C&gl -KMT. fcfclly Perkipt ®*a*®^fce fte* Di^ ^Batitetl^imgks I 'Ajl Mtatairl ttta aintgbt so mac& gt$ '•Yob A see thefton & gl&nco-, & Why, Bit Jtt^rtD&^argj^ie bj And coin« ^Vorth, have on [Ce as big arherii. And flush ontJlBe abon&nfiro Wfcic hever way I torn. Bometlmes I see her look at them While envy turns her green,— Well—-we burn gas to cmr house, And she burns kerosooe. Now, folks do say that Doctor GteeB Has got deads loads of cash But &«.!ly aint at all like mo, She'd ne .?)• cut no dash. Among the swells at big hotels She never would be seen, Why, we burn gas to our house, And she burns kerosene. v.: Sometimes I rather pity Sal,. 'Because «he is so Blow, And lives so awful^fltrSt liko, And never in^rcs no show. But8a0j^pd»£bitliko me, Thqji^^fTn.itilY to bo seen, 1£ ve burn gas to our house, While she burns kerosene. t| Summerville Journal. 1 i' ZEPHA. BY AD. II. GIBSON. The autumn rain was beating against a log cabin that stood as a relic of the early settlement of Kansas. Inside this somewhat dilapidated structure sat Sol Grim, with pipe in his mouth, shivering over some damp logs that sputtered and seemed to defy the ruddy blaze in the old fire-place. Near by, Susan Grim, a gaunt, coarse-faced woman, was prepariug the evening Uleal. By the cljngy, half-glassless window, to catch the rays of meager light it admitted, stood a slight, grace ful girl of 18, looking as unlike old Sol and his virago wife as ssible to loo"k, and as out of »t rtftfe cabin as a beautifu'.^Ritique ase would have been. Tlie girl, as 'was her habit, had snatched a few minutes to read. One could tell at a glance at the flushed face, in the gray evening light, that she was interested in her book and accorded the theme a precocious understanding. Her name Zepha Olney, and that was about ay- one kns-fr her. A few of the neighbors had heard she was the child of a deserted wife, who hud died all alone at the cabin of old Sol Grim, while on her way to find her husbaud in the far West. Zepha was but a email child then, and consequently knew nothing, comparatively, of her self. The woman dying friendless, of course, some one had to take care of the. chili Though Susan Grim had nearly scolded the roof off. old Sol had his way for once and gave Zepha a Lome, such as it was and here she had lived ever since, going to the district echool and later to the town school, be cause old Sol said she should. This bad been a source of much irritation to the turbulent Susan, and she had made the path of the young girl very thorny indeed. Consarn yer, Zeph, ef yer hain't got ook agin." scolded Susan say, Sol Grim, yer was a big te be so set on eggycatin' that zy hulk an' makin her so all-fired in terlectool that she tries ter shift all the work ontjr mo. An' that air fool book yer got her, that she's everlastin' pourin' over, Shakespoke, er whatever yer calls it, I've a great min' ter burn it up. Here yer air drawed up with yer xheumatiz, an' her readin' away, not got her min' on a tarnal thing els, an' only me ter do tlier work erbout ther ranch. Ef I was yer, Zeph Olney, not knowin' as yer ever hed ary dad er yer own er not, I'd drap books an' sich and try ter come down onter a level with the folks as I was dependin' onter, anyhow." Zepha closed her book and faced the woman, her large dark eyes flashing, but an appealing look from old Sol, who was suffering from a severe attack of rheumatism in his knee-joints, kept her quiet. "Oh, yer needn't flare up, Zeph. Jist put on Sol's ole coat an' take the bucket an' milk ther cows. An' min' yer, give 'em plenty o' fodder, fur ther night's rainy an' they need heavy feedin'," finished Susan. Zepha was glad to obey. Out in the autumnal rain milking the cows was far pleasanter than being sheltered in the cabin listening to the termagant Grim. Though the corn fodder was rain-soaked and heavy for the slender awns, Zepha was not mindful of her burden, for the cows knew and loved her, at least, and to feed them was a labor of love. As Zepha was returning to the house jfep with a bucket of milk, a slip of paper which the wind had carried and lodged nnder stmie old logs, caught her at* Mention. She picked it up, and, damp as it was, and regardless of the steady down-pour of rain, sha stopped to read it. It was a bill announcing a play to be rendered that night by a traveling company, at the opera house in the town one mile distant from the Grim cabin. She perused the bill over and over, as if it held some power of fascination for her she was unable to break. How she wished she might at tend! How she envied the feminine names, their place in the caste of char acters! Her eyes shone brilliantly, her color came and went, her chest rose and fell. Why was she excited so over a little theatrical bill! How came she by her great love for the stage She knew not herself. But it was there burning within her very soul, a quench- lessfl8jtteH-- "Good Ecrd! haint "yer never comin' with that milk?" screamed Susan Grim from the cabin door. The girl gave a start. Her dreams were broken. rical bill 3lte still •onM," S1M uram to be read&red stole out of tile store. 1 o. yott know where the Aimard upe is stopping ?"