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SETTLED BY COMTROMISE.
5si ITIS BEYOND THE "DOOR THAT IS NEVER CLOSLD'm THE FOUNDLING ASYLUM, AVHERE EVERY DAY HAS ITS TRAGEDIES -V -t- THE OLD STORY OF HUMAN FRAILTY New York. The saddest place In the city. Do you know where It Is? Do you think that some time, per haps, In your life you have found it? Can you shut your eyes to the pres. ent New York man or woman, and look back to that day when you found some one you loved down In the silent morgue, and say, yes, you know the place well the saddest place In New York? Or remember one corner In some green cemetery where all your love lies burled, and say, no, the place la here? Or look at some deserted home, where ghosts of a lost faith walk always, and say, no, this Is the saddest place of all, for here there is no hope? But it is not so. The saddest place in all New York Is not a spot deter mined by the personal, individual loss of mere life or love or faith. If it were, every grave would claim the ti tle and every broken heart dispute It. It Is one little room In a large build ing up on Sixty-eighth street. Two sweeping rows of broad stone steps load from the street to the wide doors of the main entrance. These doors are always locked. Dut under the stono staircase, right in the center, opening directly on the street. Is a lit tle low door that Is always open, and It is the entranco to the saddetit place In New York. It Is framed In clinging Ivy vines, the little low door. Above it, on each sldo of the stono steps, droop weepiug willow trees. Higher still there stands in a niche the statue of a wom an holding a child closo to her breast. And every woman who seeks the lit tlo low door under the Ivy vines holds child close to her breast, but when she comes away her urms are empty. For this is the Now York Foundling Asylum. Anyone may enter through the door way. There Is no one to stop you or question you as to why you have come. You stand In a small, square room. There Is no carpet on the floor, no pictures on the walls. Two settees stand, one on each side of the room. And between them is a little white cradle. It Is very dainty and Inviting, that cradlo. The tiny blan ket and coverlet are soft and siot less, the little baby pillow has a lace edged case, and there Is a pretty mus lin canopy draped above it In bas sinet fashion. But tho room is not empty. Pacing up and down the floor Is a woman, hardly past girlhood. She docs not look very strong. Her long brown chiffon veil Is thrown back from her face. It is a sweet face, the features well cut and refined, but white and wet with tears. Close in her arms, so close that the little face Is pressed next her cheek, she holds a baby, hushing it to sleep. Last Look at Her Child. After awhile she lays It down gently In the little white cradle and stops to listen, but there Is no sound, and tho door still stands open. She may come or go as she pleases. And, standing a minute over the sleeping baby, she looks Into Us face for the last time. It Is her baby. She has given it birth and nurtured it. Its little body is healthy and flushed with the rose tint of palpitant life. It is not as though death had given her no choice In the matter. She has absolute choice. Either she may take the baby again to her breast and face the world with it, or elso she may go through tho little low door and leavo it forever behind nor. Standing in the corridor beyond the little room, I watched this mother. She stood rocking the cradlo for about five minutes. Her sobbing ceased. Once she stooped and kissed the little face on the pillow. Then, suddenly, she let the brown chiffon veil fall over bei face and, turning from the cradle, went quietly out of the door and down the street. And she did not come back. After she went out of sight, the Sis ter of Charity who sits in the little office next to the room with the cradle went In and took the baby In her arms. It was well-dressed and about four weeks old. The sister touched a bell, and presently a nurse came and took the baby away to the recep tion ward. That was all. It was a common case. Only one more mother who had deserted her child; only one more baby foundling In Greater New York. The sister smoothed the coverlet on the cradle, shook up the pillow, and left It ready for the next one. "Sometimes we have several in a day," she said. "And other days, none at all. But every year from a thou sand to fifteen hundred are left with ua. We always leavo