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"What a snob I am! To part with
daddy's watch for a suit of old clothos!" But the next moment he thought that he could pawn it. lie wonld soon have it back. Save the money, or earn it? somehow. It wa> not as if he were yielding to a iciou3 temptation of the town?gambling or drinking. The society of these highbred pe.tpie would elevate, educate him. There was a tap at the door, aud Mitchener camc in. "No, can't sit down; I'm in a hurry. Brought a message from my mother. She would like to have yo.i join au operaparty to night. Eight or ton young people. Meet nt our house, box at the opera, and back to supper afterward. You'll come? That's right. Goodmorning I" No! no! Stay! Mr. Mitchener!" His common-sense suddenly rose strong and clear. "I ought not to begin this life. i" TO FAME. "Bright fairy of tho morn, with flowers arrayed Whose beauties to thy young pursuer *eora Beyond the ec3ta3y of poet's dreamShall I o'ertake thee, ere thy lustre fade? "Ripe glory of the noon, to dazzled eyes A J ageant of delight and bower of gold, Dls;olviag into mirage manifoldDo I o'ertake thoa, or mistake thy pri e? " Dull shadow of tho evening, gauut and gray, At random thrown, beyond me. or above And cjld as memory in the arms of lova? Have I o'erta'en thee, but to cast away?" "No morn, or noon, or eve am I," she said "But night, the depth of night behind the >UU f B.v all mankind pursued, but never won, Until my shadow falls upon a shade." ?Harpei 's Magazine THE PAWNED WATCH. BY REBECCA HARDIXC DAVIS. "Taking the line 3, 4 as the base. I" David Kershaw's eyes wandered from the book to the window. There was notbiug to bj seen there but a red brick Wall.about three feet distant. Then they traveled wearily over the walls of his room, with their soiled red and yellow paper, the bare l!oor, the cheap ]iiue table pile 1 with books, the cot-bed in ' mc vuiiiuu "If one had even a fire or a stove!'" he muttered, kicking at the black grating of the register, through which a feeble aupply of warm air crept into the room. Jtle took up his book, scrowling impatiently. "If I take 3, 4 as the ba-c'' an J again the hook dropped on his knee. our years of this! Four years of utter solitude! You've taken toa big a contract, Dave! You can't go through with it!" and he fell to staring gloomily j at the bricks outside of the window. David Kershaw was a cou it ry boy, U8e<l to a free, oat-door life, to a big house, with roariug fires, ar.d to a large, i cay family ol* young people He had beeu working for years for the money to carry him through college, and had come np to begin his course three months ago. He had not an acquaintance in the great city. He rented this attic room, bought his dinner for ten or fifteen cents at a cheap eating-house, and ate crackers and cheese for brejkfast and supper. His clothes were coarse and ill-fitting, and ; he was painfully conscious of it, aud held ( him elf haughtily aloof from his fellow Student-. College lads are not apt to ] break through any shell of pride and sul- j lenne s to find the good fellow b?neath. j They simply let David alone, with a care-' less indiilerence more galling than dislike. lie plodded silently from the college | to his bare room, and thence to the mis- j; erab!ccating-hou-c day after day. Being naturally a genial, friendly fel- j low. the thought of the four !ong. lonely | jears iu uuuie sictwt-ueu mm. i 1 He threw up the window presently, ! and put his head i ut to catch a glimpse j of the streot into which the alley opened. j A young man on horseback passed at the j moment. It was Jourdan Mitcliencr, | one of his cla-s. Ho rode a blooded ' mare, and was fcilly equipped in cordu- | roy coat and knickerbockers, cream colored legjings, and gauntlets. 'A regular swell." thought Kershaw, laughing good-humoredly. He had no- i ticed this Crasus of the college before. "He has a gocd strong face. Well, luck's unevenly divided in this world!" takiug up his book with a sigh. Half an hour later there was a knock i at the do:>r. David opened it, expecting to sec his landlady, but there stood i Mitchem-r, smiling, whip in hand. rv">Jr, Kershaw?" lifting his hat. ! "Ashamed not to have known you be- j /ore, but there are such a lot of us iel-j lows, you know. Thauks, yes,' taking . chair. "My mother saw your name in j a catalogue, and sent me to te'l you that your mother and ?he were schoolmates and frionds, 'Daisy' and 'Lily'? that sort of thing, I believe. My mother married a city man, and for that reason, during the years that have pas ed, has j lost sight of her old schoolmates who j lived away from the city." 'Anrl inn mnrrifid a farmpr. ' and has been poor all of her life,'' inter- , ruptcd David, morosely. "Yes, yes. American life! Up to-day and down to-morrow," carelessly. Something in Mitchener's minrtcr made his wealth and David's poverty appear paltry accidents, to which they, as men. were loftily superior. Before they had been together ten minutes, David felt bis morbid gloom disappear. He began to talk naturally and laugli heartily. "This Mitche er was a thorough g^od fellow," he wrote home that night. "Was not conscious, apparently, that he was worth a dollar." Tiie truth was that Jourdan fully apj?) preciated the value of h's father's great wealth, but he was a well-bred and courteous your.g fellow, and knew how to put a poor and awkward lad at ease. r"\i\ershaw was invited to dinner at Mr3. Kitchener's on Sunday. lie went about the next day after tins dinner in a daze of delight, a< if he had been passing through a golden mist aud hud brought ome of it still clinging to him. lie hummed a tunc, as he pored over his problems. He did not sec the hare floor and hideous wall-paper, but the beauti' home in which he had been treated as an honored guest. The Persian carpets, the statuary, the table brilliant with flowers and silver, even the delirious lla;? . vors of