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The national leader. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1888-1889, April 06, 1889, Image 1

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NATIONAL LEADER, EstaßLisHED 1888.
YL 11
- IPPIiaaNoOS.
The Sweetest Toned Piano Made.
Pianos and Organs, slightly used, at great
Bargains for Cash.
Pianos and Organs
Sold o
Fasy Monthly
Favments,
By purchasing of me you deal direct with the man
ufacturer, which means Factory Prices.
SEND FOR CATALOCUE AND PRICE LIST.
FREEBORN G. SMITH,
12‘2‘34-”Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D. C.
T TLo e SR 8 Ml 52
DAVIS’
INSTANTANEOQUS PICTURES.
Made cqually as good in cloudy as fair weather,
ALY SN i (I
A large and beautiful GRAYON PORTRAIT of yourself, with
one doten GABINET P.CTURES, finely finished.
No. 723 Seventh Street, N. W,,
TWASETTNGTON, D. C.
=No connection with any gallery in this city. i
fl_—___________————_:—————_.____.—___.———:
GATELY & ALDRICH,
527 Seventhh Street, IT. KN ~
WASHINGTON, D. C.,
Have the bestline of
1 i
Housefurnishing -- Goods
In the city, ineluding Oil Paintings, Clocks, Watches, Family
Bibles, Subs ription Books, Albumes, etc., ete., which are sold
at cash prices, on weekly or monthly payments. ik et
B. RICH & SONS, \
|
|
CLOTHES, SHOES,]
HATS AND FURNISHINGS,
1322 and 13824 Seventhh Street,‘
Washington, D. C. "°""“’l
B.H.Warner & Co.,
eal Estate Dealers,
916 F. STREET, N. W,
WASHINCTON, D.C.
WASHINGTON. D C.,. SATURDAY, APRIL 6. 1889,
Palace and
New England
Organs, in
Endless Variely
Old Prob's Revenge.
This winter’s been a wonder;
Whoever saw the like?
oOld Prob and Mr. Venner
Have both been on a strike,
Folks grumbled at their weather
And called Old Prob a traud,
And if one mentioned Venner,
l They’s turn and say: ‘“Good Lord.”
These two then clubbed together
To make things come out square;
And so they kept the snow back,
*“’Twas wicked, I declare,”
No sleighrides and no trotting—
Young maidens could not say,
‘*‘Please let me hold the ribbons
When your bhands are eold, I pray.”
I Give me old-fashioned winter,
| Good sleighing and deep snow
I love to hear bells tingle—
Those marriage bells you know.
RIS, S M RA ST
“ALITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.,”
The small but thriving and enter
prising town of Seedville, in the State
of Ohio, was plentifully posted with
bills bearing the above title, lavishly
printed in all the hues of the rainbow.
How the manager of the Seedville
Academy of Music ever succeeded in
securing so great a star of the dramatic
firmament as Charles Cheriton was a
matter of much speculation and wonder
to all but Seedville citizens; but then
Seedville always was smart for a small
place and managed to keep abreast of
the great cities of the country in every
thing, from natural gas to natural
actors. And if the lively manager was
enabled to furnish high-class entertain
ment for the play-goers of Seedville,
the said play-goers were not mean
enough to pass by the opportunity with
unappreciative indifference. They read
the show-bills, bought their tickets and
on every evening thronged the seats of
the really pretty theatre.
The piece tvas what 1s technically
known as a high-class comedy, but it
was a comedy in which was displayed a
good deal of the tragedy of mental
suffering,” of misunderstandings, of
cross purposes and bitterness of heart;
though, from the fact that all the pain
and sorrow was finally turned into giad
ness and joy through the instrumen
tality of a little child, men termed it a
comedy.
The drama gave the principal actor,
Charles Cheriton, a fine opportunity for
| displaying his power of acting, and
many a time had this man moved great
audiences almost to tears in his repre
sentations of the deep passions of hu
man nature,
On the particular evening which con
cerns our story, Cheriton was at his
best. With the rare modulations of
his deep, far-reaching voice, with his
expressive features and gesticulations
‘he swayed the feelings of the throng
‘before him as the autumn winds bend
the topmost boughs of the forest
trees.