^she asked a man the sidewalk. At the Western House" the man replied, and she passed on. "Will you please tell the manager of the Aimard Troupe that a lady wishes to see him on business for a.few minute.,?" she said to the clerk of the Western House. "Certainly," he replied, leading the way to the parlor, whore she was told to wait. In another minute Claude Aimard, the handsome, gentlemanly young man ager of the theatrical company, stood before her. His fierce blue eyes took in the grace* ful figure of the girl, and he quickly noted the beauty of face, hair, and eyes, so out of keeping with the countrified dreSs of dark calico and the plain straw hat she wore. He requested her to be seated, but she declined. "In what way can I serve you this morning?" he asked, pleasantly, uoting her evident embarrassment. His to 110 was so gentlemanly Zepha soon felt at ease, and she said: "One of tho ladies in your company was unfortunate this morning in getting thrown from her horse?" "Yes Miss Linton was severely, though not seriously, injured, I hope," replied Mr. Aimard. Claude Aimard had truly not ex pected her to do half so well. He had listened critically at first, then with interest, and at last with admiration to her- rendering the words so well as to seem that the character in tho book had suddenly appeared and banished the homely-clad girl before him. To himself, he said: "If she can throw but half the power into her act ing that she does into her reading, she will bring down the house. She is a born actress," Then aloud: "Thank you, that will do. You read it well, 1 may say very well. Do you believe you could act it as well "I can try," she said, simply. "Very well. Can yon have it com mitted before rehearsal at 2 o'clock this afternoon "Yes, sir it is not so very long." "Am I to understand that you will want a position to travel with us from this on, or only to-night?" "If I am accejjted as a substitute I should like to become a member of your company and receive my wages as I merit them." "Then you may connt the position yours. The doctor says Miss Linton will be unable to resume the stage for this season, at least. We shall be pleased to receive you into our com pany. To ninety-nine girls who are anxious to become actresses I should say, avoid the stage—do something else but yon are the hundredth one, for I am satisfied you possess the essential tal ent, and you say a love for the art, so I say to you 'Go on the stage.' Then he learned her name and ar ranged with her the financial part of the engagement As Zepha, with happy, triumphant Leart, was quitting the par lor, Mr. Aimard said: "Miss Olney, I should be pleased to have you return by 1 o'clock, at least, so that I may present you to my sisters, Gracj and Stella, who will ba your friends and arrange with you about your costumes." "I shall be punctual," she replied, and passed out as Mr. Aimard politely held the door open for her. Zepha returned to the store, secured Susan Grim's groceries, and walked back to the cabin, which she found empty, for old T3ol and his wife had gone to the woods and would not bo back till evening. Zepha's fine memory, which had been the envy of her schoolmates, now served her a good turn. In what seemed an incredibly short time she had com mitted the part in the drama, and re hearsed it over and over again in the cabin she would soon leave to engage in an untried career." The girl had no misgivings in tho step she was about to take. She was but obeying a force within herself that She hastened to the house, the bill seemed to urge her on. Ever since she pressedin the belt of her dress. wa3 a child tliat strange forco had "\o*OT«|Jeyourself an' strain that seemed to dominate over every other ttiSr mornin' fur me. I goin tei see she said. to herself, "The stage is an Kaint make yer aim yer ftalt any- honorable profession if we make it so. 1JOW,' scolded fcije. harsh voice of Susan I am sura Mr. Aimard is an honorable ••jGrim. ,. 'hrpathed should no. ionger bA ^Grim for my dependaift she wirc waiting in tl fchfenife man x-i Bright and oaMy itfthe morning, [Anyway, I i-hxll not forget to ask God "Zepha started to towjn witti her -bucket jjfco lielp me in my new life. I shall go. ©f eggs. As phe /miked along, she ^"Oood-by, old cabin, so long my .every now and then southed the.theat- home,"she said,as she prepared to leave r«L "If I only it.' "If success crowns my steps, Sol "Then Grim will never regret that he has been a friend to a friendless girl." Little the Grim's dreamed that the »ary fd igirl in the role of 'a little, artless mountain maiden, whom—ihajarge an rite*, at tho operu house thai ^ight so vastly iix her charging tbd part, W this jamgifes' lived .with the Grin's, th&y mode no 'comments then. Butaext day, when the theatrical company left- town, and Sol, wild with fright to find some clew to the missing girl, appeared and told of her disappearance, those parties mentioned the resemblance, and put ting this and that together, they "were not wrong in the conclusion at which they arrived. "Jist as I 'spected!" ejaculated Susan Grim, when she learned of their conclusion. "I alius knowed that gal 'id disgrace this family." But old Sol only sighed, for he really loved the girl, in his rough way, and longed for her back. Three years later, the Pacific Slope was all astir with excitement over a star that had suddenly appeared above the theatrical horizon. She was A lovely and gifted Woman, whose progress i& a dramatic career, had bc6n steady and brilliant. As the cuftain ascended, revealing the star in the leading femi nine part of one of tho most popular plays of the seasoii, a radiantly beauti ful woman, an elderly gentleman in one of the finest boxes the theater af forded arose and gazed at the actress as though fascinated. "Sit down, Crofton everybody eying you instead Of the star," spoke his companion "Who is that?" whispered Crofton to his friend, pointing toward the stage, as he sank back with a deep-drawn sigh. "That? Why, man alive, is it possible you do not know that she is the new "Will she be able to act her part to- star creating such a furore in our Cali fornia theaters? That is 'Zepha,' as she is called," returned tho friend. "If she is Zepha aud that be her true namo, I see before me my only sister's child, for whom I have long searched, but in vain." "Crofton, wake up, yon must be dreaming," said his companion, shaking his friend's arm. "Xo, not dreaming. Listen," he said, speaking in a whisper. "While I drifted West to seek my fortune among tho mines, my onb' sister studied for night?" "Unfortunately, no." "I have come to apply for the part. I heard that you would be unable to play to-night without you secured a substitute. Am I right V" "Yes it is true .