12
GORDAN BROTHERS,
-* LEAD IN G *
MERCHANT TAILORS T
•f
No. 118 South Spring Street. ;
The old Reliable firm is still in the lead, making the best-fitting garments at
the most reasonable prices. We are direct importers, and can, there
fore, make you a suit cheaper than a small dealer.
Our Fall and Winter Stock is Now on Sale,
And we cordially invite the public to call and examine our Immense Stock of Im
ported Fall and Winter Goods just received. We are carrying all the stylish
shades in Foreign and Domestic Goods, and many patterns are designed for our
own special trade. No trouble to show goods. Come in and see us.
WARREN WEAVER, - ■ - Manager.
; _
GRANDMOTHER'S ROSARY.
A silver crucifix worn thin and bright.
The feet nil sinooib. wiik kisses from dead
lips
Forever praying, ns the busy hands
Forever spun; I pass the shining strands.
Hallowed with age, between my linger tips.
While tears not &U unbi.'..'c;i dim uiy sight;
Npr need I blush for them, dear soul so
white!
Ripened in simpler days and holier lands.
She went to heaven eighty years ago.
Her children praised her, following the feet
That led them oaly virtue's way to know;
And this is left, a relic, tjunint and sweet.
Blessed reminder of a saint to me,
Of all I long but dare not hopa to be.
—Mary E. Maanix in Itosory.
THE BLACK DOG.
There was a ceaseless rumble in the
air as tho heavy rain drops battered
upon tho laurel thickets and the matted
moss and haggard rocks beneath. Four
water soaked men made their difficult
ways through the drenched forest. The
little man stopped and shook an angry
finger at where night was stealthily fol
lowing them. "Cursed be fate and her
children and her children's children!
We are everlastingly lost!" he cried.
The panting procession halted under
some dripping, drooping hemlocks and
swore in wrathful astonishment.
"It will rain for forty days and forty
night s," sidd the pudgy man moaningly,
"and I feel like a wet loaf of broad now.
We shall never find our way out of this
wilderness until I am made into a por
ridge."
j In desperation they started again to
drag their listless bodies through the
watery bushes. After a time, the clouds
withdrew from above them and great
winds came from concealment and went
sweeping and swirling among the trees.
Night also came very near and menaced
tho wanderers with darkness. The little
man had determination in his legs. He
scrambled among tho thickets and made
desperate attempts to find a path or
road. As he climbed a hillock he espied
a small clearing upon which sat deso
lation and a venerable house, wept over
by wind waved pines.
"Ho," he cried, "here's a house,"
| His companions straggled painfully
aft,- r him as he fought tho thickets be
tween him and the cabin. At their ap
proach the wind frenziedly opposed
Itkenj. and skirled madly in the trees.
The ftttle man boldly confronted the
weird glances from the crannies of the
cabin and rapped on the door. A score
of timbers answered with groans, and
within something fell to the floor with a
clang.
"Ho," said the little man. He stepped
back a few paces.
, Somebody in a distant part started
and walked across the floor toward the
door with an ominous step. A slate col
ored man appeared. He was dressed in
a ragged shirt and trousers, the latter
stuffed into Ids boots. Large tears were
falling from his eyes.
"How d' do, my friend?" said the little
man affably.
"My ol uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sicle
ter death," replied the slate colored per
LOS ANGELES HERALD; SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 2&, 1892.
son.
"Ho!" said the little man. "Is that boT
Tho latter\s clothing clung desperately
to him and water sogged in his boots.
He stood patiently on one foot for a
time.
"Can you put us up here until tomor
row?" he asked finally.
"Yes," said the slate colored man.
The party passed into a littlo un
washed room, inhabited by a stove, a
stairway, a few precarious chairs and a
misshapen table.
"I'll fry 3er some po'k and make yer
some coffee," said the slate colored man
to his guests.
"Oo ahead, old boy," cried the little
man cheerfully from where he sat on
the table smoking his pipe and dangling
his legs.
"My ol uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sick
ter death," said the slate colored man.
'•Think he'll die?" asked the pudgy
man gently.
"No!"
"No?"
"He won't die! He's an ol man, but
he won't die yit! The black dorg hain't
been around yit!"
"The black dog?" said the little man
feebly. He struggled with himself for
a moment.
"What's the black dog?' he asked at
last.
"He's a sporrit," said the slate colored
man in a voice of somber hue.
"Oh, he is? Well?"
"He hants these parts, he does, an
when people are goin to die he comes
and sets aud howls."
"Ho!" said the little man. Ho looked
out of the window and saw night mak
ing a million shadows.
The littlo man moved his legs nerv
ously.
"I don't believe in these things," said
he, addressing the slate colored man,
who was scuffling with a side of pork.
"Wot things?" came incoherently from
the combatant.
"Oh, these 'er' phantoms and ghosts
and what not. All rot, I say."
"That's because you have merely a
stomach and no soul," grunted the pudgy
man.
"Ho, old pudgkins!" replied the little
man. His back curved with passion. A
tempest of wrath was in the pudgy
man's eye. The final epithet used by
the littlo man was a carefully studied
insult, always brought forth at a crisis.
