The Wahpeton times. [volume], September 23, 1886, Image 6

About The Wahpeton times. [volume] (Wahpeton, Richland County, Dakota [N.D.]) 1879-1919

Image provided by: State Historical Society of North Dakota

                
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HE COUTH
He cometh in sweet sense to thee,
Be it dawn, or noon, or night—
No deepost pain, or halest glee,
But He discerneth it aright.
.' a
t?
HIS GUARDIAN.
"Fair as a lily, graceful as a gazelle!
Who is she? I would give a thousand
dollars if I might paint that face!"
The words were spoken hurriedly,
and somewhat too loudly for the time
and place.
Many bystanders heard them, and
looked at the speaker, the lady, then
at each other, and smiled.
But the lady herself:—a young,slight,
girl., withlarge blue eyes, pale, golden
hair, and a face like the picture of a
saint, so fair and pure it seemed—held
on her way, leaning on her escort's
arm, without a change of expression
or even a startled sidelong glance, to
Bhow the artist's impetuous wish had
reached her ear.
Calmly she sat in her box at the con
cert that evening with her blue eyes
fixed upon the stage. Many an opera
glass was turned upon her from below,
and in a secluded corner of the stalls
sat Gervase Livingstone, the artist,
gazing at her with his heart and soul
in his large, dark, passionate eyes.
"Who can she be?" he whispered to
an intimate friend.
"I don't know. The face is a new
one," was the low reply.
"A new one! It looks as if it was
just created—as if those eyes had nev
er looked upon a sinful world!" raved
the artist. "Years ago, when I was a
schoolboy in the country, I knew a
child with a face almost as pure and
sweet. She died as earthly angels al
ways do. Yet, bad she lived, she
would have been like that girl. Poor
little May!"
Leaning his head upon his hand, the
artist lost himself in a dream of his
boyhood's love. When he looked up
again the concert was drawing to a
close, and the box was empty—the
divinity had gone.
Hurrying from the house, he inquired
right and left among the attendants
at the door and finally, by a gift of
money, so refreshed the memory of
one that he said he had seen the young
l&dy drive off in a private carriage be
fore the concert was over, with "a
gentleman as might be her father, sir,
and they went to the Everett House.
To the Everett House followed the
enamoured artist, only to be disap
pointed. The .servant whom he
teed liberally assurfed' him that no
such young lady was stopping there.
Some wild impulse for which he could
scarcely account led the artist to look
over the hotel register. He looked
for the name of "Mary Cameron"—it
was the name of his earliest love and
it was not there.
Meanwhile the object of his search
was speeding from the city as fast as
the midnight train could carry her
toward Boston. Although the hour
was so late, she was wakeful, and
clasped her hands over her eyes as she
rested her head on the pillow, in a
vain attempt to shut out from her
mind and memory the picture of a
haunting face.
"He did not) recognize me," she
thought, with a sigh. "And yet I
knew him in spite of the change—ir.
spite of the added height, the alterea
vice, the dark moustache—I knew him
At the moment when his eyes met
mine as we entered at the door."
And then she blushed at the memory
of the words he had uttered.
"Pauline," said she, softly.
The second occupant of the "sec
tion" stirred in her couch and an
swered, drowsily:
"What is it, May?"
"Are you Asleep?"
"What a question? No, not now,"
replied Pauline, stifling a groan.
"What troubles you now, my May of
Mays. You generally drop asleep the
instant your pretty head touches the
pillow."
"But not to-night, Pauline. I have
been thinking about all you told me
about—"
"About Gervase Livingstone?" ask
ed Pauline, finishing the sentence.
"Hush! Speak lower,Pauline. There
are so many people near. Yes, I am
troubled—deeply troubled by what
you say of him. Is it true May?"
"Who told you, Pauline?"
"My brother, in the first instance.
He knows him well—is often at his
rooms—and regrets his intemperance
more than any of the rest of his
friends, I think."'
"Does yo4» brother think—does he
consider him entirely past reform?"
asked May, in a trembling voice.
Hearing it, and the suppressed sob
that followed the question, Pauline
Danforth wlio waa akind-hearted little
city belie, tame out of her nest and
«at down beside her friend.
"Dear May, my brother James has
often said that if Livingstone had a
reason—a motive—for reforming, his
reform would be a settled thing."
"What motive?"
"I explainrmyself bunglingly, I tear.
Jamas meant, my dear May, that if
Livingstone could be induced to fall
In love, the lady might work his ref
ormation iMffily, if she chose to do
00." W,
"He loves no one, then, at present?"
"No one, May. James says that he
bilie^eM him to be faithful to the mem
ory of a child who died years ago. It
Is an odd thing jfcp say of a man like
bim, hot James declares that Living
•tonereally loved that child, and that
he loveeher nQW."