the baby in the cradle for a few minutes, because some of the mothers change their minds. They will wait for hours, try ing to decide, sometimes, holding their babies, nursing them, and cry ing over them. And at last they will leave them, as this one did, and go away. But sometimes, before they get as far as the corner they will come running back and catch tho baby up out of the cradle and hurry away with It. As long as tho baby is still in the cradle it Is not too late." "Too Late." Not too late as long as the baby Is still In the crndle! But afterward, once tho baby has been taken from the little room, has been received and recorded and perhaps In a few weeks adopted, it is too late. Many a mother has come back by stealth to walk along tho street and steal a look at the low doorway under the stone stops when It was too late, and the cradlo was as empty as her arms, writes Izola Forrester, in the New York World. But most of them never come back. It is not cruelty nor hardness of heart. It Is bitter necessity and the way of the world that lead most of them to that door. Sometimes it is cowardice. When the baby wears dainty, costly garments, when the name pinned on its breast is written in a hand show ing education and breeding, and a roll of bills is found also In tho cradle, then tho woman who left her child as a foundling is a coward. It is not tho cry of tho wolf that drove her there. It Is only the cry of the world she feared. Now and then a strange figure comes to tho little room, a lone, troubled figure. Out of place and in congruous, the figure will not bother over the appeal of the cradle, but will go straight to the sister in the otOce and hand over the burden it carries to ber. These are tho fathers. And the most helpless object in the world is a man with a week-old baby in his arms, trying to find out what It wants. They rarely want to give up all claim to the babies, the fathers. It Is only because the mother Is dead, or has run away from home, that they come to the Fouudlins' at all. All they want is for some one to take the weak, fumbling, crying blind kitten bundle out of their arms sad care for It, so they cau go to work. But most of the mothers are of that other great class, the "unwedded." as the sisters call them. When a woman walks into the lit tle room and lays a child In the cradlo without a tear or the least hes itancy and goes hurriedly away the tluter smiles and shakes her head. "That was not the mother. A mother always liugers. Sometimes when they stay too long and the strug gle Is a hard one we talk with them. The great trouble to an unmarried girl with a child is that she cannot obtain employment, and the baby Is too young to be left. So, if they are willing, we take them hero for a month or three months. Wo keep a record of each foundling, and of the family It is adopted by, but we do not tell tho mothers where they are, If they come back and ask. It would not be fair to the adopted parents. And they find good homes, these little waifs. There is one family, one of the wealthiest and best known socially in New York, whose oldest son and heir Is a waif from the Foundlings'. No, I cannot give tho name. It is years ago. One winter night the fanv lly physician sent here for a baby lie only wanted the loan of it for a few .weeks, as the wife had given birth to her first child and it had died. She was dangerously ill and delirious, and they were afraid un less she had a child to nurso and love tho shock would kill her. So we picked out the littlest baby of all, a pretty boy hardly a week old, and he was taken away in a carriage to one of the handsomest homes uptown Even for a loaned baby it must have been a pleasant experience. For three or four weeks ho was treated just exactly as tho baby would have been that died, and tho mother knew no difference. Then, when she wns strong enough, they told her the truth. But the borrowed baby never came back. In those weeks of suf- ferlng, when the clasp of its little hands and the touch of its yearning lips hnd been all that had held ber from death, she had grown to love it as her own, and she kept It. He is a boy nt college now, and will never know that he was a foundling waif." There was a step in the little room and the sister glanced out. A plump, rosy-cheeked girl bf about 19 stood there staring happily around her. She held out a five-dollar bill. "I would to get my baby out," she explained. "Two mont I leave him by you. Now I get money and pay for