They quarreled.
"All right, i>udgkins; bring on your
phantom," cried the little man in con
clusion.
His stout companion's wrath was too
huge for words. The little man smiled
triumphantly. He had staked his op
ponent's reputation.
The visitors sat silent. The slate col
ored man moved about in a small per
ianal atmosphere of gloom.
1 Suddenly a strange cry came to their
.ears from somewhere. It was a low,
trembling call which made the little
man quake privately in his shoes. The
elate colored man bounded at the stair
way and disappeared with a flash of lets
through a hole in the ceiling. The party
below hearvl two voices in conversation,
one belonging to the slate colored man
?nd the other in the quivering tones of
age. Directly the slate colored man re
appeared from above and said, "The cl
loan Is took bad for his supper."
He hurriedly prepared a mixture with
hot v.oter, sal: and beef. Beef tea it
might be called. He disappeared again.
Once more the party below heard,
vaguely, talking over their heads. The
voice of age arose to a shriek.
"Open the window, fool! Do yon
think I can live in the smell of your
soup?'"
Mutterings by the slate colored man
and the creaking of a window were
heard.
The slate colored man stumbled down
the stairs, and said with intense gloom,
"Tho black dorg'll be along soon."
The little man started and the pudgy
man sneered at him. They ate a supper
and then sat waiting. The pudgy man
listened so palpably that the little man
wished to kill him. The wood fire be
came excited and sputtered frantically.
Without a thousand spirits of the wind:!
had become entangled in the pine
branches and were lowly pleading to be
loosened. The slate colored man tip
toed across the room and lit a timid
candle. The men sat waiting.
The phantom dog lay cuddled to a
round bundle, asleep down the roadway
against the windward side of an old
shanty. The specter's master had moved
to Pike county, but the dog lingered as
a friend might linger at the tomb of a
friend. His fur was like a suit of old
clothes. His jowls hung and flopped,
exposing his teeth. Yellow famine was
in his eyes. The wind rocked shanty
groaned and muttered, but the dog
slept. Suddenly, however, he got up
and shambled to the roadway. He cast
a long glance from his hungry, despair- 1
ing eyes in the direction of the venera
ble house. The breeze came full to his
nostrils. He threw back his head and
gave a long, low howl and started in
tently up the road. Maybe he smelled
a dead man.
The group around the fire in the veiv
erable house were listening and waiting.
The atmosphere of the room was tense.
The slate colored man's face was twitch
ing and his drabbed hands were gripped
together. Tho little man was contin
ually looking behind his chair. Upon
the cotmtenance of tho pudgy man ap
peared conceit for an approaching tri
umph over the little man, mingled with
apprehension for his own safety. Five
pipes glowed as rivals of the timid can
dle. Profound silence drooped heavily
over them. Finally the slate colored
man spoke:
"My ol uncle, Jim Crocker, he's sick
ter death."
The four men started and then shrank
back in their chairs.
"Damn it!" replied the little mar
vaguely.
Again there was a long silence. Sud
denly it was broken by a wild cry from
the room above. It was a shriek that
struck upon them with appalling swift
ness, like a flash of lightning. The
walls whirled and the floor rumbled. It
brought the men together with a rush.
They huddled in a heap and stared at
the white terror in each other's faces.
The slate colored man grasped the can
dle and flared it above his head. "The
black dorg," he bowled, and plunged
|at the stairway. The maddened four
men followed frantically, for it is better
to be in the presence of the awful than
only within hearing.
Their ears still quivering with the
shriek, they bounded through the hole
in the ceiling and into tho sickroom.
With quills drawn closely to hi.;
shrunken breast for a shield, his bony
hand gripping tho cover, an old man
lay, with glazing eyes fixed on tho open
window. His throat gurgled and a
froth appeared at his mouth.
From the outer darkness came a
strange, unnatural wail, burdened with
weight of death, and each note filled
with foreboding. It was the song of
the spectral dog.
"God!" screamed the littlo man. He
ran to the open window. He could see
nothing at first save the pine trees, en
gaged in a furious combat tossing back
and forth and struggling. The moon
was peeping cautiously over the rims of
some black clouds. But tho chant of
the phantom guided the little man's
eyes, and he at length perceived its
shadowy form on the ground under the
window. He fell away gasping at the
sight. The pudgy man crouched in a
corner, chattering insanely. The slate
colored man, in his fear, crooked his
legs and looked like a hideous Chinese
idol. The man upon the bed was turned
to stone, save the froth, which pulsated.
In the final struggle terror will fight
the inevitable. The little man roared
maniacal curses, and rushing again to
the window began to throw various ar
ticles at the specter.
A mug, a plate, a knife, a fork, all
crashed or clanged on the ground, but
the song of the specter continued. The
bowl of beef tea followed. As it struck
tho ground the phantom ceased its cry.
The men in the chamber sank limply
against tho walls, with the unearthly
wail still ringing in their ears and the
fear unfaded from their eyes. They
waited again.
The little man felt his nerves vibrate.