•«• cannot proceed without a substitute," he answered, eying Zepha closely. "But to be frank, young lady, I fear your inex perience is all against you. Why do you apply for a position on the stage?" Zepha met his steady gaze unflinch ingly, and although her face crimsoned the stage and, in time, became a suc- vividly, she answered him "Because, unaccountable as it is to me, I have always loved the stage, and because and her voice faltered a little, "I am so tired of eating the br^ad of dependence." "What advantages have you had ed ucationally "My education has not been neg lectel, thai #3 to a kind old benefac tor," replied Zepha. "Sliakspearo has long been a favorite study with me." Mr. Aimard looked surprised, which, observing, Zepha quickly said: "If you doubt it, sir, I shall be impelled to render a selection from that author on the spot." Mr. Aimard smiled, but said: "I shall not doubt your word, young lady, although I will confess I was somewhat surprised to find so young a girl as yourself a student of that great dramatist. It is not common, you must know. Have you ever appeared be fore an audience?" "Only with my schoolmates, in dramas suitablo to school exhibitions," said Zeplia. "Here is a copy of the play we have advertised to render at this place to night. Please read aloud a few para graphs of tha part marked 'Lottie,' said Mr. Aimard, handing her the book. Zepha took it from his hand, glanced over it, and then in a clear, beautiful voice she began to road the words of Lottie. cessful actress. She married a hand some but dissipated fellow, who man aged to spend his wife's money as fast as she made it. One child was born to them, whom she called Zepha, after her old stage name. Ill health caused her to abandon the stage. Then her husband deserted them. Hearing he was in the West, the wife, still loving and faithful, started to find him. But somewhere in her weary search she sickened and died, leaving the child to strangers. Two years ago I recognized in a dying tramp my rascally brother in-law. From him I learned all this, which I knew not of before, for my let ters to my sister always came back, and I believed her in foreign countries acting. Tho wretch had often been near his wife and child, and heard of liis wife's death among strangers, but he never claimed little Zepha. Death removed Clark Olney before ho could finish his story, so I did not learn after all where mv sister died and whero I should look for Zepha. After the play Mr. Crofton made himself known to Mr. Aimard, the man ager. Through him, he obtained an interview witli his leading lady, whom he found to be his niece, indeed, Zepha Olney. The girl was happy to find an uncle of whose existence she knew so little, but one whom she knew she could love and respect nevertheless. Of course Zepha retire! from the stage, for Mr. Crofton was wealthy and unmarr^d, and she was too dear to liim^^ii/bear the separation a theatric i}^|fre wonld enforce. Mr. Aimard paraqf^ojj^hjs star reluctantly, but ffifr! Cifft^^t^r^m ised after a year's waiting Zfraa might become tho star of his 'jj^art, if he would consent to live T^th him in his sunny home on the-Pacific coast. Zepha visited the Grims, and ere she left them they had much causo to I thank her generous heart. "I'm jist done beat!" exclaimed Susan Grim "the idee of Zeph Olney gittin' to be a great lady an' findin' a rich uncle. It's 'gin my nnderstandin'. Sol was not sich a fool arter all!" Til II) LCA I Eli I'A I VK. I had more than once been told of the mysterious French chief in London who earns more than the salary of an Under-Secretary of S tate by the exer cise of his skill as a taster, but I have hitherto always remained somewhat sceptical as to hii existence, says a writer in the London Figaro. But now Max O'Eell, gives us such authoritative details about this eminent cordon bleu that his presence in cur midst can no more be doubted. Moreover, curious readers by going to the Cafe Royal some day soon after noon may see this mysterious professor of gastronomy in the flesh, for he is accustomed to take his dejuner there about that time. He is a tall, thin, and gentlemanly looking individual, and not infrequently may be seen, his meal concluded, leav ing the Cafe Eoyal in the same well appointed brougham in which later in the day he makes his professional rounds. For he is not the cook of any club or aristocrat in particular he is rather what may be called a consulting chef, and it is his daily task to visit the kitchens of the houses he has on his engagement list. These houses are those in which a dinner party of importance is to be given that night, and it is the duty of the chef wlio:i he arrives at the first on his list to alight, proseed to make his way to the kitchen, and to go through the process of tasting all the made dishes included in the menu, especially those into the composition of which sauces and other complicated concoc* tions enter. It is then his business to suggest a pinch more salt in this one, a dash of sugar or garlic, as the case may be, in that one, a drop of farragon or a sprinkling of spice in the other one. For two guineas, which is his normal fee, he in short, puts the finishing and often the most important touches to a West End dinner, and as during the season he has often four or five such engagements bo iked for one night, it can readily be seen that he earns an in come of upward £2,030 per annum with out difficulty. And he has also the rare satisfaction of following a profes sion that cannot fail to be in the most literal sense of the word "to his taste." I BAKX'.i JBSTIO*. Marry M., aged 2| sunny Liltlo and has a respctable company. years, is learning to talk and picks up everything she hears. A few days ago Judge B. called on Mary's p&pa, but took no notice of the little ono playing about the room. The Judge is wordy and pompous, but little Mary was not a bit afraid of him, and edged herself np to his knee, where she stood regarding him with critical eyei Pretty soon there was a pause in the conversation, when the baby ssked gravely in her high treble voice "Jub, did 'oo over dit left?"