him, and get him back." Could Bring Him Back. Gently and tenderly the sister told her it was too lute to get her boy back, that she had left It for good, and no money could bring htm back to her. The big, round, childish eyes brimmed with tears; she sank down on one of the settees, and poured out in broken, stumbling English her story on the sister's shoulder. She was a young Hungarian girl, who had been betrothed in the old country when sho was 14. She had come to America ulono. Ho was to follow soon, and they would work hard and suve and be married, sure, ho prom ised they would be married before the baby should como. But he never came. And after the baby was born, she must g to work right away quick, so a girl told her, another girl, who had left her baby In tlio handy little white cradle, too, of the big building on Sixty-eighth street, where you could leuve a baby, and she had brought her baby boy and left It. But now Julius was good again, utid he hnd come over and married her, und Hhe wanted back her baby. And sobbing hysterically, she went out of the low door, carrying back to Julius tho news that It was too late. Sometimes, yenrs afterward, a mother will return, seeking trace of the child whom Mie deserted. Sho may have married happily, and be an honored, loved wife and mother, hut In spite of all there will ring lu her ears the last cry of the baby she for sook, and the memory of the little, frail hands that clung to Ikt. and sho back to the little door under the Ivy to seek her nameless foundling. But the auswer Is always the same. "It is too late. Somo other woman has tnk en the waif to her hungry breast, and mothered It and named It. and tho little white cranio is as barren of hope to the real mother as though It were a littlo narrow, unmarked grave. Misdemeanor Trial Ended !n Adjourn ment to Tavern. A Virginia colonel well known In Washington had the unusual experi ence some time ago of being called upon by a Justice of the pence in one Df the rural districts of the old do minion to sit as associate in the trial Df a misdemeanor case, notwithstand ing tho fact that no warrant for tho action existed beyond the colonel's title, his dignified bearing and his lit erary attainments. A drunken row had occurred among several young men of tho village, resulting in nn ar rest. When tho matter was brought bufore the squire It was sufficiently late In the day for him to be feeling tho effects of his regular morning, noon and afternoon Indulgences. Therefore ho realized the need of sound, reliable advice. When the request wns made of the colonel it was in vain that ho protest ed that ho had no authority under the law to sit upon the bench. The squire would take no refusal, and the colonel. observing tho farcical character of the proceedings, finally consented. Tho case being called and many wit nesses sworn, the colonel noticed that the squire wns conducting the hearing with the code of Virginia upside down and opened at tho section detailing tho fenco law. The associate justict proposed that an nmlcnble settlement bo suggested to the complainant and tho defendant. This struck the squire as a brilliant idea, for he was labor ing heavily with tho Intricacies of the fenco law and tho misdemeanor propo sition. "Excellent suggestion, sir, excellent suggestion," he announced in ponder ous tones. Then turning to the par ties of the proceeding and the wit nesses, he said: "I shall follow the course proposed by my distinguished colleague and offer to this defendant the olive branch instead of the iron hand of the law. This case shall be dismissed if tho person art-used of this misdemeanor will agree to treat tho crowd to good liquor, and plenty cf it. What do you say, sir?" Scarcely had tho squire finished beforo defendant, complainant and all tho witnesses joined In a great about of glee. They lost no time In accepting the offer, and didn't stand on tlio order of their adjournment to the village tavern. CONTRACT SYSTEM IS COSTLY Conclusions of the Superintendent of Foreign Mails. According to the annual report of the superintendent of foreign mails It cost the government during the fis cal year ended Juno 30. I!t03. $121 .Kilt more for ocean mail service under thu contract system than It would have had had tho malls been transported and paid for by weight. Tho most disproportionate cases the report shows are those embracing the routes between S-'un Francisco ami Tahiti and New York ami Havana. In the former Instance the cost