"If that is trtie,"eaid Maty War bur
ton, drying he* eytjs, "toe may yet be
taved." rv
"What do yoamean, dear?"
"I mean that I am the child, -Pau
line,• ****&>•
"Bat the child died," replied Pauline^
with an astonished look, -v
"Ho. My cousin, Mary 'Cameron
7*&d
he must have seen the notice
thirdeath or beard of it, and sup
-itto be mine. Just before her
ijnygood Uncle Warburtoncame
if
f.
fc4*v
it there bej
tears bedim thine eyee.jr
His sympathy thotfrfindest plaid—
The darkflkt midnight of the skies
He weepeth with the tears of rate.
It thou art joyous, He has had
His gracious will, and lo, 'tis well
As thou art glad, so he is glad,
Nor mercy strained one syllable.
Wild TOWS are words, as prayers are words
God's mercy is not measured bj
Our poor deservings He affords
To listen—i! we laugh or cry.
James Whitcomb Riley in Indianapolis
JourntU.
•TS$
a poor aind friendless
orphan, adopted
me as his own child, ana gave me his
name."
"And was it in that little country
town that you knew Gervase Living
stone as a boy?" inquired Pauline.
"Yes. He bad been sent to the
house of some old family servant for
his health, and remained there for two
years, while his parents were in Eu
rope. Oh! Pauline, to was the no
blest, kindest, most generous-hearted
boy! If you will only help me now to
save him?"
"I," exclaimed Pauline.
"You," replied May, caressing and
kissing her. "Oh, don't refuse
me, dear. Papa is so stern and
unforgiving about such things. He
would think Gervase—I mean Mr. Liv
ingstone not worth saving, because of
this one fault. It is in vain to hope
for help from him. But, if you will
only assist me, dear good, Pauline, I
have such a plan!"
"Indeed," said Pauline, laughin
"So I am to be bribed by a kiss. Well,
let me hear your plan for the benefit
of Gervase—I mean Mr. Livingstone—
and we will see what can be done."
"I shall need your brother's aid too,
but that you must secure. And oh!
both of you must promise to keep my
secret from every one," said May
Then leaning her cheek against
Pauline's she whispered in the silence
of the midnight her innocent plot for
the redemption of a human soul.
Pauline Danforth's stay in Boston
was but a short one, and on her re
turn to New York, it was noticed by
her escort that she carried in her own
hand and for the whole distance, a
small ebony box mounted in silver, and
fastened with a silver lock and key.
"A jewel box," as he supposed.
On the evening of their arrival
at the home in Fifth Avenue, after
the family greetings were over, Pauline
sought a private interview with her
brother James, and after a long ex
planation, left the box in his care.
"May is a trump, Pauline, and you
are another!" was the young man's
somewhat undignified exclamation as
he brushed his handkerchief across his
eyes. And Livingstone is well worth
saving, and this little box shall be in
his possession to-morrow evening
before he sleeps."
"Secretly, James, remember," said
Pauline. "He must not know from
whom thegiftcomes, till he has shown
himself worthy of it."
"Trust me for that," replied her
brother. "If there were more women
on earth like you and May, women
ready to use their influence over men
in this fashion, we should be a great
deal better than we are, my dear."
So James carried off his prize to his
own room.
The next evening, a party of gay
friends met, as they were often in the
habit of meeting at the artist's rooms.
Wine flowed freely, and the pictures on
the wall could scarcely be seen, for the
cloud of smoke that rose from their
cigars.
When the revel was at its height
James Danforth rose from his chair
and held out his hand to his host:
"Good-by, Livingstone."
"What! are you going! So soon?"
said the artist, surprised.
"Yes, going for good and all, my
boy."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Danforth seriously,
"that there is a time for all things,
and the time for reflection has now
come to me. We are all on the down
ward track, boys—you know it as well
as I. An angel has warned me, and I
am going to stop now while I can.
Follow my example if you have
any regard for yourselves, or for
the mothers, sisters, and wives
at home that love you. Good-by,
boys, Good-by, Gervase. I shall join
you here no more."
He left the room. They all sat gaz
ing at each other in silence. His
words had struck home into every
heart, as he had intended them to do.
One after another of the now quiet
party stole away with some excuse.
In half an hour after James Danforth
had closed the door behind him, the
artist sat alone by his fireside, lean
ing his head upon his hand, and gaz
ing sadly into the burning coals.
"The wives—the mothers—the sis
ters at home—who loveyou," he mut
tered to himself. "They did well to
obey the call. I would have
obeyed it in my turn, but who lives
now to care for me? My mother and
May are both in their graves sister, I
have none—wife I shall never have.
Ah, what does it matter? A short life
and a merry one for me, and no one
shall ever shed a tear over its ending.
I'll have another glass of wine.
What's this?
In reaching to the mantel shelf for
the glass he had left there, his hand
struck against the little ebony chest,
which stood in the place of honor,
directly under a little water-color
sketch made from the long lost child,
"May."