—Ue troit Free Press. COMMUNISM possesses a language which every people can understand. Its Some of the Very Latest Fads of the Leaders of Society. MODES FOR FAIR WOMEN. Bits of Information for All Ladies of Fashionable Tastes and In clination. BY ANNIE E. MYERS. No one will gainsay that in fashions fancy has full scope everything is in fashion. However, the task of being well dressed is attende& with much difficulty and hemmed in by many perils. It needs subtle and exquisite taste to avoid chaos. One must be something of a colorist to skillfully combine so many hues, something of a sculptor to choose a garment best suited to conceal a blem ish or set off a particular grace, and something of an artist to compose toi lets that shall make a pleasing picture. Richness of fabrics, the most ex quisite colorings, and unlimited variety everywhere are at their disposal. Con sequently we are not suprised to find ladies of means and taste making ex tended studies of recognized master pieces of art before attempting some particular gown iu which they wish to make a special appearance. It is not unusual while sauntering through an art exhibit to hear on every side criti cal and appreciative remarks on the toilets of the arti.-ts' subjects. We recall not long since some ladies discussing a French autumn scenef The ambient a'r, the brown limbs of the trees, richly tinted leaves softly falling to the ground, all were conven tionally depicted. But in the fore ground was the graceful outline of a female figure in the rich flush of ma ture womanhood, and it was her gown they were discussing. It has been a pretty well-established rule in draperies that the plainer ma terials and darker colors should be used upon the lower part of the figure, viz.: We will wear a heavy velvet skirt with cashmero overskirt or, over a HARROWING HATS. black silk skirt Ave might use pink above never a pink foundation with black overskirt. This artist, however, chose to array his subject in daintiest white lace flounces for the bottom of the skirt, just above bright orange dra peries, concluding the whole with a brown plush jacket. Here was an in novation! and one, those ladies were quick enough to see, was effective, and no doubt they will abundantly utilize the novelty. And many are the really pretty robes resulting from such recoguizance. We saw not long since a lady receiv ing in a Russian gown which looked like it had just stepped out of a frame. The colors yellow and black were min gled in the long faillo train, "and a broad yellow straight panel glimmered under lace, while tho square corsage' glimmered under the glow of jeweled beetles and bees of many-colored stones. It seems almost impossible, while guiding the reader safely through this luxuriant labyrinth of fashion, to avoid "generalities. When every thing is in, it is difficult to FUR-LINED WRAPS. colors are now very popular and prom ise to grow yet more so. Brown with gray, red with slate, orange with olive are some of the most noticeable combi nations. In fine cloths they are most frequently utilized, tailor dressmakers delighting in them. We will never dispute that there is nothing more elegant than a sealskin cloak, but there is no refuting the fact that there aire bther oloaks just ad stylisli to-day A great maily women save every penny, doing without many needed articles of dress, an4 suddenly bloom out in a resplendent sealskin. Of course this is not so foolish as to save and deprive one's self for dia mond earrings, but it is a horse of the same color. Sealskins and diamonds only look well in the company of silken robes, easy carriages, and a well-up holstered house. The long fur-lined cloth wraps for ladies and gentlemen are almost as ex pensive and more unique. Whether our winters are growing colder or our purses longer, the large and, it must be acknowledged, costly wraps are growing more general. We need not philosophize upon the topic, only be thankful for what the gods provide, and wear 'em. In the matter of fur and fur-trimmed hats there are not many novelties. The turban shapes are popular, and seem to be almost WINTER PROMENADES. unrivaled. As they are small, jaunty, and warm, no more is needed. Tho coachman's cape i^ again in vogue as an accessory to the long cloth coats now affected by young ladies with a pedestrian turn of mind and habit. These comfortable cloaks are worn in cloths of the most novel designs, the dark coloring of the body of the cloth alone subduing their appearance, for they come in startling figures and de cided plaids, only exceeded by the to bogganer's costume. And, to be quite tip to the mark, they should be lined with wadded ssitins of the brightest hues, cherry aud mahogany reds and radiant orange being prime favorites. These gay wraps form bright, warm looking spots on the streets on a lead en-skied, sullen, snowy-ground day in midwinter. JFootweav. Bronze kid, patent leather, glace and suede kid in natural shades are made into half shoes to which society has taken most kindly, thereby ruining the slipper trade. The new boot is shown in all the favorite cuts, and as they are more comfortable to keep on, to walk and dance in, slippers are very gener ally scorned. Gaiter tops are not a success. They are clumsily fitted and magnify an ankle inordinately. A ten dency is shown to buy them, on eco nomical principles, but purchasers in sist on a lit that dealers are unable to furnish. French-heeled walking boots are considered very bad form. The ideal street boot is made of Dongola skin, patent tipped, laced or buttoned, and cut on the same last as a man's shoe. It gives the foot a symmetrical appearance and is certainly comforta ble, but neither promises to make it popular. The common-sense boot was not to be improved still the women never wanted a second pair, and the innovation still holds the shop shelves, and are likely to do so, for tbe sex will not buy a shoe that does not make tho foot smaller and prettier in appearance than it really is. There are, to be sure, some women who enthuse over reform boots, but their trade is far from