New York dispatch. [volume], November 23, 1884, Page 2, Image 2

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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2
truth, lliaa Franklyn, I intend making your
Sousin my wife early next month ; and my next
as holiday-trip will'be our honeymoon. Fortune
been kind to me. By my late godfather’s will I
have come into fifty thousand pounds ; bo there
js no reason why our marriage should not take
place as soon as I can make the necessary ar
rangements.”
His eyes avoided meeting Venetia Franklyn’s
during the foregoing little speech. It had cost
him an effort to speak of his marriage to the
scornful beauty, for he felt instinctively that
she was averse to it.
“I congratulate you upon your good fortune,”
she said coldly, and laying a marked stress
upon the last two words.
“Butnot upon my marriage?” with an un
easy laugh.
“ I cannot congratulate you upon what is in
any estimation a piece of folly. Pardon me for
speaking plainly, Mr. Mistears ’’—calmly noting
the effect of a gay butterfly into which sherhad
'just put the final stitch.
Mistears colored under his tan.
“Certainly, Miss Franklyn,” he said stiffly.
•‘ But at the same time I am at a loss to know
What you mean by terming my alliance with
your cousin a piece of folly. May I request an
explanation ?”
i She shrugged her shoulders.
I “ You know what Shakespeare says about' a
young man married ?’ And in your case, at any
rate, I am of that opinion.”
“But I am nearly thirty—quite old enough to
.take unto myself a wife ’’—recovering his amia
bility. “Do you insinuate, Miss Franklyn, that
3am not old enough to know what is good for
<ne ?”
“ I think that you will regret sooner or later
taking such a rash step. I do not consider
(Rosemary Brae a suitable wife for you, with
{.your intellect; but I -may be mistaken—and it is
■Xio business of mine. What a rich carnation
fthat is which you have in your button-hole I"—
carelessly changing the conversation.
“ Is it worth your acceptance ?”—disengaging
the flower with a ready alacrity engendered by
/that flattering compliment to his intellect.
“ No; pray let it remain where it is, Mr. Mis
tears.”
But he had already taken it out of his coat,
■and, despite her protestation, he laid the blood
red blossom on her pink wrapper, laughingly
{quoting:
; “What, not accept my foolish flower?
Why then indeed I am unblest 1”
\ And Miss Franklyn not only accepted the
{flower, but actually condescended to place it
uamong the falling lace on her fair breast, where
St looked very effective, and was much approved
IJ>y the donor’s artistic eyes.
! Happy flower! Once, in bending low over
flier embroidery, Venetia Franklyn’s white chin
{rested on the carnation in her bosom. It he had
{not been an engaged man, how he should have
envied that caress. Free to have wooed, Mis
tears fait that he could have won Sir Richard’s
'queenly daughter. Ho looked at the forbidden
fruit with dangerously admiring, if not longing
/eyes. That feverish excitement was upon him
again. He moved his chair an inch or two
further away from the couch. It would soon be
/time for him to set out to meet his little sweet
heart. If he started in about ten minutes, that
Would do.
Yet ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed before
he made a move ; and then, alas for poor little
llosemary, it was a reluctant one !
*■***■»##
It was evening again, and the so-called haunt
ed room was filled with shadows. Gideon Mis
tears, who had spent the day at the Great
House, lounged in Rosemary’s window-seat
with his lady-love by his side and her hand in
his, amusing his fair companions with a ghost
etory.
But, thrilling as it was. it evidently lacked in
terest for Rosemary. Her sweet childish face
wore a troubled pre-occupied expression indica
tive of a mind ill at ease. It had not been a
happy day for her, in spite of her lover’s won
derful and satisfactory news. A terrible fear
had taken possession of the poor child that her
beautiful cousin had supplanted her in Gideon
Mistears’ affections. Did not be himself say !
that it was no unusual occurrence for him to
change his mind at the eleventh hour, as she {
would discover when she knew him as he was ?
And would his eyes rest so admiringly upon
Venetia if he were indifferent to her charms ?