The silver key was in the silver lock.
The artist turned it, wondering how
the beautiful toy came there without
his knowledge. His surprise increased
when the lid flew back, displaying a
beautiful drinking cup of gold, elab
orately chased, and enriched with ru
bies beneath the curving brim.
"What a beautiful thing!" exclaim
ed the artist, lifting the cup from its
bed of rose-colored velvet. 'Who can
have sent such a gift? Did those fel
lows bring it secretly with them to
night, I wonder? Anyway, it is a per
fect gem, and I'll fill it to the brim with
champagne, and see if I can drive away
these melancholy thoughts."
Approaching the table, he lifted the
flask. Something flashed at that mo
ment at the bottom of the cup. Turn
ing it toward the light he saw a pict
ure framed in gems, and bending near
er, the large blue eyes of the lovely
stranger at the concert looked up at
him from the depths of the goblet with
an earnest appealing gaze.
He nearly dropped the cup in his
surprise. Snatching the ebony case
from the chimney-piece, he searched it
for some clew ol the mysterious gift.
Half-hidden in the velvet lining, he
found a morsel of paper, and drawing
it forth, and holding it up to the light,
he read:
"Not dead, but hoping and praying
for you ever. MAY."
"May! May alive, and remember
ing me!" And then, as the full signifi
cance of the gift flashed across his
mind, the crimson flushed to his tem-
Eis
les, and sinking on his knees, he laid
head down beside the magic goblet,
and burst into a passion of tears.
Those who called at the rooms of the
artist during the next week found
them closely shut. At last it was
rumored that had suddenly sailed
for, England, and a few days more
proved the rumor to be true.
passed by, and at the annual
exhibition of Academy painters, a
ore made its
Every paper noticed it, every person
spoke of it, and so numerous and so
approving were the comments, that
pretty Pauline Danforth, who, in gen
eral, cared nothing at all about pict
ures of any kind, asked her brother
James to take her to see the wonder
on a certain day.
James, like a kind brother,
consented, but with an odd
twinkle in his eye which Pauline
could not quite understand. When
that evening train from Boston
brought Mr. Warburton and his adopt
ed daughter, May, for a visit of soma
weeks, James' eyes seemed to twinkle
more brightly than ever, and on his
own accord he invited Miss May to
join their party on the following day.
May accepted the invitation with a
suppressed sigh. Hearingwhich,James
smiled so broadly that Pauline hunt
ed him speedily into a corner, and de
manded a share of his secret, whatev
er it might be.
But James proved obdurate She
would know all, he said, at the gallery,
where the name of the successful ar
tist was to be proclaimed on the fol
lowing day.
Pauline reflected a moment.
"Oh!" she exclaimed and her eyes
began to dance in their turn.
But not one word said the little
traitoress to her friend May. Only she
took care that their visit to the gal
lery should be paid at a very early
hour before the fashionable world had
scarcely risen from their beds.
Early as it was, however, one gen
tleman stood before the famous pict
ure, gazing intently at the beautiful,
golden-haired, guardian angel, who,
with white, waving wings, bent for
ward over the shoulders of a dark
browed man, walking heedlessly on a
flower-strewn descent, toward a fear
ful gulf, and drew from his unwilling
hands a golden cup overflowing with
wine.
Pauline gave one swift glance at the
angel in the picture and at the solita
ry gazer. Then she touched her broth
er's arm, and while May went unsus
pectingly forward, the two vanished
into an inner room, where a portrait
gallery had been recently improvised.
Hearing the light step behind him
the artist turned away, with a crim
soning brow, from the contemplation
of his own picture.
But, with his first glance at the face
of the newcomer, he paused.
May, unheeding him in her haste to
see the picture, lifted her eyes to the
canvas. She stood rooted to the spot
in her amazement, her heart throb
bing, her color rising, and at last, her
blue eyes filling with tears.
"Oli, Pauline!" she exclaimed, in
an agitated tone. "It must be his
picture! No one else could have paint
ed it! He is saved!"
"Yes, thanks to you, sweet angel,
under God, he is saved!"repiled adeep
voice.
She turned, and met the dark eyes
of the artist gazing at her in worship.
"May—my little May—will you take
the life you rescued?" he asked.
With a noble courage she laid her
hand in his. And now no home is
happier than that of the famous paint
er, where his sweet "Guardian Angel"
smiles upon his walls, and dwells en
shrined within his loving heart.
The Human Family.
The human family living on the
earth consists of about 1,450,000,
000 individuals not less, probably
more. These are distributed over the
earth's surface, so that now there is
no considerable part where man is
not found. In Asia, where he was first
planted, there are now approximately
about 800,000,000, densely crowded
on an average 120 to the square mile.