colossal. Fashion Items. LECTERNS have been dragged into the sitting-room and lib ran' to hold the dictionary, and are so satisfactory that the unstable little affairs sold by book sellers are scorned. CHERRY classify. Still we may say that skirts for day wear are round and or very pile pink suede with a comple rather short, and very long for dinners ment of pearl for dancing and carpet and evening v'sits. Corsages are long 1 STONES, which, thrown on an open fire, fill the house with a delight ful perfume, are sold in drug stores at $5 per pound to the elegants who make their homes at the clubs. DESSERT PLATES are tinted a light green, over which inch grass is spread. Butterflies, dragon-flies, blue-bq||les, and tiny humming-birds are painted among the blades of green. FOR an escritoire of teekwood or mahogany a large lion of Russian sil ver standing on a base of rodenite is a new design in paper-weights, for which the modest sum of §100 is asked. A IIANDSOME brooch represents a chrysanthemum in dark-brown enamel, with yellow center. On a lower petal of the flower is a diamond, so set as to seem falling off as a drop of dew. RUSSIAN coats for theater wear are circular in cut, with flying fronts lined with satin. The materials used are white or bright colors of broad cloth, long-nap plush, uncut or printed vel vet, Sicilian rep, and moire. WHITE kid gloves stitched in con servative style are demanded for wed ding-wear, but the genteel prefer a tan parties. and often pointed, and belts are seldom I HANDSOME belt is composed of Wrappings wo shall speak of num further along. But the hats! Well tho bats are harrowing.' There i3 no denying it. On seeing some of them ono can not forbear the thought that tho brains thus covered can not be very sound. How ever ladies who dislike to be conspicuous manage to find bon nets that are in fashion without bear'ng on their heads extravagant banner-, we do not know. "Why, even my best bonnet is a hat," exc'a'med a disgusted dame in open revolt. Br.t the imagination of the ^eriess threads of gold and silver woven on a wide linen band. The clasp is two bears, one of silver and the other of gold, each with his teeth and claws fastened in the hide of the other, SHALL book-cases, averaging five feet, are selected by house builders un less the dwelling is very large. They are protected by doors or draperies, and ornamented with jardinieres, urns and vases., LONG coats of crimson, scarlet, blue, and ecru cloth may be stylishly fin- milliners alone limits their f-xuber- ished with a collar and muff of mon* ance, and that 8eeuisinexliau9t bly and key- Some of the fur has hair five perpetually furnishes objects aston- inches long, which, falling about the ishrhent. Eoweve-, it is the pretty shoulders of a red coat, is very pleas girls who wear the most culpable ones, and we always forgive them in anything. mg. IM Embroideries still hold? their own. A dark-green wool dress with a ckirt front and pointed vest of gray einbroi derjOA^ds vpry lUUe other decoration. #aob jJoatM Bussian silver tea-caddies the handsomest design recently se^n was in heavy re^pousse work. One side was plain and in the Space was tftblet oi oxidisjed silver, on which/ill re* jMMWtlrwk. .dejfei^^jbitel 3l r.v«UIOED BOSKS' Xlie Trouble a pit-it Made UntU Ui* Dead yIJodij I fas Interred. 5 [Shomokin (Pa.) Dispatch.] A land locater named Benjamin Gib son, on his way to his home in Michigan from North Carolina* ttopped at Dis bar, a Pennsylvania town, where ho lived when a boy. While there he lived with his uncle, whose name is Finch, In the family wei e' Williairi and Ed ward Finch, grown-up sons 6f the old gentleman. The senior Finch is a spiritualist, but tha boys are not at all imbued with any ideas of the kind. During Gibson's stay with the family he learned this strange story from one of the cousins, and so circumstantially were all the facts related that he could' not doubt the entire truthfulness of the tale. On a nail iu tho room which he shared with his cousin hung one of those familiar accessories of the lamp, bearing the legend, "Scratch my back," concerning which young Finch relates this strange tale: "I had often noticed when I came home at night and went to scratch a match tho letter side would be out, though J. was positive .at Iliad left the sandpaper side out. If you will notice the board could not swing that way of its own accord. One night I came up here to dress for a dance and turned the board around. The lamp ha.l not been filled that day and in the midst of my dressing it weflt out. I noticed that the board had bsen turned the wrong way, and before going down I turned it back. 'Stay there, now— you!' I shouted as I went off. When I came back tho thing had been turned back, with tho lettering out. I got nervous, and, lighting my lamp, I went down to the dining-room in in stock ing feet. There was a bright light in the hall, and my father and brother were in the room below, but at the time there was no one else iu the house. As I was telling them the story wo heard a noise in the hall, and on going out there what should wo see but my shoes slid ing down stairs. 'Don't touch 'em!' called my father. 'The spirits havi got 'eui'. I didn't believe this, and as they landed I pi -ked them up and threw them both to tho upper lending, where they rested as much as a minute and then began slowly to move to the edgj of the top stair. Then they tipped over the edge and again came down pausing on each stair. When they got within reach I grabbed them again, and taking one shoe by th toe I brought it down hard between two of the banister supports. I could not pull it out it stuck so fait, but the moment I let go it flew off to go to th dance (hat night, "We set up in our chairs until morn ing, but I guess wo all went to sleej There is a girl, as you know, who comes in to get our meals. Well, next morn ing, as she was washing the dishes, she s.nv some marking on one of the plate: She couldn't wash it off and so she brought it to father. It said 'Philade phia general hospital,' and a^ he looked at it it gradually faded away. 