He was rich now, and perhaps regretted his
rash promise to her insignificant little self. But 1
she could not release him. It would break her
heart. Venetia would soon be gone, that was
one consolation!
How did that carnation find its way to her
proud rival’s bosom unless he had given it to i
her ? Although Miss Franklyn had exchanged !
her becoming wrapper for one of her clinking 1
Indian silks, she still wore her flower. The hot i
walk to Ashfield had given Rosemary a dull, i
stupefying headache, which made her but poor i
company for tho man and woman of the world, i
But it did not matter to them. Venetia was so I
clever and entertaining that it really seemed at ’
times as though they had forgotten her—Rose- 1
xnary’s — presence altogether. True, Gideon
Mistears’ hand clasped Rosemary’s ; but there :
were none of the ardent pressures of last night. I
And indeed, alas for the poor little maid, her 1
handsome lover was thinking more of her beau- <
tiful, brilliant relative than of her as they throe :
sat there in the shadows. It was not that he >
liad ceased to love Rosemary; but the strange 1
power that Venetia Franklyn exercised over him '
was in full force and robbing him of his sober 1
senses. Her dominant beauty, her graceful re- £
oumbent form, the perfume of her garments, ’
threw a glamor over him which he strove to 1
shake off, but in vain. He thrilled guiltily when
ever his eyes rested upon tho flower in her I
breast—his flower ! And his strong fingers ac
tually trembled when, in parting, he took her 1
“ lily hand ” and held it for a brief Intoxicating >
moment or two, wishing madly that he dared 1
lift it to his lips.
He had to take a hasty leave of Rosemary, for !
lie had stayed too long already, and would have 1
to run for his train. His “ good-night ” kisses 1
were as loving as ever; yet Rosemary cried 1
herself to sleep that night.
' i
CHAPTER VIII.
M WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN HAPPY HAD WE MAB
■ BIED.”
Was he alone to blame ? Mistears put the
question to himself with a fierce, reckless light
in his gray eyes and a contemptuous sneer upon
iis lips, a sneer at his own miserable weakness,
which no one could despise and condemn more
than himself.
Day after day he hovered about Venetia t
{‘Franklyn’s couch, reading, playing, singing to
,'her when she was pleased to be amused, s
rather than amusing; and each night his re
morse stung deeper, and he made a firm re- ,
pelve to keep away from the Great House until
{Sir Richard’s daughter had departed thence.
[But when morning came his good resolutions ]
I invariably ended in his flinging himself into the
(train bound for Enmoor, and stifling the up
rbraidings of conscience with the sophistical
/balm that Rosemary would bo disappointed if
lie did not put in an appearance. ‘
j He was always kind to his little sweetheart, <
i and even more demonstrative in his display of 1
J affection than of yore. Yet tho small pale face
; bad lost its happy light, and wore a settled look
of sadness, which not even his kisses could dis- (
. pel. But he tried to persuade himself that Rose
mary was blind to the state of affairs between j
him and her cousin. ,
“ She was such an innocent darling—not like
other girls,” he convinced himself. He had not
yet broken the news of his engagement to his ,
{people. It would be better to wait until the ex
citement occasioned by his sudden accession of ,
{wealth had subsided a little. A wefflj hence (
would be time enough. .
Had fie ceased to love Rosemary ? No, not ,
.that; she must ever be dear to him with her ,
love and purity. It was merely a mad iufatua- ;
Sion, this feeling he bore toward beautiful Vene- ;
lia Franklyn, that had laid hold of him. He
could not analyze it; neither could ho overcome
It, although, to give him his due, he had tried.
' Ah, well, she was really going away from En- 1
moor on the morrow I—and Gideon Mistears !
drew a breath of relief as he passed in at the 1
awing-gate that tender August evening which 1
svas to end his tempation. To-morrow he would
be himself again, and make up to hie du . ling {
for all his shortcomings.
1 Miss Franklyn was seated at the old harpsi- 1
{Chord, when, unannounced and without wait- 1
ling for permission, Mistears softly opened the 1
door of the room which had become so familiar 1
to him that it no longer looked ghostly in his
eyes. She was playing some quaint melody, 1
and, having her back toward him, did not heed 1
liis entrance.