the dishes lingered gratefully on his long-starveJ palate, lie had met, too, women more charming and men more gentiy-bred than any he had ever known before. What a world they lived in! lie was even yet bewildered by his glimpse into it. Kvcry luxuiy and delight waited on the lifting of their hands. Libraries, galleries of art, operas, balls, voyages to Europe, to the Nile! This was iife! He wanted more of it? more of it. Mrs. Mitchncr had asked him to co ;:e often: had offered to introduce him to her friends, "a gny young set," she said. He walked up and down the room, flushed and panting. lie had never dreamed of such a world! He must see more of it! How stale and dull the Latin and mathematics seemed now! But how to compass it? He could not go again without a dress-suit, lie had seen < no that day in a second-hand shop, cry i:':e p. His blood g.cw hot at tlu* idea of wearing some other man's cast-off clothes, but he pushed that thought faidc. How could he raise the money? He drew out his watch. It was a gold one, the one luxurious possession in the family. His father had solemnly given it to him whtm he left home, saying: ' It was my father's. I've kept it in my bureau drawer for twenty years. Take it, David. You're goin' out into the world. You'll never disgrace it, my boy.'' l?emembering the old man's facc as he said this, David thrust it back into bis pocket. I,:.:' It's your life, not mine. I'm a poor man. ] I have four years of hard work here before me. and after that my living to earn. Even the hour at your house yesterday ruinel me lor study to-day." "Well! well!"said Jourdan, carelessly. "Don't be so vehement about it. Going once to the opvra will not make you a man of fashion for life. Think it over, and come. Give the college the go-by for a day. "Oh, by the way!" he added, coloring a little. "Can I be of pecuniary service to you, Kershaw? No, don't be offended. I have more of the filthy lucre than I know what to do with. The fact is, I was just going to buy a terrier that I j don't want. Now, if I could lend the j money to you, it would be a real pleasure i to me." "Thank you!" Kershaw stammered, touched, yet an^jry. VI do n t need any I money. I have everything I need? 1 clothes and all," lie added, with a gulp. "Now I am iu for it!" he groaned, j wben Mitchener was gone. "If I don't. go to their party, they'll think I had no j clothes lit to wear. The watch has to j go!" He paced the floor, one minute blaming | himself for a snob, the next thr.lied with ! delight at the thought of the evening's j pleasure. His books lay neglected all j day. lie could not quiet the raging whirl and confusion in his mind enough I to think of st dv. He decided on nothing until nearly dark, when ho rushed out, pawned the watch for one-fourth its value, and ! bought the evening suit. There was not j money enough left to buy the shoe-, , glove", etc., necessary to complete the Hroaa When h? was rcadv to <?0. even I his inexperionced eye could sec that his J costume did not set on him as if it were ! made for him. But what matter? Ilis friends?his 1 welcome?the music. Who would care what clothes he wore? Arrived at Wrs.Mitchener's, he did not , find himself at all ut case. That l:idy was quite occupied with her duties as , hostess, and received him with careless j civilty, giviuLf her iittention to her other ; guests. They talked of people and things j of which he knew nothing. The tall, j awkward lad, his hair carefully oiled :md ; parted, his red hauds protruding from his short coat-sleeves, sat silent, and felt j thoroughly miserable and out of place. ; Now atid then he thought he saw one of the dainty women near by scanning him with furtive g.'ances. They drove to the opera-house and en- | tend one of the proscenium boxes. ; Davd had a seat at the back, where lie could catch but an occasional glimpse of the stage and the brilliant audieuee. He had been the leader of the choir at home, and fond of the waltzes and marches which his sister played on the old piano, j and fnucicd himself a connoisseur in j music, inn ne w?s not cuui-aiuu iu understand this music. A very pretty, flighty young lady, Mrs. Bellew. "who was the chaperone of the \ party, tried politely to make him talk to j her, but in vain. She turned to Jourdan at Iftst with a shrug of her bare shoulder*. "Your friend,"she whispered, "seems to be absorbed by his own thoughts. He does not look as if he were enjoying ! himself. Who is he?" "One of my mother's last hobbies; a student in the college from the country," he replied, in the same tone. They turr.ed to the stage. Kershaw saw their smiles, and knew they were talking of him. His bruin was on fire. ! Why had he come heie? Was he not the equal of these dainty folk, as well-born, as virtuous, as clever, as they? They dared to despise him becau e he was awkward and ill-dressed! In his embarrassment and misery he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat, and drew out a little painted paper tablet, which he fingered mechanically, scarcely noticing what it was until he saw Mrs. Bellew's eyes fixed on it with amazement and suspicion. When the curtain fell on the first act. she came back to him, making some incoherent remarks about the play, while she looked at him keenly. Suddenly she grew pale, and interrupting herself in the middle of a sentence, said to Kershaw: ! 