Toward the end of the second act the
large audience noticed that the actor
did not do his part justice, and not dur
ing the rest of the evening did he rise
to his usual standard of excellency. No !
one knew the cause, for, in the Intense l
interest felt in the play, no one had
perceived a little wee baby figure steal
quietly down the extreme left aisle of
the balcony. No one but Cheriton. He
was in the midst of his delivery of ’
some most pathetic lines and his eyes
were raised upward, so that they rested '
precisely on the balecony aisle to the left |
of the stage. He saw the tiny but ‘
graceful form of a child—a little girl—
not five years old, clad in a quaint, but
rich and dainty, dress of black velvet
with ruffled sleeves and white lace edg
ing at the wrists and neck; he noticed
the broad-brimmed hat tritmmed with a
narrow but exquisite wreath of simple
meadow daisies, and above all he be
held, beneath the hat, the cluster of
sunny, golden hair and the clear blue
eyes of the childish, angel face.
The baby, with baby grace and
abandon, stole softly down to the bal
cony rail, upon which she rested her
little arms, and with her chin nestling
in ber dimpled hands (like one of :
Ralphael’s cherrubs) silently watched
the play. Cheriton felt absolutely cer
tain that the baby was the chila of—
well, a woman he once knew. He was
positive of it, and would have backed
his opinion with every thing he
possessed.
He was no longer in the Seedville
Academy of Music. Mechanically he
proceeded with his part in the per
formance, but he saw none of the peo
ple before him, save the baby—and
even the baby ouly served to remind
him of another face, long since lost to
him—while his thoughts and memory
were afar off in a city of the sunny
South.
He remembered how in the City of
Mexico, exactly six years before, he
had loved with a mad and irrestible
passion just such a fair sweet face as
was the baby’s in the balcony; he recol
'lected the faultless form, the natural
grace of movement and action and the
bewitching smile; he called to mind the
sunny hair and the quaint dresses of
velvet and old lace—yes, it all came
back to him with the baby leaning
there over the balcony rail. How he
tried to forget it all, on the stage and
off! low he had sought to bury it far
{ out of his sight and memory! IHe had
traveled East, West and North (never
South) only at last to find the past as
fresh as ever, in the little theatre of
quiet Seedville.
Naught saw he of the footlights or
the orchestra, of the stage or the house
—he was away on a vine-covered ver
anda in the outskirts of the City of
Mexico. He was telling a fair voung
girl of his love and adoration, and ring
ing in his ears was her cold, hard reply:
““It is impossible, to-morrow I am to be
married.”’
] The second act of the play came to
an end. When the curtain rose for
the third and last act, the baby had
disappeared.
The performance was almost con
cluded when through that terror
l stricken assemblage rang the alarm of
“Fire!”
Aroused from his reveries and dream
of the past Cheriton became aware that
smoke was issuing from the left wings.
He was quickly alive to the situation,
and stepping to the edge of the stage,
in a loud and commanding voice he di
rected the movements of the affrighted
men, women and children,
The fire quickly gained on the build
ing, and before the one fire engine of
Seedville could get to work the theatre
! was doomed.
Cheriton was one of the last to leave
the stage, and when he did so the dan
ger to the audience was over, for all
had reached the street. When the
alarm of fire was given Cheritbn was
attired for the play as a laboring man, ‘
without coat and vest; so dressed he ap
peared on the street. (
Standing with the crowd watching
the flames was a beautiful woman, per
; haps twenty-five or twenty-six years old
' As Cheriton emerged from the building
he was cheered by the crowd, and cast
ing s eyes (from force of habit ac
quired on the stage) along the throng
of faces, it rested on this woman.
He was seized with an inspiration,
and rushing hastily to her, he grasped |
her arm tightly and almost rudely.
‘Were you in the theatre to-night?’ ‘
‘T’
‘Alone?’ l
‘No; with my mother.’ l
‘No one else—positively, no one
else?’
‘No one,’
‘Ah,’ thought Cheriton, as he hast
ened away, ‘the child was left at home
and, doubtless, knowing where her
mother had gone, followed her to the
theatre.’
By this time the fire was all over the
house and the auditorium was filled
with 2 dense mass of smoke. But
heedless of the scorching heat, the
blinding and suffocating smoke. and
deaf to the warning cries of the fire
men, Charlie Cheriton rushed into the
ill-fated building. He made his way
to the left aisle of the balcony which
was standing yet, and there, near the
railing fast asleep or dead, he found
the tair-haired baby girl, Ie grabbed
a shaw! whici some one had left in the
hurry to escape, and, dashing again
through the smoke and flames, emerged
once more on to the street.