{ What a picture she made I The evening sun 1
>ehed a crimson glow over the rich folds of her 1
Bfawn-colored satin gown as they lay upon the
polished floor, and bathed one white arm in the
Htoay light. She had elbow sleeVes to her gown,
Fwhile rare old lace shaded the dazzlingly fair
farms which were decked with golden bangles
iaet with pale pink coral; and she wore a knot of
Brink ribbon in her piled hair.
K Misteare thought that she had never looked
teo lovely, so fit to be a queen; and, as Rosemary
&ras not in the room, he could gaze his fill,
f But an involuntary cough betrayed him be
j fore his hungry eyes were half satisfied.
I “ Boa soir, monsieur ’’’ she said, without rais
ling her eyes from the keyboard and keeping on I
LWith her fantastic melody.
’ “ Bon soir, mademoiselle /’’—emerging into
<ihe ruddy sunshine with a short langh. ,
; She gave him her right hand with apparent ,
Carelessness, taking up the air with her left. ,
“ How is it you are all alone ?” he queried. ;
Where is Rosemary ?”
' “ Out, I believe,” she answered, indifferently.
MI received a letter from Mrs. Bouverie this
morning. She still hopes to persuade you to go
/with us op the twentieth.”
He was silent. That trip to the Highlands
pwas a sore temptation to him. In his weak mo
jjnents he felt angry with himself for having re
fused the invitation. What difference could a
Wortnight make—he need not stay longer—when
[the rest of his natural life was to be spent with
{and for Rosemary 1
“ At what time to-morrow do you leave here,
rjffiss Franklyn ?” he inquired presently.
* “I have ordered the carriage for two
o’clock.”
“ When shall we two meet again, I wonder ?”
/Sip said, almost bitterly.
5“ Impossible to say,” her white eyelids still
/vailing their sapphire treasures.
gMistears bit his lip ; how unnaturally cold she
iwas ! Had she no heart at all ?
t T“I hope you will enjoy your sojourn in the
!Highlands”—experimentally. “From all ac-
Joounts, the grouse are in exceptionally good
/■condition this season.”
; “Unfortunately, I don’t shoot,” was her sar-
r He laughed confusedly.
t “I wish I did not; then I should have less
a cause for regret at being unable to make one of
I the party.”
e “I fail to see any reason why you should
1 make a martyr of yourself. You say you regret
- not going; then why not go?”—contemptuously
impatient.
i A reckless light sprang into his eyes. She
t was tempting him above that which he was able
s to bear.
t “ Would it make the slightest difference to
you whether I went or not ?” he queried eagerly,
’ his eyes riveted upon her lovely, proud face,
i “Toll me candidly.”
“ I am not given to prevaricating, Mr. Mis-
- tears”—with her disdainful smile. “ I should
much prefer your acsompanying us. You are,
i to a certain extent, a kindred soul; and, if other
: people bore us, we do not bore each other. Et
; apres
I “After that, Miss Franklyn, I cannot but give
in.”
He hated himself for his despicable surren
. der, yet a guilty joy fired his pulses at the
■ thought of those glorious days to be spent with
i queenly Venetia “o’er the moor, among the
i heather.”
“ And a very sensible decision”—in gratified
accents. “ Mrs. Bouverie will be delighted.”
. Neither ol them heard a little stifled cry that
■ broke from the quivering lips of poor Rose
mary, who had stood without the half-open
door, trying to summon up courage to break
in upon their tete-a-tete. She turned now, and
i fled down the old staircase and out into the
park like a hunted animal, neither looking to
right nor left, until she reached the memor
able old oak ; then she flung herself face down
ward upon the grass and burst into a flood of
passionate tears—tears from the depths of her
despair.
“ Cruel—cruell” she gasped out between the
sobs that shook her slight frame from head to
foot. “Oh, how could she, how could she?
I had nothing but him, and I loved so, I loved
so!”
