-KMT. fcfclly Perkipt
®*a*®^fce fte* Di^
ttta aintgbt so mac& gt$
'•Yob A see thefton & gl&nco-,
Why, Bit Jtt^rtD&^argj^ie bj
[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,
.?)• 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.
Sometimes I rather pity Sal,.
'Because «he is so Blow,
And lives so awful^fltrSt liko,
And never in^rcs no show.
Thqji^^fTn.itilY to bo seen,
ve burn gas to our house,
While she burns kerosene.
t| Summerville Journal.
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
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
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-
"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
uram to be read&red
stole out of tile store.
o. yott know where the Aimard
upe is stopping ?"^she asked a man
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
"Certainly," he replied, leading the
way to the parlor, whore she was told
In another minute Claude Aimard,
the handsome, gentlemanly young man
ager of the theatrical company, stood
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
"In what way can I serve you this
morning?" he asked, pleasantly, uoting
her evident embarrassment. His to
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
"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
should no. ionger bA
^Grim for my dependaift
she wirc waiting in tl
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
"Who is that?" whispered Crofton to
his friend, pointing toward the stage,
as he sank back with a deep-drawn
"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
"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
"What advantages have you had ed
"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
"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,"
"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
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
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
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
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
MODES FOR FAIR WOMEN.
Bits of Information for All Ladies of
Fashionable Tastes and In
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
and often pointed, and belts are seldom I HANDSOME belt is composed of
Wrappings wo shall speak of
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,
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
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
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.
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*
Xlie Trouble a pit-it Made UntU Ui* Dead
yIJodij I fas Interred.
[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
The woman started and looked at
"Will you permit mo to ask you a
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
"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
"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."
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."
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
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
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.
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
He—Darling, I love you better than
life. Be mine, sweet ono, forever. Be
my wife, angel of my existence—will
She (softly murmuring)—Yes, dear
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
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
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
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
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
Mother (relenting a little)—Well, go
to bed now, my child. It's very late.
I will talk to your father about this
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,
The cats executed a regular break
down of hilarity on the outer window
ledge of the bathroom.—London Hare
1 E S 1 I
It is this kind of a wife that makes
some men old and gray before their
"William," she says, after William is
curled snugly up under the blankets
for the night, "did you lock the front
"Yes," says William, briefly.
"You're sure you did
"And you slipped tho bolt, too?"
"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 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
"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
"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—
'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
«oiita*hr attat» &*£!#'«•
5ASKETS, COFFINS, RQBE&i
•Undertaker tad Boxtoa of fomt Hill Oiaitiiyj
Best attention will be giveo day a
Sioux City Marble Works
AND DETROIT BRONZE CO.
For Whit* Dronso MonameoU RtaMw,
SYNDICATE BLOCK, GANTOV,
BUY YOUR LUMBER
Corner Main and Sixth St,
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*"
N. NOBLE, AGENT, rf'f
HORIZONTAL GUT '.
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
Retail price to trade, Tft eenti.
for poBtago. Try one.
TOWNSHIP AND LAW BLANKS,
name on a paokage of COFFEE Is
guarantee of excellence.
COFFEE is kept in all flrst-ela_»_„
stores trom the Atlantio to. the Pacific.
is nevor good when.exposed to the air.
Always buy this brand ill hermetically
sealed ONE POUND PACKAGES.
TMIS GOOD OLD STANO
•ccotnpiisiic* for everybody
(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
The Bliuer ncedi Itlacawri
The I'lonccrsceds It—coin
The ParnitliHdi it la I
Md hteatcck yard.
Tii qStRarabeat «mmior#
friendand tafeatrcUaaotu JX~
The SteeltMrrmreraMda lt
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