'Boys, called my father, 'there's something un buried. That's what makes these dis turbances. Wo must find out what it is and bury it.' "So we went to work searching the house. In a back room we found a box belonging to Cousin Phil Nickerson who had been staying with us. Ho was studying medicine in Philadelphia and had got tuckered out and came up 1ft re for re it. I too'c a fence paling and knocked off the top of that box, and there were a lot of bones aud a grin ning skull. On the inside of the lid were the words, 'Philadelphia general hospital,'just as they ha.l been on tho plate. Well, we l.uried those bones down iu the east, lot, and from that time to this I never had any more trouble with my shoos, or match-scratcher. Phil was pretty mad about the bones, though, till we told him the story." II HV SIIK CA .UK OUT. A man who seemed to be worried with business cares, and who, bavin doubtlosj sp.mt a sleepless night, was given to nervous st.irts, was sitting in a street car when a very small child, held by a woman, began to cry. The man, moving irritably, said: "1 don't sea why women drag their sickly babies out in such weather as this. I know that tho show windows are very attractive an 1 that tha main object of woman's life is to gaze at rib bons aud such stuff, but I should think that there are, somewhere, within ten djr range of motherhood, some in fluences that would induce a woman to keep a suffering child at home." The child cried t-lie louder, and the irritable man flounced and squirmed. The woman cast at him a glance of be seeching meekness, and, with endear ing words and soft cooing, tried to so ithe the child. "All efforts—all but the right one— are tried," the man muttered. "Mad am!" The woman started and looked at him. "Will you permit mo to ask you a question?" "Yes, sir." The man, with nervous fervor, con tinued "There are many things which I do not understand, and which I have determined shall not wear me out with their puzzling complications, but there is one thing which I would like very much to know, and that is, why do wo men—why you persist in bringing that child out such a day as this, imperiling its own life and shattering the nerves of people who have never done you any harm? This, 1 admit, may be an un reasonable request, an 1 before flying off, as I see you are about to do, I re quest that you take a sensible view of the matter." "I will get off the car, sir." "Oli, I do not ask you to do that. I admit that I may be presenting a rid iculous phase of American inquisitive ness,—but to tell the truth, I am a wretched dyspeptic—and all dys peptics ought to be hanged without annoyance of clergy—admit all that, you see,, but I simply want to know—come now—come don't cry. Didn't ask you to cry asked you a sim ple question." "When I tell you," said the wojaan, "you won't be able to understand. My fittle girl is—is—dying, and 1 am going to beg her drunken father to come vliome and see her. She has been beg 'ging all night to sae him, and as this 'little child won't slay with anyone but me, I had to bring her wi'.h me." "Great God*' madam, I—rl "Oh, you don't owe me an apology, sir. I know that it is ver^ annoying to hear a child cry anS—I mu5t get off here. No, I don't need any assistance." —Arkansaw Traveler. EDITORIAL AMliXl/ IJi i.V A UJBttXJ. Says the accomplished editor of the Arizona Howler: "This thing of New York editors calling each other 'Ana oils'and 'Judas' makes us tired. Why rip ap tha record of these old parties when we've got much better ammunition right at qur. elbows? We -don't do business tliatAwayf Wa have never yet called tLft:Vnibtap£kttl galoot who helps 'hurt the ornery old JimpleciiteS a £f«at deal'more by .calmly telling hind tte tfd do now that he is a Fool from FoolvilleV Fool County, and that we are going to lick him the first time he shows him* self in AlBlodgett's saloon. Whoopee! You hear us, old cuss now come on." ,, jgjskTi E O O A difference of opinion seems to exist as to whether in newspaper cor respondence tho correspondent shall let himself be see'n or shall keep him self hidden. Oue writer lays down the law that the correspondent must eliminate him self wholly, or so far as is possible, from his writings, giving as impersonal and dispassionate a description (ts he can of the thing, whatever it iftay be, about which he is writing. To this writer the correspondent's use of the personal pronoun "I" is wholly objec tionable. Another writer advocates the fre queut use of the pronoun, holding lo the opinion that the more of his per sonality the correspondent infuses into his writings the better, and corf tending that it gives more life and inter est to his subject. Probably both of these writers be lieve themselves to be autL jrities in the matter, but as their opinions are dia metrically opposed to each other, the correspondent is left finally to decide for himself what is best and most ap propriate in his particular case. Ob servation should teach ltiin. What is done is undoubtedly the' best thing for the average correspondent to do, if lie would have his wares acceptable to the buyer. The correspondent who has won for him self distinction may be a law unto himself, perhaps, and do pretty much as he chooses, but the or dinary correspondent must conform to the style in vogue, and a little observa tion must teach him what that is. It is the habit of several of the moi*£ eminent among the contemporary newspaper correspondents to use tho pronoun "I" in their published letters, aud this habit and the infusion of their personality, undoubtedly lend a greater interest to thou- letters. Persons not only like to have scenes and persons described to them, but they like to know what the person who witnessed the event, or met the celebrity,thought at the time. Tiigy do not always like to take the trouble to form an opinion themselves, but like to have it formed for them by another. So there seems to be no really good reason why the correspondent should not put some of his own personality into his printed correspondence. In deed it is doubtful if any correspondent of whatever standing could write a let ter of any great length and variety of topic without investing it with some thing of the quality called personality but, while he can hardly avoid putting something of himself into his writing, it is not necessary that he should say "I." Obviously this would be inappro priate in some cases.