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The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, October 20, 1886, Image 6

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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.

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