'Will you be good enough at the close of the next act to go with me and Mr. Mitchener iuto the anteroun? I would like to speak with you."' When they had reached the anteroom at the close of the act, she said: 4,I have a most disagreeable quest'on to ask. Mr. Kershaw. Our house was robbed by burglars last Monday, and silver and jewelry and clothes were taken. Among the rest was an evening suit of my husband's. You have it on! " "Aren't you mistaken, Mrs. Bellew?" said young Mitchener. "One dress suit is exactly"like another, and?'' "My husband," she went on,excitedly, "wore it to a ball the night before it was stolen. As we came home, he put my tablet, with my dances on it, in one pocket. In the other was my ruby ring, which was too large for my glove. Mr. Kershaw has the tablet in his pocket." Kershaw mechanically thrust his hand into the pocket of the coat, and brought out the tablet and a second later the ring, which had caught in the lining and so escaped the notice of the thief. He si'.ently held them out to her. The power 01 spcecn ann action seemeu c j ou noten out of h'm with horror. Mitchener looked at him excitedly, but said, politely: "Have you any objections to telling Mrs. Iiellew how the suit came in your possession?" Kershaw stared at him a moment, full of repugnance and contempt for himself. These were "his ne*.v friends:" this was the party he had parted with his old father's sift to enter! "I did not, of course, <teal the clothes," lie said ;;t list. "You cannot really think I did that. But I bought them at a pawnshop to day. I pawned my watch to do it. I wanted to come here." "All right! all right!" interposed Mitchener, soothingly. "You can Bend Mr. lJellew the name of the pawnbroker, and ho will recover his silver and jewelry. Mrs Bellew, the curtain is up." She fluttered softly back to her seat, arranging her airy draperies and flowers, and glanced meaningly at young Mitchener, as if to express disgust for the poor wretch who had bought cast-off clothes to thrust himself in among people whom he regarded as his superiors. 4 David saw it all, and rose from his seat I panting and trembling. "Sit down! Sit down!, Kershaw!" | said Mitchcncr, putting his hnnd on his! . e^nnMor Howirl oV?/\nLr if aAF ! i9UUl?IUV>l< a/U I 1U UiiW/iv AW VJU "No; I've been a fool, bat I've done with it all now. I'll send back the clothes?" "Oh no!" said Mrs Bellew, looking back with a supercilious .'njilc. "Fray keep them." Tavid left the box, and rushing home,stunned with rage and shame, tore o.t the stolen clothes and carried them to Mr. Bellew's house. The next day Mitcber.er, who had a good deal of kind- j ness and tact, arranged the matter. The ; pawnbroker, who was a receiver, of | stolen goods, was forced to give up the | plate, jewelry and David's watch. The thieves were discovered and punished. Mrs. Mitchener, still loyal to her old friend, sent David an invitation to a ball the next week. He declined it. "I havo made a mistake," he told Jourdan, "but I will not do it again. My path in life is straight before me. With God's help. I Avill keep in it." j His bitter humiliation had taught him juster views of life. As time passed, he made friends among the other students, clever, unpretentious young fellows, who, like himself, had their own way to make in life. His college days passed <|Uickly. He studied mcdicinc, and returned to his native town to practice. Twenty years afterward, Mr. Jourdan Mitchener, passing through this town, now one of the most important cities in Pennsylvania, became suddenly ill, and was attended for several weeks by Dr. Kershaw. J.'e heard from others of the high position held by the physician in the community; not only as the head of his profession, but as an influential citizen, foremost in every good work, the founder of asylums, while h s family were the centre of the most cultured circle in the city. Mitchcner had married a very wea'thy woman, and had continued to live only in pursuit of fashionable amusement. "And what have I gained by it?" he thought, bittcriy. "If I were to die tomorrow. I should be remembered only as the man who kept the best French cook in New York." "You were right," he said to the doctor when he came that afternoon. "You were right to keep to your own straight, honorable pa>h, and refuse to ape fashion." "I tried it once, you remember," said the doctor, smiling. "The most fortunate event of my life was my humiliation about mv pawned watch. It was a bitter dose, but it cured me effectually. Every tick of this old watch siuce"? drawing it out?"has said to me: 'Don't be a snob. Keep steadily on your own path.' I owe much to Mrs. Bellew. Her treatment of me and my foolish act turned me back from the wrong road. It would have made my life a failure."? Youth's Companion. Peculation ia Cuba. The Spanish system of administration recognizes peculation as an official per quisite. A former collector of customs in Cuba held the post for two years, lie sent to his patron in Spain, from whom the appointment came, the whole of his salary. But when he himself left the island, he took with him sixty thousand dollars, the net profit of two years' service in the custom house. Not only the head of departments, but all the subordinates, including the servants, think they are at liberty to make the most they can out of their official positions. A Cuban physician and savant. with a large practice was ap pointed to rcpre eut the island at the Washington .Medical Congress. The | Secretary who wrote to inform him of his appointment, added that he would be allowed two hundred dollars for his personal expenses. The physician declined the appointment, much to the annoyance of the captain-general, who, on meeting him a few days after, inquired why he had refused to accept the honor. "I could not afford, sir, to leave my large practice and pay my own expenses for the meagre sum of two hundred dol lars," answcreu iuc uotiur. "There must be a mistake somewhere," rejoined the captain-general, opening his eyes very wide; "for I remember that the amount of the grant was two thousand dollars." An inquiry revealed the fact that the clerks in ihe captain-general's office had agreed to offer the physician two hundred dollars, and share the remaining eighteen hundred among themselves.? ! Youth'* Companion. The Sailor FIsli. In the warm wnters of the Indian ; Ocean a strange mariner is found that has given rise to many curious tales among the natives of the coast thereabout. They tell