A loud hurrah and deafening hand
clapping greeted him, but he walked
straight to the lady whom he had be
fore addressed.
*Here is your little girl, madam. I
noticed her in the balcony this evening.
Do not be afraid; I just felt her move
and heard her try to speak. If you
you will show me your house I will
carry her home for-you.’
PRICE FIVE CENTS.
NO. 13.
| Thelady was too much affected to
speak. Silently they walked a short
distance until they reached a pleasant
home not far from the theatre.
When they entered the parlor the
mother took her child and motioned
Cheriton to a seat,
In a few minutes the lady returned.
‘My baby isnot hurt at all, and is
now sleeping as if nothing had hap
pened. Mr, Cheriton, how can I thank
you?’
‘I am thanked sufficiently already,’
he replied.
Then there was silence. It was a
strange meeting; the actor in his stage
costume, his sleeves rolled up, his hair
and mustache singed and his face
blackened by the smoke, while near
him sat a beautiful woman scarce able
to restrain her tears.
He waited until she regained some
composure, and then he rose as if to
£O.
‘Good-bye,” he said. ‘I am glad to
have been able to give you your lttie
girl, I suppose you haye nothing more
|to say to me, so good-bye.” He held
out his hand as he spoke and she took
it in both of hers.
‘Yes, I have something more to say,
and I will say it whatever you think of
me for doing so.
*‘Listen. Six years ago you thought
me heartless and cruel because 1 told
you that it was impossible to marry
you, though you thought I had given
you to understand that I loved you.
Well, I did love you. Perhaps it is un
womanly to say it, but I did" ~ve you.
The man I married—the fathg of my
little girl—died before the baby was
born. He was a good man, a' good
husband, but I did not love him. I
loved you all the time and sacrificed
love and happiness for what 1 thought
tobe duty. Charlie, 1 love you still;
you have saved my little girl—will you
saveme? Saveme from a lonely, un
happy future and from all the misery
of Dbitter memories? Wil yeu,
Charlie?’
Well, every thing had seemed very
strange to Charlie Cheriton that New
Year’s Eve—the place, the baby, the
fire, this meeting—but somehow it did
’ not seem at all strange when he passed
his large bare and blackened arm
laround the slender waist, while the
well-rounded head with Its fair hair
rested upon the smoke-begrimed shirt
which covered his broad shoulder, And
he thought of the title of his play—*‘A
l little child shall lead them.”
% The Medical Profession,
\ A
F There is no need of dwelling on the
i character of the physician’s duties.
They are so exacting and laborious that
“one feels that all the income they yield
'is richly deserved. But, as a matte
of fact, the leaders are better paid than
those of any other learned profession.
save that of the law. There are some
2000 physicians in Philadelphia, and at
least one-half of them earn an adequate
living. Of course there are many
among the other thousand who hang
their shingles and twirl their thumbs—
like the regiment of lawyvers. One of
these does not find a stray patient as
profitable as is a stray client to alawyer
of the same class, It is a precarious
living; it may mean $lOO, it may mean
$5OO a year; hardly more.
Your young physician labors under
difficulties, lle spends considerable
money equipping himself for the prac
tice of his profession; he buys costly
books und instruments and begins to
wait. Leaving out the instruments,
your young lawyer does the same, It
18 a long wait, Without ‘“mnfluential’
friends 1t is up-hill work. But a foot
hold once gained and a fair practice ac
quired, say in from five to ten years, it
should yield from $3OOO to 5000. The
old ‘family physician,’ the portly ‘coun
ry doctor,’ is not dissatisfied with this
reward after a lifetime of unselfish
labor.
Here are the estimated annual in
comes of some of the eminent members
of the profession in Philadelphia. We
give the average of three estimates
made without knowledge of the others
by three well informed physicians: Dr.
D. Hayes Agnew, $40,000 to $45,000;
Dr. William Pepper, $40,000 to $45,000;
Dr. Da Costa, $35,000 to $40,000; Dr.
S. Weir AMltchem,OOQ to $40,000,
Dr. Goodell, $25,000"t0 $30.,000.

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