Destruction was better than another
wait. He grasped a candle and, going
to the window, held it over his head and
looked out. » 1
"Ho!" he said.
His companions crawled to the win
dow and peered out with him.
"He's eatin the beef tea," said the
slate colored man faintly.
"The damn dog was hungry," said the
pudgy man.
"There's your phantom," said the little
man to the pudgy man.
On the bed, the old man lay dead.
Without, the specter was wagging its
tail.—New York Tribune.
A Natural Kesult.
Mamma—What makes you so bad to
day?
Little Dot—l guess it's cause I was so
good yestiday.—Good News.
A Lucky Find.
A man was fishing in the Surrey canal
recently, when he pulled up on his hook
a lady's sealskin handbag, which was
found to contain thirty-nine gold wed
ding rings and keeper rings and twenty
three pounds in gold and silver. The
bag had apparently been underwater
for a very considerable time.—London
Tit-Bits.
FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
BuT>y*H Hands.
Here Is Baby's music-
Clapping, dapping so!
Here are Baby's soldiers,
Standing iv a row!
Here's (he Baby's trumpet,
Tool-too-tootl too-too!
Here's the ivay that Baby
Plays at "Peek-a-boo."
.
Here's a big umbrella—
Keep the Baby dry!
Here's tho Baby's cradle—
Rock-a-baby-byl
A Brave Youngster.
Daniel Bonnet was a weaver 200 years
ago in the French village of Thorigne.
Ho and his wife were Huguenots, and
they talked incessantly to their three
little children of the glory of holding by
their faith and, if needs be, of dying
for it.
The troops were sent into the village
to convert tho Huguenots at the sword's
point, and Bonnet and his wife attempt
ed to escape to tho coast.
They loaded a donkey with vegetables
as if for market, but hid the three little
ones in the panniers, charging them, as
they valued their religion, to keep
silent, no matter what happened.
M. Bonnet, with a basket of turnips,
trudged ahead; his wife drove the don
key. Just outside the village they met
a trooper.
"Going to market?" he said suspi
ciously. "Then lean try if your carrots
be tender." He plunged his sword into
the pannier and waited, but not a sound
was heard. "Wherever yon go, bon
voyage, mes amis!" he shouted, and gal
loped away.
The wretched parents had to wait un
til he was out of sight before they could
open the basket. Their boy, a child of
five, had been stabbed through the
thigh.
"But I did »ot speak, mother!" he
cried, and fainted..
The Bonnets escaped to America, and
the blood of the brave lad still runs in
the veins of good men and women.—
Youth's Companion.
An Experiment with Scouring Krah.
If wo take a small vial of nitric acid
and immerse any ordinary leaf therein,
wo shall quickly see it dissolve, literally
eaten up by the acid. But what does
the scouring rush do under such circum
stances?
Immediately upon its introduction to
the acid the sizzling process begins; the
green pulp of the stem is gradually con
sumed, the tube, however, still retain
ing its shape, becoming paler and paler
in color until, after a few hours, our
specimen is transformed into a pure
white alabasterlike column, which de
fies any further attack from the acid.
Upon taking it from tho vial and
washing it carefully in running water'
wo hold in our hands a beautiful tube of
pure, glassy flint or silex, an object of
great microscopic beauty of construc
tion. Our scouring :ush is no longer a
vegetable, but a mineral, and in observ
ing its skeleton of stone we easily un
derstand the secret of its utility as a
scouring brush.—William H. Gibson in
Sharp Eyes.
His Version for Her.
A small genius, aged four, was being
taught by his grandmother a new prayer
the other night. It was in verse and
ran thus:
Jesus, gentle shepherd, lead me;
Keep thy little lamb tonight.
"Grandma," said the boy, "do yon'
say that prayer?"
"Well, not exactly," she answered.
"Why?"
" 'Cause if yon said it you'd have to
let the 'little lamb' go and say 'keep the
old sheep.'"—Boston Transcript.
Heredity.
A mother, indignant to find her little
daughter low in her class at school, ex-j
claimed wrathfully: "I'm ont of all
patience with you, Mollie. I shonldl
just like to know why Sallie Jones is!
always at tho head of her class and you
always at the foot!"
Mollie hesitated for a moment, andl
then looking her mother squarely in the]
face, said demurely, "You seem to for-l
get, mamma, that Sallie Jonos had very!
clever parents I"—Kate Field's Washing-] -
ten.
As Muiidle Understood It.
"Mamma, does Mrs. Brown want to
cell hor baby?" asked Maudie.
"I don't think so, my dear. Why?"
"I was at Nancy Brown's house this
afternoon and her mother was singing,
'Buy, oh, my baby!' all the time."—Har
per's Bazar.
A Fashionable Miss.
Mamma—What under the sun are you
doing with little Dot's clothes on?
Little Dick (despondently)— Well, Dot
said she wanted to be in th' fashion and !
she's gone off with all of mine.—Good
News.
The "well of frozen air" is near Day
ton, Ga. The drill passed through a five
foot stratum of frozen gravel into a se
ries of cavities from which gusts of
freezing air come with perfect regularity*