A whole hour passed, and she still lay there,
unheeding the lengthening shadows, unmindful
of the flight of time. She thought her heart was
breaking. With all her sweet humility, there
was a certain innate dignity about the girl
which would not allow her to thrust herself up
on the man who had promised to make her his
wife now that he had evidently ceased to care for
her. Cost her what it might, she would set him
free. It was not his fault; he had been all that
was kind and honorable; it was Venetia’s beauty
that had stolen his heart away from her—men
were not so faithful as women; at least, they
were apt to be weak where a pretty face was
concerned, and Venetia was more than pretty—
she was transcendently lovely.
He should never know her true reason for re
leasing him; if he did, he would be safe to in
sist upon fulfilling his promise for mqje honor’s
sake. She would not trust herself to see him
again—she dare not. She wouid write and
break off their mistaken engagement, and then
—- Shuddering, she arose and went back to
the house. Old Dame Drysdale met her on the
threshold.
“ Why, where have you been, dearie ?” cried
the old woman in tones of relief, “ I could not
think what had got you? Tho young gentle
man has been here an hour or more.”
“I have been in the park, Nana; my head
aches dreadfully. I—l cannot see Mr. Mistears
to-night; tell him, will you ?” she faltered,
thankful that the friendly dusk hid her poor,
grief-marred face from those loving old eyes,
“and-and give my love, but not before—Vene
tia ; don’t forget, Nana dear.”
* * * * * *
“ Dear Mr. Mistears—You cannot but think
me very fickle and ungrateful when I tell you
that I wish to be released from my engagement.
When you asked me to be your wife, I promised
too readily; we had not known each other long
enough to be engaged, and I feel now that it was
a great mistake. It was very kind of you to
wish to give me a happier home ; but I am not
used to being rich, and Nana is more than good
to me. Pray forgive me ! I shall often think of
you and all your kindness; we might have
been happy had we married; I know that
you would have done your best to make me so;
but I am afraid of running the risk of repent
ing at leisure; I might have disappointed you,
and that I could not bear. Please do not tempt
me to again change my mind. I am sure I have
acted for the best; yet I shall always remain,
“ Your sincere friend,
“ Rosemary.”
He was free—released by Rosemary from the
tie that bound them; ehe,had jilted him, and
not he her—that was the plain English of the
letter which he held in his hand. Mistears
looked dazed. i
#fHe read the letter through again. Had she
done it for her own sake or his ? He could have
staked his life on her fidelity and love for him- i
self. Yet now he came to remember, she had
given him no verbal answer the other night ;
when he asked her if she loved him, as they ’
loitered upon the dusky stairs. ' 1
It was not as though she had detected him in ;
any flirtation with Venetia Franklyn. He flat
tered himself that he had been most guarded in ;
his behavior toward the latter in tho presence i
of his fiancee. No; Rosemary was but a lassie 1
yet; arid too young to know her own mind. He 1
sighed heavily. Now that his darling was lost
to him, he felt a passionate regret that his lips s
would never again press those sweet pure ones, i
that the pretty, child-like face would never i
again nestle in his breast, that another man <
would win and wear the fair maid who was to 1
have been his wife.
“ Please do not tempt me to again change my
mind.” Had it not been for that request, he i
would have rushed off to Enmoor then and j
there, and have won bar over with sweet words (
and caresses. But, as it was, he must accept t
her decree, hard as it was upon him. t
To-morrow was the all-important twentieth— [
that was one comfort. He had no pleasure in j
going now; but it would take him out of him- <
self. Such is the inconsistency of man! Ho i
scarce gave a thought to Venetia Franklyn in
this the first flush of his grief for the loss of 1
Rosemary. He would willingly have promised i
never to look upon her fair face again, if only ;
his darling might be given back to him. ;
(To bo Continued.)
HUMOR OF THE~HOUR. ;
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND. ,
NOT LIKE AUTUMN.
“You are not like Autumn,” she sighed as {
the persistent lover sat out the hours.
“ why, my dearest ?” he inquired with a fond ,
and foolish expression.