In Europe there are 320,000,000, av
eraging 100 to the square mile, not so
crowded, but everywhere dense, and at
points over-populated. In Africa
there are 210,000,000. In America,
North and South, there are 110,000,
000, relatively thinly scattered and
recent. In the islands, large and small,
obably 10,000,000. The extremes
of the white and black are as five to
three the remaining 700,000,000 in
termediate brown and tawny. Of the
race, 500,000,000 are well clothed—
that is, wear garments of some kind
to cover their nakedness 700,000,000
are semi-clothed, covering interior
parts of the body 250,000,000 are
practically naked*. Of the race, 500,
000,000 live in houses partly fur
nished with the appointments of civil
ization 700,000,000 in huts or caves
with no furnishing 260,000,000 have
nothing that can be called a home,
are barbarous and savage. The range
is from the topmost round—the Anglo
Saxon civilization, which is the highest
known—down to naked savagery.
The portion of the race lying below
the line of human condition is at the
very least three-fifths of the whole, or
900,000,000.
A Lost Industry.
Boston Transcript.
"But why don't you go to work?"
asked the lady of the house. "Ah,
madam!" exclaimed the tramp, how
gladly would I do so, but unfortunat
ly there is nothing to do in my line
now." "Poor man!" said the lady
pittingly, pouring out another bowl of
coffee and piling up his plate afresh
"and what was your business?"
"Madam," replied the fellow, after
having disposed of the victuals, "I am
a professor of roller skating, but there
is nothing doing now, nothing at all."
"But you did make money while the
business was good?" "Ah! that's just
it, madam my usual luck I didn't
enter the profession until all the rinks
had closed. Some men are always a
day too late. Good morning, madam
if you'll be good enough to hold the
dog for a few minutes I'll tear myself
away and go to some shady spot
where I can forget my sorrow in slum*
ber."
Don't be a Chump.
From the Toledo Blade.
Don't be a chump. Don't want the
earth. Don't think it was built for
you alone and other people put on it
to contribute to your comfort. Don't
.coddle yourself into the belief that
your only lookout in this world is for
No. 1. Strange as it may seem to you,
there are milliops of men beside your
self, and they have as much right«to
live as you. Just sit and talk to your
self awhile and see if you don't come
pretty near being a chump. Don't
imagine that a few extra dollar,
makes you any man's superior. Don't
try to make every one believe that
beet man living. Be a
you are the
man.
ifsrn*
,"
Don't be a
Tint IU8TEB OF THE HOUSE.
He^cannot walk, he cannot speak,
Nothing he knows of books and men,
He is the weakest of the weak,
And has not strength to hold a pen
He has no pocket, and no purse,
Nor ever yet has owned a penny,
But has more riches than his nurse
Because he wants not any.
He rules his parents by his cry,
And holds tliem captive by a smile,
I A despot, strong through infancy,
A king, from lack of guile,
He lies upon his back and crows,
Or looks with grave eyes on his mother—
What can he mean? But I suppose
They understand each other.
In doors or out, early or late,
There is no limit to his sway,
For wrapt in baby robes of state,
He governs night and day.
Kisses he takes as rightful due,
And Turk-like, has his slaves to dress
him,
His subjects bend before him, too,
I'm one of them. God bless himl
—John Dennis.
A JUDICIAL CRIME.
BY WILKIE COLLINS.
Just prior to the American revolu
tion, a Bristol trader arrived in the
harbor of Boston, having one passen
ger on board. This person was a
young English woman named Esther
Calvert, daughter of a shop-keeper at
Cheltenham and niece of the captain
of the ship.
Some years before her departure
from England Esther had suffered an
affliction—associated with a deplor
able public event—which had shaken
her attachment to her native land.
Free, at a later period, to choose for
herself, she resolved on leaving En
gland as soon as employment could
be found for her in another country.
After a weary interval oi expectation,
the sea-captain had obtained a situa
tion for his niece as housekeeper in
the family of Mrs. Anderkin, a widow
lady living in Boston.
Esther had been well practiced in
domestic duties during the long illness
of her mother. Intelligent, modest,
and sweet-tempered, she soon became
a favorite with Mrs. Anderkin and the
members of her young family. The
children found but one fault with the
new housekeeper—she dressed invari
ably in dismal black, and it was im
possible to prevail upon her to give
the cause. It was known that she was
an orphan, and she had acknowledged
that no relations of hers had recently
died, and yet she persisted in wearing
mourning. Some great grief had evi
dently overshadowed the life of the
gentle English housekeeper..
In her intervals of leisure, she soon
became the chosen friend of Mrs. An
derkin's children always ready to
teach them new games, clever at dress
ing the girls' dolls and at mending the
boys' toys. Esther was in one re
spect only not in sympathy with her
young friends—she never laughed.
One day, they boldly put the question
to her: "When we are all laughing,
why don't you laugh too?"
Esther only replied in these words:
"I shall think it kind of you if you
won't ask me that question again."