of a wonderful sail ' often seen in the calm seasons preceding the terrible hurricanes that course over those waters. Not a breath then dis' turbs the wate", the sea rises and falls like a va9t sheet of gla<8; suddenly tnc 1 sail appears, glistening with rich purple and golden hues, and seemingly driven along by a mighty wind. On it comes, quivering and sparkling, as if bedecked ! with gems, but only to disappear as if by magic. Many travelers had heard with ' unbelief this strange talc; but one | day the phantom craft actually appeared to the crew of nn Indian steamer, and as it passed by under the i stern of the vessel, the queer "sail" was seen to heiong to a gigantic sword-fish, ; now known as the sailor-fish. The sail was really an enormously developed dorsal fin that was over ten feet high, and j was richly colored with blue and irides cent tints; and as the fshswam along on 1 or near the surface of the water, this great fin naturally waved to and fro, so that, from a disiance, it could easily be mistaken for a curious sail. S jme of these fishes attain a length of over twenty feet, and have large, crescent-shaped tails and long, sword-like snouts, capable of doing great damage. 1 ,1 C .1, I in xne .weuuerraucuu cuu u shuiu-u^u is fouud that also has a high fin, but it does not ei|ual the great sword-fish of the Indian Ocean.?St. Nicholas ? Tlie Papabotte. j The papabotte is a bird which make? | its appearance i:? Southern Louisiana ! about May, and abounds until Septcm| ber. It seems to belong to tho plover family, though the resemblance is not j complete sit all points. However, it is a bird abo.it the size of a woodcock, with | I grayish jln-nage and a bill short and j hard, which makes ils appearance about tho time the Cantharis vesicatoria (Spanish fly) begins to depredate upon the I vegetable gardens. These fli-.-s destroy 1 the foliage of the potato and the tomato, | and other vegetables. They appear in | countless myriads, coming no one knows whence, but leaving behind them a terrible record of devastation. On these insects the papabotte preys, with immeasurable voracity, and grows so fat that when it falls before the gun of the sportsmau it bursts like a ripe apricot. The papabotte is wonderfully shy of sportsmen, but will allow a quadruped or a vehicle to come very near, and he j who rides or drive* may thus choose his own time and opportunity. ; A MAORI TANGI. FUNERAL CEREMONY OP THE NEW ZEALAND NATIVES. ProTe sional Motirnsrs Wiio?e Grief Entitles Them to a High Place Among Tcar-tthi'drtcrs? Merry-Making. Very .sincere and mournful muat have been the tangi held at Kotoiua. in New Zealand, mafuing the dual laying to rest of the victims of the eruption of Tarawera. Verv. verv different from the first of tho-e curiou3 and interesting ceremouies that I had opportunity to witness; one in which the element of fun largely exceeded thnt of grief. I saw several moro serious onus after that, but the tangi of the present generation must nearly alwaysbe more a festival than a funeral, and especially so to the youthful Maori, since it is the occasion of a great "gathering of the clans;" a drawing together of distant friends and relatives; a suitable time for tho exchange of gifts and souvenirs; a season of excessive feasting and bibulating, and the levelrythat so often j'olloweth such indulgence. Tnis particular tangi, the fir.-t in my experience, was at \v hakaiewarewa, a native settlement in the very midst of boiling water, hisising steam, volcanic rumblings a id earth tremors, that make one feariul at first of falling through the thin crust, which is all that separates one from the seething, gurgling, sulphurous, infernos, just beneath one's trembling feet. The sight of a hundred or more contented dark faces >miling in security and welcome went far to convince us that the country w;is safer than it looked, and so onward we went, picking our way through a scries of hot mud and hot water holes with m.ich care and attention to our step;. The whole settlement was in a ferment of preparation. Toilet preparation?, were progressing with much merriment ia the open air. me dresses of the women were European in fashion and were, in their brilliant combination of colors, so georgeous and dazzling that we turned our eyes in gratitude upon the clean white cotton suits worn by the men. Yet there was a picturesque and becoming elfcct in these flaming hues in contrast with the rich dark skins they set olL So much hearty fun was going on that I was fain to ask an explanation. "I thought 'tangi' was the Main word for 'weeping.'" "Yes," said my escort, "so it i-i: but the chief for whom this tangi is being held has been dead and buried these four months. He has already been mourned extensively; this is a final celebration arranged for the convenience of some of his tribe who live too far away to admit of their getting here in time for the chief ceremony. They have not arrived yet, but they soon will, and then t.:e weeping will begin. They arc only getting ready now; let's leave them to it and go and sec the geysers." We were attracted from the geysers by a loud cry from the settlement, and hur*<'< <? tliiflior wi? ?!iw nnnvnnchimr from w. MV W.... v ? ?e the distance a straggling equestrian cavalcade that we at unca diviued to be the expcctcd mourners. >'o\v the tangi would begin. Twenty or thirty stdwart Whakarewarewas rushed to the .summit of a sma'l eminence, and sent a long wailing, yet musical cry of "llaere inai! 11 acre mai!" ("Come hither! Come hither!"') markiDg time with a curious thud of their heels on the ground, and waving shawls and kerchiefs with a strange movement of invitation to the yet distant visitors. The la'.tcr presently dismounted, left their horseti and entered the settlement on foot, being met on the way by the residents, when ensued much rubbing of noses (the Maori manner of kissing,) and loud, piteous wailing on both