“Because Autumn leaves, but you never do.” ,
THE SILVER MINE AND THE OIL WELL, i
“ That man,” ho remarked to his friend as the
third one bade them good day and passed on, 1
“ lost sixty thousand dollars in a silver mine.”
“Did he?”
“ Yes, at least sixty thousand dollars.”
“ Gracious I but I wish I’d have known it 1
sooner. 1 sunk seventy thousand dollars in an
oil well, and I know he’d have been awful glad ’
to have had a talk with me 1”
A DISCOURAGING PROSPECT. (
“ I should think you would get tired of this
quarreling,” said a policeman to a citizen of <
Abbott street, who rushed out of the house the t
other day with blood oozing from a out in his t
scalp.
“ Oh, I’d quit it my wife would.” ]
“ Well, it’s only a lew days more to election, f
and then I hope you will quit these ructions.”
“Alas! my friend,” sighed the citizen, “I <
wish I could share your hopes! While it is i
true that we are quarreling about Presidential >
candidates, we have only come down to Fre- ]
mont and Buchanan. It .will take us at least ten <
years more to reach Cleveland and Blaine, and
you needn’t wonder that I sometimes feel dis- ■
couraged.”
WHY NOT ? i
He sat with his back to a carpenter shop In 1
the alley, bootblack’s kit beside him, knees I
drawn up, and as the snow-squalls came boom- :
ing along, ho had to suspend his reading for the [
moment and shiver.
He was a lad of thirteen, and he was reading i
a novel, entitled “BerthaA Secret.” Some of '
the words he had to stop and spell out and ’
others he skipped entirely; but ho was deeply I
interested and even begrudged the time it took
to raise his hand to his red nose and wipe away 1
the tear there oft suspended. I
A fourth-story window in the block on the 1
other side was cautiously raised and a head :
showed itself over the sill. It dodged back to 1
reappear in a moment, followed by an arm and 1
a basin of water. All of a sudden the boy
awoke to a realizing sense that every drop of '
that water had hit him somewhere. He sprang >
up, rushed this way and that for a moment, ana '
then understanding that he had been made the
victim of a joker, he raised his clenched hand 1
to the open window and exclaimed :
“Beware of my revenge ! you have a daugh- {
ter. I will win her love. The marriage eve
shall be set, and you shall have issued invita
tions, engaged the preacher and ordered a big
spread. The bride will be ready and the guests
will wait; but ah! they shall wait in vain!
I’ll skip tho gutter ! I won’t show up ! I’ll give
you the cold shake, and don’t you gulp to gur
gle that I won’t 1”
NOT A BEGGAR.
“ Gentlemen,” he began in a smooth, molas
ses sort of voice, “ I am dead-broke but no beg
gar. I want to raise about three dollars, but I
shall do it in a legitimate manner. Now, then,
let me ask you to inspect this.”
He took from his pocket a piece of iron chain
as large as his thumb and containing six links
and passed it around. After it had been care
fully inspected by each of the party he con
tinued:
“ I want to bet my overcoat, which is certain
ly worth 810, against $3 in cash that none of you
can separate one Jjnk from the others.”
The piece of chain was passed around again
to be more closely scrutinized, and finally one
of the party, who was a machinist, returned it
with the remark:
“ And I want to put up that sum against your
overcoat that you can’t do it yourself.”
“Done!” said the stranger as he pulled off
his coat.
Coat and cash were put up in the hands of a
stakeholder, and the stranger asked the group
to follow him. He walked across the street and
into a blacksmith shop, and picking up a ham
mer and cold-chisel he deliberately cut out a
link. The crowd stood around like so many
pumpkins at a county fair, but when the stran
ger held up the link a,nd claimed the stakes the
machinist recovered his wits sufficiently to ex
claim:
“ Sold by a.professional deadbeat I The money
is yoiu> qjd fslloWe but ia exts’Jy thirty sec-
NEW YORK DISPATCH. NOVEMBER 23, 1884.
onds'after you receive it I shall begin to kick,
j and you had better be twenty rods off
f “Thanks—glad to have met you—good day!”
replied the stranger, and he was out of sight in
I seven seconds.
t
: LIVIA’S MISTAKE.