The young people deserved her confi
dence in them they never mentioned
the subject from that time forth.
But there was another member of
the family, whose desire to know
something of the housekeeper's his
tory was, from motives of delicacy,
concealed from Esther herself. This
was the governess—Mrs. Anderkin's
well-loved friend, as well as the teacher
of her children.
On the day before he sailed on his
homeward voyage, the sea-captain
called to take leave of his niece—and
then asked if he could also pay his
respects to Mrs. Anderkin. He was
informed that the lady of the house
had gone out, but that the governess
would be happy to receive him. At
the interview which followed, they
talked of Esther, and agreed so well
in their good opinion ot her, that the
captain paid along visit. Thegovern
ess had persuaded him to tell the
story of his niece's wasted life.
But he insisted on one condition.
"If we had been in England," he
said, "I should have kept the matter
secret, for the sake of the family.
Here, in America, Esther is a stranger
—here she will stay—and no slur will
be cast on the family name at home.
But mind one thing: 1 trust to your
honor to take no one into your confi
dence—excepting only the mistress of
the house."
This was Esther's sad story:
In the year 1762, a young man
named John Jennings, employed as
waiter at a Yorkshire inn, astonished
his master by announcing that he was
engaged to be married, and that he
purposed retiring from service on next
quarter day.
Further inquiry showed that the
young woman's name was Esther Cal
vert, and that Jennings was greatly
her inferior in social rank. Her father's
consent to the marriage depended
on her lover's success in rising in the
world. Friends with money were in
clined to trust Jennings, and to help
him to start a business of his own, if
Miss Calvert's father would do some
thing for the young people on his side.
He made no objection, and the mar
riage engagement was sanctioned ac
cordingly.
One evening, when the last days of
Jennings' service were drawing to an
end,a gentlsman on horseback stopped
at the inn. In a state of great agita
tion, he informed the landlady that
he was on his way to Hull,but that he
had been so irightened as to make it
impossible for him to contihue his
journey. A highwayman had robbed
him of a_purae containing twenty
guineas. The thief's face (as usual
in those days) was concealed
by a mask, and there was but one
chance of bringing him to justice. It
was the traveler's custom to place a
Ee
rivate mark on every gold piece that
carried with lyim on a journey, and
possibly be
the stolen guinei
traoed in that way
The landlord (one JHI
tended on his guest a
wife had only that mo
of the robbery and he
stance to mention which
to the discovery of the
iPi
1 I f," «•,!
Mr
•lill
•p*
Brunnell) at
supper. His
told him
a circum
igh't lead
7
In the
to a
first place, however, he wish
at what time the crime had 1
mitted. The traveler answerl
he had been robbed late in tl
ing, just as it was beginning
dark. On hearing this Mr
looked very much distressed.
S
The landlord hesitated. "It seems
hard on Jennings," he said, "if we
prove to have been suspicious of him
without a cause. Can you speak posi
tively, sir, to the mark which you put
on your money?"
The traveler declared that he could
swear to his mark. Mr. Brunnell
yielded. The two went up together
to the waiter's room.
Jennings was fast asleep. At the
very outset of the search, they found
the stolen bag of money in his pocket.
The guineas—nineteen in number—had
a mark on each one of them, and that
mark the traveler identified. After
this discovery there was but one
course to take. The waiter's protesta
tions of innocence, when they woke
bim and accused him of the robbery,
were flatly contradicted by facts. He
was charged before a magistrate with
the theft of the money, and, a3 a mat
ter of course, was committed for trial.
The circumstances were so strongly
against him that his own friends rec
ommended Jennings to plead guilty,
and appeal to the mercy of the court.
He refused to follow their advice, and
he was bravely encouraged to persist
in that decision by the poor girl, who
believed in his innocence with her
whole heart. At that dreadful crisis
she secured the best legal assistance,
and took from her little dowry the
money that paid the expenses.
The judge summed up, finding liter
ally nothing that he could say, as an
honest man, in favor of the prisoner.
The jury returned a verdict ot guilty,
after a consultation which was a mere
matter of torin. Clearer circumstan
tial evidence of guilt had never been
produced, in the opinion of every
person—but one—wno was pres
ent at the trial. The sentence
on Jennings for highway robbery was,
by the law ot those days, death on
the scaffold.
Friends were found to help Esther
in the last effort that the faithful crea
ture could now make—the attempt to
obtain a commutation of the sen
tence. She was admitted to an inter
view with the home secretary, and her
petition was presented to the king.
Here, again, the indisputable evidence
forbade the exercise of mercy. Es
ther's betrothed husband was hanged
at Hull. His last words declared his
innocence—with the rope round his
neck.
Before a year had passed, the one
poor consolation that she could hope
or, in this world, found Esther in her
misery. The proof that Jennings had.
died a martyr to the fallibility of hui
man justice, was made public by the
confession of the guilty man.