was $12.1 20 for carrying mails which, if paid for by weight, would have- been but $1.1 a:!, while It cost to transport the mails to Havana $71,S78, but which If paid for by weight, would have resulted In an nut lay of but $2,2::r. In but one Instance is It shown that the contract system worked advantageously to the government, and that was on the New York and Southampton route, which cost $t'il'.2,fiSS, whereas, It Is slated hud it been paid for under (he system of weights, it would have Involve!.' un expenditure of $ll!l,74S additional Tho excess cost of contract sorv Ice on the several routes as agains. what It would have been if puid foi by weight Is us follows: New Yorl lo La (iuiilia, $I4,!IM!; New York tc Maraeulho, $::!, HI'i; New York to Tux pan, $106,800; Huston, Philadelphia and New York to Port Antonio, $lOii, 9SS; San Francisco to Sydney, New South Wales, $20f.,7Sti. Tho quickest trip between New York ami London was 141 hours ami six minutes, and between New York und l'aiis, I .').", hours; between San Francisco and Yokohama. 401 houm and 'M minutes, ami between San Francisco ami Hongkong, 01' I home and 0 minutes. Beautifying Washington. In point of architect uro Washing ton will soon be one of the most beau tit HI cities in the win hi. It is not far away now. The dream of thf great man for whom the national cap it nl was named will partli ularly ho re ullzed. In buildings ami bridges now iimlei construction, Washington Is spendliu; $".0,0tiu,0ii0. Others which will cost J'JO.noo.ooo are projected. The senai! and house office buildings will re pre sent an expenditure of $7,000,000, Thf eastern front of tho capitol Is to hi extended In marble at a cost of $l.:i:!0. (MM). A line building for the suprciiH court is in contemplation. The rail mads ate espemling $rj.0iii),ui)i on i macnllicetit union passeiu'i r depot Two steel bridges are to be throwi across the Potomac river, niid tin largest cement bridge In the woi b will span Kock creek. There will br a war college for th" army, and si-v rial Imposing university buildings and extensive Improvements Hie to b mad" at the navy yard and the sol iIIoit.' home. When the bouse and senate ofrW buildings are completed the plaza east of the capitol will be in-arly surround ed by one of the most magnificent groups of public buJIdltrjs In thr world When the supreme court building goes up P. will probably b without a rival. All of which suits the American peo Die. r HOME LIFE ON A JAPANESE FARM It is Quite Different From Tli.it to Be Found in ' the Occident. t No contrast could be greater than ' between the farm-life of the Occident and that of the Oiicnt In t ho "Land of the Rising Sun." The man who possesses one solitary bullock is deemed rich. A wealthy farmer, as we understand the term, Is unknown. Often too poor to hire help the whole work of his rice fit-Id (ieolvcs iimii himself and family. As the funis are very small the fanners' houses are usually built to gether, thus forming a small illu--e. The bulidii.gs. as n rule, are of the very poorest kind, r.nd often contain but a single room. The framework of the house Is made of bamboo, and la covered with plaster made of mud and rice straw. The roof Is usually thatched Willi rice straw, and the floor, even in the poorest houses, Is c.ivorcd with mats made of the same material. There are no home com forts or conveniences, ami tho Utile wifo does her housework under tin niest trying circumstuiici s. Should she desire to wash, the clothes are V' ' - '- - - - - i ,!.; I -. .f 1 1 11 . 'I IlfcI1 I". . ! I . .- SflTltV--."''' 'I'Afv-.-ii. tj ' V-SJ0--V A Japanese Bed. taken outside to th running creek, anil betiding over It. she makes them whiter than the driven snow. Long boards are placed in the sun. ami on these the farmer's wife carefully stretches those pieces of cloth that re quire smoothing, and wlun dry Ihey would compar favorably with similar pieces Ironed by the brawny arm of wmi" wi-slet ii laundress. Like all ,la auese houses, the place Is destitute of furniture. There are always children, and gem-rally plenty of them, f. if it is considered a ills grace for a married woman not to be a mother. In addition to tin- wile and children, the tanner s aged father and inolher are often uu-mhois of tin- fam ily circle, fur, accord. ir; to the custom of the countrv. when the eldest sou I' marries he always lakes bis w ife home to his parents Thus it Is no unusual sight lo behold four, six. or even el flit persons