I
BY CATHARINE CHILD AR.
t
It was an exquisite day in January—but then
' it was Rome!—a crisp little breeze, with just
the faintest suspicion of frost in it, a flood sun
light steeping everything in warmth and color,
■ beautiful buildings standing out sharply from
; a background of intensest blue—in short, a day
, in which it was a pleasure to be alive. It was
early, and the steps leading from the Piazza di
Spagna to the Church of the Trinita were dotted
' about with groups of models, who stand there
to be hired. They were full of fun and chatter,
all thoroughly enjoying the sun-bath which
1 Mother Nature was showering upon them.
Presently a tall girl, simply dressed, began to
ascend the steps.
“ Good day, Livia,” resounded on all sides as
she approached.
She smiled and nodded, and was about to pass
by.
“ How proud we are!” cried one. Now that
we no longer go out as a model we can’t stop to
exchange a word.”
“She is afraid of Tonio,” jeered another.
“And Tonio is afraid of tho tall Englishman.”
“Poor Livia !—instead of earning moneyas
easy as swallowing, she has to lug a great bas
ket to the market! How nice it must be to be
engaged to Antonio !”
The object of these scoffing remarks took no
notice at first, but even pin-pricks, if judiciously
administered, can produce a painful wound; so
Livia winced at last under the repeated taunts
of her former comrades.
Until the last few weoks she had formed one
of the merry group on the steps, dressed as a
eontadina. She had met with great success
as a model—too much so for the peace of mind
of a certain Antonio Lessi, who had been in love
with her for years. He was a fine, handsome
fellow, much sought after as a model himself,
especially by sculptors, who valued his fine
form. This Tonio had finally won the pretty
girl whom he had wooed so long, and when she
had consented to marry him, he had begged
her, as a favor, not to go out as a model any
more.
“ See, Livietta mia,” said the ardent young
man: “I do not like these strangers to stare at
you all day, and paint your picture so—and
then so. I will earn enough for both. Stay at
home like a good girl, and make the soup.
That’s what you will do when we are married.
You will not sit as a model then.”
“Of course not,” said Livia heartilv; “and I
will do whatever you like, Tonio mio.”
But that was weeks ago, and, the first flush
and excitement over, Livia began to find it dull
to stop at homo and make the soup. The mother
was always kind, but the brothers and sisters
were tiresome, and the grandmother grumbled
all day. It was far pleasanter on the steps,
hearing the nows and seeing the passers by.
Beside, time went on, and Livia’s pockets
grew empty. She did not like the feeling of
having no money of her own. It was not agree
able to be obliged to ask the mother for every
trifle. When she was a model she had enough
and to spare for her little vanities—a ribbon on
a festal day, a fresh flower, or what not. Be
side the pretty dress had suited Livia’s pretty
face; she felt dowdy in her plain brown skirt,
with tho red plaid shawl across her shoulders.
So that the remarks of her companions irritated
her the more because she felt that there was
something in them.
She put down the basket and faced her tor
mentors.
“You’re fine ones to talk like that! Much
good you do as models ! Nobody hires you, and
you sit and gossip all day. As for Martina,”
she said, turning sharply upon the last speaker,
she has spoken truly for once; it is nice to be
engaged to Tonio—soj nice that she wanted to
try it herself! We all knowhow she ran after
him, blit he would have nothing to say with
her.”
This turned the laugh against another, as
Livia intended it should. Beside, the shaft was
well aimed; it was common gossip that the
ugly Martina had languished in vain for hand- :
some Antonio Lessi.
While this interchange of compliments had
been going on, two young men in brown vel- '
veteen coats and knickerbockers had come up ,
the steps.
“What! Livia back again?” cried the taller 1
and younger. “ This is indeed a red-letter day. ,
Why, wo had gone into mourning for you !”
“ Ah, signor !” said Livia, smiling and blush
ing; “ you must not make fun of me.”
“My dear child,” replied the young man
gravely, “ I wouldn't do such a thing for the <
world ! You know how badly I want your help !
for my picture. Are you still obstinate ? Are
you determined not to come.?”