sides. They all crowded together in the middle of the village, divided into two long rows, and there, standing face to face, they wept and wailed and shed water enough from eyes and noses to wet themselves to the very waist. The wecp'ng and the wailing, the beating of breasts and swaying of bodios continued until patience again grew weak, and wo inqui:ed as to the probable duration of this part of the ceremony, only to learn that it was indelinite, depending entirely upon the staying powers of the mourners. By the lengtli and loudness of their display their grief was measured and a spirit of emulation in the women caused this grief t > be just two hours and a quarter long, the Inst weeper in the field being a tall, b!anket-clothed female. She oozed grief from ever pore. All the mou ners wore wreaths and s" reamers o* fern and lycopodium, these being, as the cypress and myrtle to us, emblems of sorrow and death. When finally the champion weepe? sank exhausted to the ground as she found herself the last remaining member of the two long linc9fthe had commenced with, there began another tedious process that filled up quite another hour. Every man of both tribes had something to ?iy to the honor and glory of the departed. Each one rose in his turn and recitcd?or rather intoned or chanted? a lenethv nanefrvric. in s.ibstance and truth corresponding very ue;\rly, no doubt, with the legends so often inscribed on the marble slabs that coyer j the pakehn dead. "Well, at last the weary weeping and praising ceremonies were finished, and hey presto! for the fenst and jubilee. The women folk skipped aud scrambled, i laughed and chattered, as if tears and j lamentations xvutz things unknown. Info swiftly plaited fin.* baskets they put clean-.scraped potatoes, swinging the baskets then in the boiling springs to cook. From holes in the steaming ground the men drew forth whole pig-'i, hot and odorous, but very black ani tough-looking. The potatoes were delicious. We hungry wanderers full readily accepted the invitation to partake, but we had to pass by the pork, as al?o another dainty edible, brought out for our special delectation, which looked and smelt like stale broiled boots but was we were told, dried wild pigeon, considered by the Maoris a very choice delicacy, indeed. T>_il_ L r 41,? k.n.Mlnf J2UIJ1 L> Hire UUU IIAtUl llic Muiiiju.u vuv natives danced a hnka of jubilee. It was a fascinating exhibition. Some twenty young men formed one line; an equal number of young women ranged themselves in a row opposite. A white clad youth, wielding a whalebone mere as bo,ton, acted as master of cercmonies, and chanted a quaint strain, to which the dancers kept perfect time with hands, fect, tongues and C3'es. The whole forty acted as one. The precision and unanimity were wonderful. One figure! of the dance consisted of a measured beat of the feet, a queer quivering motion of the fingers and a low chanted monotone chorus that terminated at regular intervals in a long, gasping, thrilling sigh. It was very curious, and, I repeat, very fascinating, j Over and over agnin we asked for its repetition. With the feasting came drinking, and the liquors were rum and beer. When we quitted the interesting sccne both men and wo.nen were fast becoming drunk. Ten thousand pities that there cannot be an effectual stoppage to the liquor trade between unscrupu'ous white people and this fine, stalwart, intelligent race, whoso intellectual development places it in the van of all races that have ever been called "black" or "savage." The Maoris' appetite for strong drink is their great curse; through it come wauess, craft, indifference to their own well-being, and?ultimate extermination. ?San Francisco Call. The Gorilla at Home. Some facts in relition to the giant monkey have been collected by a writer in Chambers's Journal, and are most interesting. The aged male gorilla, he says, in the full strength of Ins bodily development, is a creature of terrible aspect. This animal, when standing upright, is more than six feet in height. The hiudcr part of the head is broader below thfiu above, and the projecting arches above the eyes give a peculiar prominence to this part of the skull. ' The dark eyes glow between the lids with a ferocious expression." The neck is very powerful, almost like that of a bull, and the shoulders are remarkable for their breadth. The arms are very long, and of enormous strength; but the leg short and feeble in proportion. The gorilla inhabits the forests of West Africa, and is sometimes seen in large numbers on the seacoast, probably driven thither from the interior by a scarcity of food. The gorilla, moreover, lives in a society consisting of male and female, with their young of varying ages, and the family group inhabit; the recesses of the forest. According to one observer, they frequent I the sleeping-place not move tnan tnree or four times cousccutively, and usually | spend the night wherever they happen to I be when night cornea on. The male I gorilla chooses a suitable tree, not very : high, and by twisting and bending the branches constructs a kind of rude bed I or nest for his family. lie himself spends 'the night under the tree, and thus protects the female and their young from the nocturnal attacks of leopards, which, are always ready to devour all species of j apes. In the daytime the gorillas roam through the forest in search of the favorite leaves or fruits which form their food. | In walking gorillas place the backs of their closed fingers on the ground, or more rarely support themselves on the flat palm, while the bent soles of the feet are also in contact with the ground. Their gait is tottering; the movement of the body, which is never in an upright position as in man, but bsnt forward, rolls to some extent from one side to another. They are skillful climbers, an" when ranging from tree to tree will go to their very tops. The gorilla is re ganlcd as