huddled together ill one room. At ilawn of day the whole family rises. Tlte simple repast is quickly prepared. The llri-plaee is a hlhachl, u kind of bra.ier. The kettle is plan-d on this, ii:nl the green da is made. r A J.ipanese The nienl consists of millet amongst the very poor, and lice when the fain- lly Is more prosperous. Af'cr breakfast the farmer pre pares for his day's work If his wheal i or rice held be some distance away, In- takes bis dinner with him This con ' sists of a Jar of mill"! or lice, some i times a dried fish or a cob of corn, j II" wears either a large straw hat or a cloth on his bead, nml a garment half-way between a robe and a coal. He is usually burefooled, but sum" limes wears sandals made of the inev- j liable rice straw. ' In summer when he reaches his work he usually divests himself of nil , superlluous clothing und may In- seen in the Held wearing only a loin cloth, ami a covering on bis bead. Should 11 rain, the coal is put on once inn", and In addition a rain coat. This ii u circular piece of matting made of rice straw and tnsleneil round the lieck by a piece of straw string. For 12 or M hours ho remains in the burn lug sun dining the summer mont ha. sometimes stooping all day. as Ir- . transplants the tiny blades of tier, sometimes walking beside thu bullock ' I If he possesses onel In- guides th primitive plow. Not mil 11 dn light has , opened iutrt night does he ca- bis labor anil wend his weary slips toward thu wretched hovel hi- calls home. Nil eheety wife gleets him as ho rcuclu-s his abode. She has worked all day just as hard us he. ami U just u weary. While the scanty weal of rice or llldicl Is being pio ured the farmer plunges into tile l roeli outside his bouse und i ln-re performs his even ing s ablutions. Whatever may be tho fault of the Japanese lack of cleanli ness Is not one. After Ills bath ho "iIivssoh" nice more by putting: on his loin cloth. Then, siiun'te.l on thi' Hour ami surrounded h bis link brood all equally airily clothed, Un pat takes ol his evening meal, i As the wile is (ruined to obedience, and litis no education, no helpful or elevating cotivci sal ion Is beard at 1 the family beard. Indeed, the farm , or himself has very few Ideas, his : to Wh febiei - i : -. r -. - -. -. - - mental horizon being bound by the coullio-s of his tiny rice Ib id. The repast ended. I .lo quills which form thi' beds of nil classes of t no. lap anese ale hauled forth fioin the re cess of a in-igbboi ing i iipboaid ami are spread on the Hour. If It be sum mer, and the mosquito -m l ronbb some, a nel as largo ns I be room, ami mai'n of line canvas is likewise b-om-ht lorlh, ami the corm is ti- d to mills ilriu n Into Ihe wall. 1'ndi-r Ibis tint fat tiler, his wile, his an tils and his children creep, ami there upend tho ntrhi. Such. ie:ir In und year out. is the home lite ol a Japanese latnier. If it so happens thai the hou.ie contain more than one loom, they are t.epa rated by paper sliding screens, 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 which t vi i sound can bo dhlinitly iiearil. As there are tin liisii-iiliiL-.-:. and as il is the uhioiii In enter a room minmioun I. very Utile privacy can he had At theihuvn of ihiv Li- larmer once mote ilses Irom bis tint t! bed and re peals Ihe labor of the preiious day without one Iota of variation Although Icnoraiil, be Is not lllit- i t A t0 Farmhouse. crate. Still he seldom ri-iiil.i. ;n the hours of toil ate so long that he pre lets to creep under his mosquito net as soon as ihev an- cm-d. His Spartan foititude I.' icaily sur prising. With a SC.-illll vegetable tliet, low it.iiit, and none id the i.iii, toils of civilization or to-sistatiee ol mod ern i:i' nlion, In- luavcs I he eh ti;"-its, coiiqii'-is ihe soil, t-nduie:; ha'd.Hp, evercotci s liillicuMb s and maintain wit ha a content-d ami even a hoef. fill ti.ime of mind All A L. A MI'lii'lTT. Pcrqot Name of His Child. A. P. Lowell, a .b.;:.t-,i.. I'liocltiw, Mho !im-i near lb. lie r. I T, wnt to llu- AmIiuoio laud nMIco to re--sler. lb- ;o lie- lathi r of I.", children, but found that he had fincolti-ti the ii;i:ihi of one nt ihem. Alter hail' a i!oi-u li.'lll."-. 1 1 . -1 been higl:i sled li.v the af fable clerk in tin- i tiitillii,.; ili-pat t inent Powell thought of Ihe light one. This child bore the name of lis 1 . 1 1 In i ami Powell had forgotten hi own name. 'Ihe 17 allot mints belonging to Pow ell's family are worth ttUuut IS'J.iJt)!. Chicago t'lircuilclo.