Another criminal trial took place at*
the assizes. The landlord of an inn
was found guilty of having stolen the
property of a person staying in his
nouse. It was stated in evidence that
this was not his first offense. He had
been habitually a robber on the high
way, and his name was Brunnell.
The wretch confessed that he was
the masked highwayman who had
stolen the bag of guineas. Riding, by}
a nearer way than was known to thej
traveler, he had reached the inn first'
There he found a person in trade wait
ing by appointment for thesettlemen'
ot a bill. Not having enough mone^
of his own about him to pay thfj
whole amount, Brunnell had madeusi
of one of the stolen guineas, and hac
only heard the traveler declare tha
his money was marked after thi
tradesman had left the house.
ask for the return of the fatal guine
was more than he dared to at
tempt. But one other altera
tive presented itself. The mercilesi
villain insured his own safety by tlia
secrifice of an innocent man.
After the time when the sea-captain!
had paid his visit at Mrs. Anderkin's
house, Esther's position became sub
ject to certain .changes. One little
domestic privilege followed another so
gradually and so modestly that the
housekeeper found herself a loved and
honored member of the family, with
out being able to trace by what sue-?
cession of events she had risen to thq
new place that she occupied. The
secret confided to the two ladies had
been strickly preserved Esther never
even suspected that they kney the de
plorable story of her lover's death.
Her life, after what she had suffered,
was not prolonged to a great age. She
died—peacefully unconscious of the
terrors of deatn. Her last words were
spoken with a smile. She looked at
the loving friends assembled round
her bed, and said to them: "My dear
one is waiting for me. Good-bye."
The house of Frank Moore, a miser
ly man who lives a few miles from
Pemsborough, W. Va., was robbed re
cently while Mr. Moore was tempo
rarily absent, of $5,500 in gold and
$2,000 in bills. Moore is one of those
who have no faith in banks.
liaffi
*1
"I have got a waiter1 named Jen
nings," he said, "a man superior to his
station in life—good manners and fair
education—in fact, a general favorite.
But, for some time past, I have ob
served that he has been rather free
with his money in betting, and that
habits of drinking have grown on him.
I am afraid he is not worthy of the
good opinion entertained of him by
myself and other persons. This even
ing I sent him out to get some small
silver for me, giving him a guinea to
change. He came back intoxicated,
telling me that Change was not to be
had. I ordered him to bed, and then
happened to look at the guinea which
he nad brought back. Unfortunately,
I had not at that time heard of the
robbery and I paid the guinea away
with some other money, in settlement
of a tradesman's account. But this
I am sure of, there was a mark on
the guinea which Jennings gave back
to me. It is, of course, possible that
there might have been a mark (which
escaped my notice) on the guinea
which I took out of my purse when I
sent for change."
"Or, the traveler suggested, "it may
have been one of my stolen guineas,
given back by mistake, by this drunk
en waiter of yours, instead of the
guinea handed to him by yourself. Do
you think he is asleep?"
"Sure to be asleep, sir—in his condi
tion."
"Do you object, Mr. Brunnell, after
what you have told me, to setting this
matter at rest by searching the man's
clothes?"
a'' v&tfffce
«BU?^
1
At the next assizes the case was
tried. The proceeding before the judge
was a repetition (at great length and
with more solemnity) of the proceed
ings before the magistrate. No skill
in cross-examination could shake the
direct statements of the witnesses.
The evidence was made absolutely
complete, by the appearance of the
tradesman to whom Mr. Brunnell had
aid the marked guinea. The coin
so marked) was a curiosity the man
had kept it, and he- now produced it
in court.
Almost Slain by Buffaloes.
in the summer of 1879, while sta
tioned at one of the frontier forts in the
Yellowstone Valley, Spotted Eagle's
band of hostiles, as fragment of Sit
ting Bull's great camp, were brought
in as prisoners of war. Orders were
received to
send them to Standing Rock
Agency, and it fell to my lot, writes a
Lieutenant in the regular army to the
Philadelphia Times, to escort them
across the country. My detachment
numbered thirty men, mounted on
Cayuse ponies and well armed and
equipped. The next morning, with
our prisoners under guard, we struck
out boldly across the country in the
direction of Standing Rock. It took
us sixteen days to make the journey,
which was full of interesting incidents
and adventures, for the country was
a wild, and, so to speak, unexplored
region as yet, with hostile Sioux and
Cheyennes scattered all through it.
The plains of Montana were pretty full
of buffalo at the time I write, and it is of
an adventure with them lam going to
spec*k. About the third day out we
were in the midst of thousands of bi
son, and as it was no fun to kill them
with a rifle or to still hunt, by reason
of numbers, I proposed to liave the
rare sport of hunting a few with the
revolver and from horseback. Next
morning I was up before break of day,
and telling my orderly to accompany
me we started ahead of the command
to hunt our game, each with a brace
of Chit's "forty-five" revolvers and
two hundred rounds of ammunition
apiece strapped across our persons.