a ureacuui ana very aangerous animal by the negroes who inhabit j the same country; though Professor | Ilartman considers that Du Chaillu'sdeI scriptions are greatly exaggerated "for j the benent of his readers." When the I animal is scared by man he generally j takes to flight screaming, and he onlyas| sumcs the defpnsiveif wounded or driven j iuto a corner. At su:h times his si/e, : strength,and dexterity combine to render j him a formidable enemy. "He sends ! forth a kind of howl or furions yelp, I stands up on his hind legs like an enraged bear, advances with clumsy gait ! in this position and attacks his enemy, j At the same time the hair on his head ' and the nape of hi3 neck stands erect, ; his teeth are displayed, and his eyes I flash with savage fury. He beats his massive breast with his fists, or beats the j air with them. Koppenfels says that if I 110 further provocation is given, and his ! opponent gradually retreats before the | animal s rage has reached its highest j point, he does not return to the attack, j In other cases he pa-ries the blow direct! ed against him with the skill of a practiced tighter; and. as is also done by the bear, he grasps his opponent by the arm and crushes it, or eise mruws iuc mau down aud rends him with his terrible canine teeth." Humor in Children, At what age is a sense of humor u-uallv developed? It very rarely exists in children under twelve. The funny things that small children say are not funny to them; the odd and startling questions they ask have to them no element of the incongruous. It is usually only when thev lose the faculty of making edd or deep observations that they begin to see any humor in them. Much of their apparent brightness comes from ignorance of the true relation of things. A couple of incidents illustrate this. A gentleman in Massachusetts who was born for a soldier, but had never the opportunity to indulge himself in this capacity, was made a member of the Governor s staff. He at once procured a j uniform that for gold and gorgcousncss i surpa sed anything ever seen in the milli tia. Arrayed in this dazzling costume, j he called one evening at a house to acj company a young lady to a reception, i The little girl of the family, who was j above-stairs watching the progress of : her sister's toilet, ran to the balustrade J and peeped over wften me wit rang, I and saw this Resplendent Being enter tho ball. "Who is it, Joe?" cried the sister. "I don'know," replied the appreciative child?"I doa' know, but I think it is God." The other incident may be called more subjective. A lady one day drove to the | house of a clergyman who served a large ; parish, and of course was frequently sent j for to attend funerals. While the carriage was waiting, the coachman took up one of the children of the family, a boy of three years, aud drove round the j square. When he was set down, the : boy marched into the parlor, and, by way of acknowledgment, said to the lady: "Aunt Lu, I've been ridin' iu your J funeral."?Har[.?)'. ? Transforming Shakespeare's Sayings. All the simple proverbs used in our i every-day work and life are drawn from i Shakespeare. A few of thum arc: Sha'cespeare: The sun snines hot, and if we use delay Cold-biting winter mars our hoped-for hay. Modern form: Make bay -while the sun shines. Shakespeare. i Whutfates iniDOsc.that men must n?ed-i abide, | It boots not to*resist Inth wind nnd tide, j Modern form: Wind and tide wait for no nan. Shakespeare: 'Tis the more honor, berause more dangerous. Modern form: The place of honor is the pjst of danger. Shakesp are: I will arm me, being thus fore warned. Modern form: Forewarned, forearmed Shakespeare: Both of you are birds of self-same feather. Modern form: Birds of a feather flock together. Shakespoaro: Strike now or else the iron cools. Modern form: Strike while the iron is hot. Shakespeare: ' 'That would be a ten days' wonder at the least, That's a day longer than a wonder lasts." Modern form: A nine days' wonder. Shakespeare: The common peoplo swarm like Mummor flies. Modern form: Swarm like flies. Shakespeare: And I forgive and quite forget old faults. Modern form: Forgive and forget THE FORK, HISTORY OF THIS ARTICLE OP DOMESTIC UTILITY. Introduced in England from Italy in Shakespeare's Time?Opposition to Its Use?Former Customs at thc'Table. Knives are almost as old as fingers, remains of them having been found among the earliest relics of the race, but the use of the fork as a table implement has not been known quite three hundred years. About the time Shakespeare was retiring from the Olobe Theatre to enjoy the life of a country squire at Stratford a traveled Englishman named Coryate introduced the table fork into England from Italy. It is well known th tt our English ancestors did not take kindly to innovations. Not more than a hundred years since, Jonas Hauway was hissed and stoned in the streets of Loudon for carrying an umbrella. Mr. Coryate was not stoned, but he was much abused for using a fork at table. He was called a Furcifer, which is Latin for fork bearer I and also for gallows rogue. English I society was pricked by the pronged instrument into quite a passionate indignation. The pulpit denounced and the stage derided it, while everybody for a time pushed the novelty aside with words of disdain. An indignant preacher declared to his hearers that to touch meat with a fork was to declare impiously that God's comfortable creatures were not worthy of being touched by human hands. Beaumont and Fletcher seasoned one of their plays with a fling at the fork-carving traveler, and a popular w:iter urged all young men returning from their tours to lay aside the fork of Italy, as we'.l as the ailectcd gesture of France, and all strange apparel, liut Coryate persevered, and finally succeeded in thrusting the fork between the teeth of society. It at last became an established institution of the table about the close of Charles