* In the case of a correspondent of note, whose letters are printed over his own signature, tlie pronoun "I" may be used with propri ety. It may also be used, though less properly, by a correspondent of lesser note, provided that his name be printed under his article. In the undersigned, however, the writer of which may be any one, and certainly is no one of in terest ,to any very large number of readers, the use of "I"' is manifestly in bad taste. The writer of an unsigned ai'ticle should therefore keep his "I's" out of his manuscript, and so make it unnecessary for them to be eliminated bv the editor.—The Writer. HACKED 11 rulSK Of CEYr.OY. Tho sacred bo tree of Ceylon, the most ancient and authentic relic of Gautama, and probably tho most aged tree in tho world, has been shattered in a storm. Tho facts, as related by more than one local correspondent of tho Colombo papers, are as follows: The district of Anuradhapura suffered this year, as it frequently doas, from a continuous-drought of eight months. On the -tth day of October the inhabi tonts were bidden by beat of tom-tom to assemble at the bo tree and pray for rain. The same night, apparently be fore the invocation, the storm broke with violent wind, lightning, thunder, and rain. The main branch of the sacred tree was severed, leaving only a stem of four feet but whether this is tho height or circumference is not stated. What.remains of our pres ent information may be of interest to students of ritual. The bo tree is a semi-sentiment being it is "worshipful" aud "ever victorious wherefore, when a part of it dies it receives last sad rites similai to those paid to kings and priests, the most honored of mankind it is cremated. This ceremony took place with full honors on Oct 6. Early in the morning two men called kapu was ("cutters") arrayed in suits of black, arrived at the tree. They cov ered up their mouths with black hand kerchiefs, tying the end at the back of their lr alj, and with a small cross-cut saw divided the broken branch. Two tom-tom beaters supplied the music of their craft while -the ceremony pro ceeded. The branch was then sawn into convenient pieces and loaded a cart "prepared for the purpose with white cloth ceiling, etc." Tlfhs it was borne in solemn procession to the Thuparama Dagoba,. where the cremation of the local chief priests is wont to bo held. The ashes were rever ently cairied to the tank of Tisawewa, hard by, and there dissolved. Le roi est mort vive le roi! the remnant of the tree now received its appropriate treat ment. Women bore water for the bath ing of the bleeding trunk, and on the following night the Pirit service, for the exorcism of evil spirits, was solemnly performed at the time-honored site, where the remaining stem, though prob ably unsightly now, will in time flourish. —London Athenceum. 'ii A ROADBED OF SALT: In the Colorado desert, near Idaho, there is a large bed of rook salt, and the Southern Pacific Railroad, in lay ing the track to the salt bed, has been obliged to grade the road for 1,200 feet with blocks of these crystals. This ia the only instance where the road-bed is laid and ballasted on salt The sea, which once rolled over this place, dried up and left a vast bed of salt nearly fifty miles long. The supply is inex haustible,, and the quality excellent.- Scientific American. &• 1HK AGE OF tAPEir. *.»We knew it would coma The an nouncement has been made that a paper coffin has been invented and put upon the market A man may now build his house of paper, eat his dinner from paper plates, wipe his face with a paper handkerchief,* buy his wife a paper J»iano, and go to his zra.Ya in a ntper coffin. The coffin may be paid for with a pieee of paper, and tbe death pub lished on another pkee. *There are hw thing.* mfoe useful than paper. —P/ilta. tWphiaEecord, ton# PERVERSITY OF WILL. WOMAN'S She tannents to tier Daughter'* Marriage Bccdute Her Husband Vbjeclt. Scene L—Place, parlor. Time, 12 midnight She in his arms. He hug ging her with &\\ elaborate intensity damaging to the strings of her uphol stery. He—Darling, I love you better than life. Be mine, sweet ono, forever. Be my wife, angel of my existence—will you, pet She (softly murmuring)—Yes, dear Johnnie. Nineteen double aesthetic distilled kisses in one minute by tho clock. Grand tableau. The cats sing in joy ful unison on the fences in the rear. Sce'tielt-^-Place, family sitting room. Time, 12:15 &. to. She blushing by tho stove. Her mother, rather wrathy, sitting in the straightost back chair in tho apartment. Mother—Good gracious, Clara, what made liim stay so late? I have been sitting np waiting for you until I'm half dead for sleep, Why it's nearly one o'clock. She—Well, ma, don't blrtnie him. It was all my fault. (Ah! the dear girls: they always defend the men they love —-until the}' legally get him.) Mother—Why, Clara, what makes you look -so funny So you love this young man? She (blushing more so, add speaking with the verbal difficulty of heartfelt emotion)—Yes, dear ma, and he loves me, and I promised to-night to be his wife. Mother—Good gracious sakes.nlive, child! Why, he is too poor to marry you. What does ho make a week now? She—Twelve dollars, ma but, oh! his prospects are so bright, and we are both young and can wait, and will, maA Mother—Well, you can never marry him. He is too poor, Clara. She weeps, not only in a wholesale manner, but with elaborate hysterical ornaments. Mother (relenting a little)—Well, go to bed now, my child. It's very late. I will talk to your father about this matter. The cats sob in painful harmony