We came in sight of one herd as
day was breaking, and immediately
gave chase. The bison fled before us,
we tearing after them like mad but in
a few minutes the herd scattered, and
so we selected a certain bunch, which
we followed up. I had gotten pretty
close upon my quarry, when whisk!
out of sight they went, and in a mo
ment I had followed them. They had
gone over a bank into a creek so sud
denly that, not observing it, I follow
ed close upon their heels and there we
were, buffaloes pony and myself, un
injured, but floundering and swim
ing about in deep water. By the
time I got to the opposite bank and
secured my pony the buffaloes were
gone out of sight, scampering across
the prairie to join the main herd, and
my orderly stood on the bluff behind
where we had just tumbled from,
laughing at my predicament. He had
luckily checked himself and steed just
in time to save both from following
us.
In half an hour matters were
straightened out and we rode to the
top of a neighboring knoll to get a
view of the surroundings. Our origi
nal herd were dim in the distance, a
cloud of dust on the horizon telling
where they were still going at full
speed. While regretfully watching
them, my orderly suddenly exclaimed:
"Look, Lieutenant, here comes an
other herd across the country, and
making straight for us."
Casting my eyes in the direction in
dicated, sure enough another tremen
dous herd was pointing in the direc
tion of our knoll and coming directly
at us like a thunder cloud. No use to
fly, for there was no place to fly to.
One solid, black mass was sweeping
toward us like a whirlwind, and it
became necessary for us to do some
thing, and do it quickly, too, or have
the life trampled out of us in a few
minutes.
"Dismount!" I cried slingthe bridle
over your arm, and, when I give the
word, fire as rapidly as you can."
We both dismounted and drawing
our four revolvers opened fire on the
solid phalanx at long range. The
great drove of animals were plunging
wildly forward with their heads down,
almost sweeping the ground, and con
sequently did not see us. Our hope
was to attract their attention, and
by so doing to frighten them and en
deavor to throw them out of their
course. Had they seen us in the first
place they would probably have halt
ed or turned their course to one side.
As it happened, they kept madly on
until our bullets began to sting them,
when the leaders looked up and seeing
the strange sight in frontof them, act
ually paused, or attempted to do so,
but it was at their peril, for the fore
most were immediately trampled be
neath the feet of the rushing, crush
ing multitude behind. The pile of
bodies was our salvation, tor it
served as an impediment to those in
the rear, and together with our rapid
fire sort of stampeded the whole out
fit. The pile became higher and high
eras buffalo after buffalo came rolling
on to the heap, and this blockade
actually caused the tremendous mass
to split and divide, a moiety .going to
each side of it. The center had been
checked, but the wings were sweeping
by at railroad speed. We hurried
down to the pile of carcasses as being
our safest point, and stood there
watching the sea of animals raging
and tearing by like the billows of an
angry sea. A hundred yards further
on tne wings came together again,
and there we were, in the midst of
that living mass, safe and free from
harm.
It was a strange, remarkable, sight
—one which I never expect to see on
earth again. My headT turned dizzy
with so much motion all about me,
but both myself and the orderly had
sense enough to blaze away incessant
ly directly in front of us, which had
the effect to throw the successive lead
ers in still more confusion, and no
doubt was the means of saving us
from being trampled to death. After
thut tremendous herd of bison had
Eour,
assed going at about twelve miles an
which consumed some forty
minutes of time, we found ourselves
among the soattered tail end of the
herd. Here was our chance. Quickly
singling out an aminal, I was soon
dashing alongside of him and pump
ing cola lead into his bosom from my
revolver. My pony, well trained to
this sport, never left his side until the
poor Drute staggered in his tracks.
When he rolled over on the prairie,
the last throes of death I singled out an
other bigfellow and was soon pouring
leaden pills into his shaggy hide also.
I had dropped an even dozen before
my little Cayuse or I became winded.
Then I looked around for my orderly,
but he was nowhere to be seen. I
anxiously scanned the horizon to
catch a glimpse of him, and rode back
over my trail until .sunset in hopes of
finding some trace of him but I saw
no sign or indication of his, presence,
and so, regretfully, had to give up the
search for a time. Taking my land
marks I Btruck out for camp, which
I reached about 9, o'clock that night.
The orderly's pony had already come
into
camp
ahead of
me,
which left the
•r fellow had j$!
-ps had receiy
jibssibly he
nent be lying
waiting as
immediately
concluffm that t:
beetf*m$M^f!o
5d som-^^cbideip
might,
helpless on tne praii
sistana from us.
8tarterf tthefcw hole cofo'fQand out in
search/of liim," with
-orders to scour
our .baick trail, even as far back as
our last camping-place. I myself went
along )with one party. About mid
night we heard a single shot fired far
aheact in the darkness, and, listening!
intently, had about come to the con
clusion that it was a mistake, when
again faintly in the distance the shot
was repeated.