II's reign, in 1685, though still derided and scorned by the humbler classes. The earliest forks were made of iron or steel, thouga some used by the very wealthiest people were made of silver. The possessor of a silver fork carried it about with him in a case, as he did his knife and spoon, and when invited out to dine was expected to use them. Tho silver fork in the form we know it was very rare until about the commencement of tfie present century, and within the memory of people not old its introduction encounterrd no little opposition. Even now there are elderly people who prefer the steel fork of their young days to the silver fork, or its imitation, that fashion now decrees to be the one indispensable implement at table. It is hard to estimate what this insignificant Italian device has done for civilization and pood manners. Before it came into u>e table customs were not pleasant. As is well known the ancients ate at table in a reclining position. Neither knives nor forks were used. Persons of rank kept a carver for cutting meat, who performed his duty according to certain rules, using the only knife at table and cutting the food into small pieces. Having no fork he would steady the piece to be cut with his hand. In eating solid food the fingers were used to convey it to the mouth. Epicures were in the habit of making the ends of their fingers callous that they mi^ht handle the hottest 100a. jp or uqums, spoons were used, but often a hollow piece of bread served as a substitute Bread was not cut, but broken. Much 't wiping of the hands was, of course, indispensable, and for this purpose each guest at a feast carried his own napkin. I'lebsians were content to lick their fingers as well as their platters, but the moderate class, who could not afford napkins, used the jcrumb3 of bread kneaded into a dough. Sometimes a kind of dough was specially prepared for the purpose. Upon the whole, those ancient epicures, of whom we have read so much, Apicius, Lucullus, and the rest, must have generally had an uncleanly and slobbering time of it at their feasts, and the r long beards and toga* must have received much that was intended for the mouth. The medieval people had the advantage over the ancients in their po>turc at table, sitting upright, thus leaving both hands free for action. But dining in that olden time must have resembled feasting at a trough more than anything else. The food was placed on the table in great platters and md<> fnastor <rr>ibbed su jh portions VV*VI* ***" " ? o . as he wished, or could get from dishes brimming with thick gravy, and carried the dripping morsel over the table to his mouth. During the prevalence of such customs, the dame or demoiselle who dipped only the tips of her fingers into the sauce bowl, and continued to eat her dinner without letting fragments of food drop from her lips to the table, was commended for exemplary breeding. Queen Elizabeth fingereri her victuals with some nicety, but she did finger them, nnd dipped into the same di-hfts witn her courtiers. At the conclusion of a meal the dishes and cloth were removed, a laver of water was passed, and the satisfied feasters washed their lips and hands and wiped them on a napkin. In those times of no forks and much washing after meals, the napkin was a thing of use, and was indi pensable for decency and cleanliness. The introduction of the fork made napkins no longer a necessity, and they began to disappear irom mu tables of economical housekeepers. Napkins retired before the victorious forks, and soon became mere ornaments of the table, when used at all. , The greatest ingenuity was exerted to fold them in fantastic ami curious ways, and instructions for folding dinner napkins in twenty-six different fashions were in vo<jue in Charles II.'s time. They were folded to resemble birds, or fishes. ox animals, and to undo one was to destroy a work of art and a sad offense against propriety and good manners. Many a fine hostess would as soon have had a guest break a Sevres plate as to unfold the linen curiosity before him. Down to the clo e of the eighteenth century napkins were generally discarded f.om fashionable tables, a small doylev with the dessert being a'l that was ever used. Chicago IleralJ. Wheat on Susre Brush Land. In the springof lSs:i the land department of the Central Pacific Hail road decided to make a faithful experiment of wheat growing on the sage brush land of Nevada without irrigation. At first I the experiment was a partial failure, but this ycl?r has proved a most gratifying success, the land yielding fifteen bushels to the acre, and the quality of wheat being good. The result of this experiment would seem to indicate that the sage brush land of Nevada is worth something after all, in which case the State may become something more than a pocket borough.?New York Tribune. It is said that English sparrows shun premises where red pepper is sprinkle freely among ivy or other vines. i HOUSEHOLD ^MATTERS. y Keeping Sloths Oat of Carpets. All around under the edges place tarred paper, or heavy paper soaked with tallow; either will prevent the insects from getting underneath at the edges. Should they get beneath it or in a heavy, thick carpet, so that sweeping does not dislodge them, then thoroughly wet a cloth, place it over the infestid spots, and with a very hot iron preaa heavily, so as to drive the steam through the carf?et. That will destroy all eggs and arvae, whether of the moth or beetle. Should the carpets be badly invested, tnkc th#?m nn hpnt ftnrl RWA.