It was true. It’s been true all the time. It’s true today. We ain’t taking care of the soldiers like we ought.” LOVE, THE LEVELEB. It is extraordinary how all classes of the community are interested in a wedding. The “happy pair” may be celebrities or persons of whom one has never heard, they may be rela tives or the merest acquaintances, but whoever they may be they may be perfectly sure of striking a sympa thetic note to which all and sundry will respond. Naturally, what is called a “big” wedding awakens widespread interest. But in an ordinary wedding it might be supposed that little interest would be aroused did we not know that all the world dearly loves a lover, and that a bride is always sure of anaudi : ence, so to say. The fact, presuma bly, that two persons are setting out together along a road full of pitfalls, that they are taking each other for better or worse, can not but excite a certain amount of curiosity, and strike ! a chord of human sympathy. Those who are married realize what dangers lie ahead, what responsibilities are being incurred, while those as yet un married marvel at the temerity of the pair, or wonder if they will ever find \ themselves in the same position. A * wedding, in short, is generally re ’ garded in the light of an interesting , experiment tinged with a considerable amount of romance. Most of us are sentimentalists at [ heart, and in every wedding there 1 must be something that stirs within us the spirit of romance. If it were j not so, if weddings failed to interest, f the world would come to an end. * Some men are always having a “terrible time.”