There could be no mistake now, for
the signal was repeated at regular in
tervals of ten minutes, which led us to
the spot, where we found the poor
fellow trudging along, tired and worn
down with fatigue, but in good spirits
and entirely unharmed. His horse
had gotten away from him somehow,
and left him alone and afoot on the
prairie. He immediately struck out
across the country in a direction that
must carry him acrcss the main trail,
which he did really discover before
darkness set in. He had been follow
ing it ever since, and firing his revolver
as described until found by us. All
the relief parties came up in an hour
or so, having been attracted to the
spot by the signal shots, which had
served to bring us to the same place.
Mounting the orderly on his horse,
brought along especially for the pur
pose, we once more turned in the
direction of camp, whicb we reached
just as the fctin was coming up over
the eastern hills.
A. "Whole French Xovel in Brief.
The Parisian journals announced the
wreck of the Comete, between Buenos
Ayres and Marseilles. Two days after
the passengers had been rescued by a
passing ship, it was discovered that
M. Paul Rostain had perished. The
history of this man furnishes a truth
ful romance, stranger even than
fiction.
M. Paul Rostain in 1S83 was twen
ty-six years of age, handsome, intelli
gent, industrious, amiable, and a
charming conversationalist. He met
at the house of an old friend of his
parents, a young girl named Lucie, of
remarkable distinction, whose pretty
face commanded his admiration, and
he fell immediately in love with her.
The admiration being mutual,the par
ents consulted each other, as is the
custom of this country, and they
agreed that the couple should be be
trothed.
The father of Lucie suddenly found
himself thrown into financial dis
tress, in consequence of having risk
ed his entire capital in a scheme which
proved a signal failure. He was ruined.
When he saw that he had nothing left
but disgrace—for bankruptcy in
France is extreme disgrace—his de
spair was terrible. In this condition,
he received one day a visit from an
old man who lived near him, and who
was reputed to be immensely rich.
"Sir," said the old man, "I will not
importune you long. I love your
daughter yes, old as I am, I love her
with a love that knows no reason. I
have long sought the opportunity to
tell you. To-day that occasion pre
sents itself. I know your ruin. I will
save you. Give me the hand of your
daughter, and I will give her three
million of francs, which will permit
her to save you! That is all. If you
agree to my proposition I am at your
disposition."
"But," cried the merchant, "my
daughter ha3 been promised to an
other!"
"I know it," replied the old man,
"yet I repeat, I love your daughter
with a love that will listen to no ar
gument."
Without waiting for another reply
the old man retired.
At this moment the girl entered, and
her father said: "The old man whom
you have seen leave is well apprised of
our ruin, and he offers you a part of
his fortune if you will marry him."
The girl turned pale as she asked:
"Am I not betrothed to Paul Ros
tain?"
"That is wljat I answered," said
her father. She stood trembling with
mental anguish, while sobs and tears
attested that she was thinking of her
father's ruin—his dishonneur—all—ev»
erything.
She would consult Paul.
That evening, when Paul Rostain
came, Lucie called him into the garden
and told him simply what had pass
ed.
"What shall I do?" asked Paul.
"You must leave this place—go away
to some remote country for if you
stay here my strength would fail me
and I should—"
Interrupting her Paul replied: "I
will go."
THE LOVERS PART.
The two martyrs separated without
even a last embrace, for fear of relax
ing their determination.
When he was gone Lucie sought ber
father, and, kneeling beside him, she
said: 'Paul has chosen. You can in
form your rich friend of this morning
that I will marry him."
God bless you, my child," cried the
father "I have given my life
'i
1
for
:.^Kv 1
y6u
and you give me back my honor,
girl hastened to her room,
she threw herself on her bed and sob
bed and wept. The next day M. Paul
Rostain embarked for Buenos Ayres.'
poor girl hastened to her room,
where
THE SAD ENDING.
Two years had passed, during which
not once had they ever written to each'
other, though in spite of their separa
tion they could feel themselves united.
One morning the husband of Lui
was struck by lightning and instant
killed. The young woman was
Her sacrifice was ended.
Finding the parents of Paul Rostain,
she procured his address and sent
him a dispatch in these words:
I am liberated. Come take your wife.
To this she recieved thi3 reply:
I embark by the first ship leaving.
PAUL ROSTAIN.
The unhappy man has not recieved
the recompense of bis devotion. Fa
tality was against him, and? it was
written 'that he should nevdF realize
the happiness which' was soaear.
Only one person was ttowned in
the wreck of the Comete, and that
one was Paul Rostain.
Old age has been obtained in all cli
mates and under all circumstances.
Man flourishes in the hot, the temper*
ate, and the cold, and undqr every
formof diet and where medical know!*
edge is least he often thrives Jsoftt.