on the roof of the extension. Sctfno III. —Place, bedroon of tbe head of the family. Time, 1:15 a. in. The mother io bed and husband asleep deeply and snoring mtisically. Mother (to husband)—Say, father, John Denny has proposed to our Clara. Old man stands the assault for a mo ment, and then, waking up, exclaims profanely: —"Oil, it's you is it Pretty time to get in bed with cold feet. What the devil do you want now Tho mother—Aint you aihrimcd of yourself to talk that way to me? I sav that John Denny has proposed to our Clara, and she loves him, tjo. Old man—You don't tell me so, Sarah. He's too poor. Do you know what he makes a week now? The mother—Only $12. Old man—Oh, he's too devilish poor. She can't marry that church mousx The mother (now taking sides with her daughter)—Daniel Webster Jones, I want to ask you what salary you wero getting when you cried and blubbered for me some twenty odd years ago? Old man (in a November tone of voice)—You know, Sarah Jane, I told you then, and you have not forgotten it The mother—Well, tell me now, Daniel. You hear me! Old man— Oh, $8. per week. The Mother—Well, you got mo iu time, and I guess our Clara can have the young man she loves. He nOw beats you by $4 a week. Wo give our con sent Yon hear me, Daniel? Old man —Yes, yes, dear. All right. Now go to sleep. It's late. Good night, dear. The cats executed a regular break down of hilarity on the outer window ledge of the bathroom.—London Hare hits. 1 E S 1 I It is this kind of a wife that makes some men old and gray before their time. "William," she says, after William is curled snugly up under the blankets for the night, "did you lock the front door?" "Yes," says William, briefly. "You're sure you did "Yes, sure." "And you slipped tho bolt, too?" "Yes." "You know you forgot it onco, and it gavo me such a turn when I found it out in tho morning. I didn't get. over it for a week. We haven't, much auy body'd want to steal, I know, but I don't want the little we have taken, for I—" "I tell y6u 1 attended to the doors."1 "Well, I hope so, for goodness' sake. You attended to tho basement doors?" "Yes, I tell you." 2' "Because if you hadn't.you or I, ono or the other, would have to get up-an attend to it now, I read to-day of—" "1 don't care what you road "It said that a man down on B. streot forgot to—" "I don't care if ho did." "And in the night a burglar walked right in and—" "I don't believe it." "I've a notion to get up and see if you havi locked that door,. You're sure?" £... "How many times have I got to toll you that I did lock it "TV ell, you thought you locked itj that time you loft it uniocked." "Will you be quiet?" "I don't care, William, yon kno# yourself how careless you are, and—" "See here, Mary Jane, this has got to end right here." But it doesn't end there and it doesn't end for an hour, and William arises in the morning with the lines on his brow a little deegor, and the hope less,, desperate look still in his face 3— Tid-Bits. 'I His DUG'S FttlJS.Vn, Gabe Beckley, the "dog's friend," ia ono of the noted characters living in Philadelphia. For over thirty years Gabe has made a comfortable living by treating and handling sick dogs. His Success has been so great that dogs have been sent to him from all paris of tho country for treatment, and his serv ices as a dog doctor are in constant de mand. Gabe .lives in a pretty little two otory brick dwelling. He says: "I guess I have treated more dogs than any other man in this country. When I was a young man I made a apedfcltj, of breaking dogs for field*work,- bat' now I confine myself jto dootoriQg, 4nd handling. A dog is very much Ijit human being, and you ean genially judgem man's character by tiie actions of his If the man is' surly tjad&s* agreeable tho dog soon fiHdt it oat and follows the example set by tUe nuuiter, •nil a good-hearted, nobty fellow's dog isttue to be, the dog .e^^body-varfyl UK*, -«'j\A r• «oiita*hr attat» &*£!#'«• NEW ST6CK|5 GOODS. 5ASKETS, COFFINS, RQBE&i H. WOEJtZ: •Undertaker tad Boxtoa of fomt Hill Oiaitiiyj Best attention will be giveo day a night. —AGENT FOB TUB— Sioux City Marble Works AND DETROIT BRONZE CO. For Whit* Dronso MonameoU RtaMw, SYNDICATE BLOCK, GANTOV, BUY YOUR LUMBER —AND OTHEB— Building Material —OF TUB— ST. CEOIS LUMBER CO, Corner Main and Sixth St, CANTON, DAKOTA, We keep everything in onr line that the trade of the market warrants, and £.*./ will do our best to please all who favor ft., us with with their patronage. We atji.f making prices as low as the lowest. No charge for delivery within th*" city limits, N. NOBLE, AGENT, rf'f HORIZONTAL GUT '. 1 Scale Books.!: 125 Pages, 4 to a Pag*."' Hay-Scale Cliock Boo! n, tlio most convenient' S-j and durably-bound scale book ou the mujul Leather Binding, Finished Grade roper. Hbrt~''^\1 zontal out In prlosi. j|| 75 Cents. .75 Cents^fii SeUtles, Lwntage, Rhenastlim, Bturn* 6m!4V Stingy Eitci, Br&issa, Buaion% .. Corn:, '(A Retail price to trade, Tft eenti. for poBtago. Try one. CARTER BROS.. TOWNSHIP AND LAW BLANKS, CANTON, DAK. ARBUCKLES' name on a paokage of COFFEE Is guarantee of excellence. ARJOSA COFFEE is kept in all flrst-ela_»_„ stores trom the Atlantio to. the Pacific. COFFEE ••if, is nevor good when.exposed to the air. Always buy this brand ill hermetically sealed ONE POUND PACKAGES. Mustang Linimei ounai« SentdM^ Smiasi1 Strafqi Stitcher Stiff Joints, Backache, GalVr ywm Crwks, TMIS GOOD OLD STANO •ccotnpiisiic* for everybody exactlywhatlM (or lb Ono of (lie reason* tor tbe gcoot the Uuliucnt Is fouadlnlts •rtilicabiUtf. Everybodym«diiuch• I Tbe J.umbermait.neod^UIncase of il The fiotisowire afc«l» It tor gtimlfl The Cannier needs it foriiHtfc) The Blecliaalc need* lt*U|ra teaeh. The Bliuer ncedi Itlacawri The I'lonccrsceds It—coin The ParnitliHdi it la I Md hteatcck yard. Tii qStRarabeat «mmior# ltja liberalsuitplr -The IIeree*fWnelfir friendand tafeatrcUaaotu JX~ The SteeltMrrmreraMda lt thbiMandaof doUar*«a«**arM The KtllrrtilMSMttti kftisaihlil The. iSvt •mrUSe it The flli •W0 .tawwiMi •AAwmrt