-ii thpm thor oughly, and before relaying, scrub the floor with hot water, taking care not to spare the water in scums aud crevices in the floor. Then with a brush, feather or any other appropriate instrument smear into all crevices and under the baseboards kerosene or benzine. Thia will clean them out, and then the weekly sweeping and tarred paper will usually act as a preventive.?Cosmopolitan. Tho Washing of Flannels. Few people know how to wash flannel so that it may retain its good qualities. The following recipe I have used for eight years and can testify to its value. I have never had a piece of flannel shrunken; my children wear all flannel; nightgowns, dresses and underwear, all such articles are washed; even baby's white basket-cloth cloak goes through the wash without in ury. Take two bars of ivory soap, shave them up and dissolve in four and a half gallons of soft water?I put it on the B'.ove and boil it to hasten the process? turn into a five gallon crock, add two ? ' > ounces of powdered borax, a handful of sal-soda and enough ammonia to make it smell strongly; (over and set it away; when cool it ought to be of the consistency of soft soap. - '0 Now, to wash the flannel clothing, have some clear, warm, soft water in a tub; put in enough of the soap to make a suds, wash one article at a time, rinse in clear, soft, warm water, and hang up ft4- an/tA 7?1 ortnaIo cVi/mi 1/3 naffor ? vu ui j aw vuV/Ci a' lauuvio ouuutu uvt vb lie wet, and should never be allowed to * freeze dry. In winter flannels are washed after all the other clothes are out of the way, and hung o:> a line in the kitchen to dry. In summer they are washed : first and hung in thj sun. They must never be put in water which other clothes have been put in, but in clear, soft water. I havealway9 fou :d trouble, in changing servants, to induce them to adopt my method at first; but I insist upon it, and will not keep a servant unless she will conform to my way. After the novelty wears off there is n > further trouble, and . my children have the comfort of warm garments which, until they are wo n out, are never made stiff and uncomfortable. I have found it more economical to buy a good quility of flannel, and never buy the twilled ilannel; the silk and wool is nice for a "summer baby," but I don't think it hns the warmth of the pure all-wool.?Va'tyhood. Heclpcs. Cold Catsup.?Que pock ripe toma- , toes, cut fine a:ul s .uee e dry, three piats vinegar, three green peppers, three red peppers, salt to ta t?. One teacup mustard seed, two tablespoons black pepper, whole; four bunches celery, a few whole cloves, a few onions chopped fiO?. Mix well and bottle. Ltqht Cakk.?'J ake the whites of two eggs, one and one-half cup3 of white sugar, one cup of milk, one-half cup of butter, two cups of flour, and two teaspoonfuls of baking powder. After mixing flavor with lemon or add currants , (about a cup), or use raisins, candied peel, or a few cara.xay seeds. Veal Loaf.?Three pounds uncooked veal, quarter pound salt pjrk,chop these fine; add two eggs, one cup pounded crackers, one teaspoonful salt and two of pepper, sage and summer savory to suit the taste; mold into a loaf, put in a pan and bake one and a half hours; baste often; cut in slices when cold. Green Cork S? r.?Put in a saucepan half a pint of finely cut cabbage, one ? gill of celery also nne cur, two potatoes, one small onion aud two small carrots, all sliced, with two f.uarta of water, and simmer for one Iku-. Then add one pint of peeled t ni.itoes cut in slices,and boil half an hour longer. At the end of this time add half a pint of green corn pulp and let all boil up at once; season to taste and serve. If desired, the soup may be strained. To Pickle Tonockp.? Mix thoroughly four pounds salt, one pound sugar; > four ounces saltj.ctre: keep in dry place; for each tongue t.ke a teacup of the mixture, rub in well (on a fat dish),turn J and bask it every day for four days, then place in a large stone Jar, with all the brine that accumulates; always put the last tongue in the bottom of the jar and keep a heavy weight on the top. Tongues cannot be cured well in the summer, but from October all through tbc winter. Pickling Ccitmijkrs.?Se'ect very small cucumbers: wash them well and put them in a large bowl or jar. Stew - ^ them with salt anil pour a little water over them. Let them stand for twen+y^ four hours, turning them frequiSltiyr Put wine vinegar in a bra s kettle with J a good quantity of peppercorns, whole cloves and some bay leaves. To each quart of vinegar thirty pcppercorns, thirty cloves and eight bay leaves will be sufficient. Let all boll together. Dry the cucumbers with a linen cloth, pour the vinegar over them and cover them up. On each of the two following days ^ pour off tbo vinegar; Loil it, and then pour it boiling over the cucumbers. Cover and keep i:i a cool, dry place. , TIic lite's Sting-. The hive and its inmates afford, perhaps, a more interesting field for microscopic research than anything else in the whole in?ect kingdom. Take the bee's sting; why, that'alone might ocoupy all the rest of this pup r. The sheath makes the first wound, jind inside it. so managed that they inclose a tube-like space down which the poison runs, arc two darts, nil built in mi: h a strictly median ical way that Mr. Che-hire soys they remind him of the guide rods of a steam engine. The po'son is gummy, but is prevented from clogging the machine by a gland that secretes a lubricating oil. The quoin's sting is bigger than the workers'?drones have none?but it is practically baible.-s, and can therefore be easily brought away in-tead of being left in the wound and causing the death of the precious owner. It is a formidable weapon, the sheath so hard that it turns the finest razor edge; but a queen never stings except in contest with another queen; she may be handled with inpunity. Of the worker it is a mistake to say that it always leaves its sting in the wound and dies from the loss. If it generally does so, the fault often lies in yo'ir own impatience; bear it like a hero and the bee will work its sting round and round till it is able to withdraw it. without impediment. Of course you get pierced deeper and deeper, but then consider that the creature's life is saved by youi1 suffering.?All the Year Itovmi.