Livia was silent. She looked at the earnest, !
persuasive speaker—at his impatient compan
ion—at tho group of girls. The latter were
huddled together, silent, envious spectators of '
her importance. Livia enjoyed her triumph. ;
“Well, it you won’t, there’s no help for it;” ■
and the good-natured young man, whoso name 1
was Rowe, turned to the gayly-dressed models !
who were looking on. He seemed on the point ,
of speaking to Martina. This was more than
Livia could endure.
“Ebbene, signor,” she said; “I will come.” ;
“ What! you will really come ? Hoorah ! Oh,
never mind your dress; I don’t want you as a 1
peasant, you know. I have the proper costume, j
Come along. Oh, tho basket '—the cabbage for 1
the soup, eh ? Hi! Beppo, my boy,” he called t
to a ragged urchin lying full length along the ’
parapet, “tako this to the Via Miserioordia.
Make haste, or the padrona will bo angry; and 1
come to me again at the studio—l have some
more messages for you. Be off now !” <
And the eager young man hurried along, so 1
that Livia, tall as she was, could scarcely keep <
up with him. When he had planned his picture !
he had always thought of Livia as his model, 1
and he had been angry as well as disappointed 1
when he found she would not come. Her un- 1
willingness had hightened her value in his eyes, 1
and he was triumphant that he had at last se- 1
cured her. 1
Ten minutes after they had disappeared in ’
the distance, Tonio Lessi came bounding up 1
the steps two at a time. He called out pleasant !
greetings as he passed his friends, who repaid 1
them ia kind. Even on that sunshiny day the 1
handsome, joyous youth seemed to bring an ‘
additional brightness. <
But an unpleasant shock was in store for him,
and the mischievous girls higher up were anx- ’
ious to see the effect of it. 1
“ Tonio ! Tonio !” they called out, “ where ’
are you going so fast?”
“To the baths of Diocletian,” he shouted, as
he came nearer and nearer, his upturned face
beautiful as a classic hero’s. “ I nave .to pose 1
for Signor Conti.” t
“ Oh, then it is all right. We were afraid you <
were going the wrong way.” i
“Why? What do you jpean ?” t
Tonio saw there was something behind all f
this, and paused as he came up to them. i
“Nothing, nothing,” said the more kindly s
ones; others noticed a threatening line be- (
tween the big black eyes, and were prudently £
silent; but Martina said, with acid emphasis : t
“ We thought you might be running after vour
Livietta. She has gone to the Via Margutta—to t
Signor Rowe.” I
Tonio shot a glance at the girl which was as <
eloquent as the strongest words. She instinct- 1
ively made the movement common to Italians 1
when they wish to avert the “Jettatura,” or f
Evil Eye; but tho young man had gone on with- t
out a word.
Nevertheless, Martina’s poison had done its i
work. t
As Tonio stood, motionless as the statue of <
the fisher-lad ho had to represent, his mind was 1
revolving all kinds of wild projects. He was i
furious with Livia; more furious still with the 1
young Englishman. Poor Mr. Rowe was Tonio’s t
special aversion. He fancied that the pretty I
Livia had rather a sentimental liking for him; <
she always looked so conscious when the girls
on the steps made laughing allusions to it. The 1
very remembrance brought the blood to Tonio’s s
swarthy face. i
Yet he felt all the time that any jealousy; or 1
even annoyance was simply absurd. The young £
artist would never give Livia a thought beyond i
his picture. Tonio was quite aware of that;
yet the idea that Livia was there, posing for *
him, irritated him beyond endurance. It was i
not so much that she had broken her word. £
That was wrong of her, no doubt; but Tonio 1
had learned long ago that the willful girl was <
not to be controlled. No; it was simply and 1
solely that she had chosen to sit for Mr. Rowe. <
While the poor fellow was Imagining all sorts 1
of foolish things, and nursing his wrath to keep
warm, a ehaggy-loeking peasant arrived in hot £
haste at Signor Conti’s studio. He came from -
Tonio’s native place in the Abruzzi mountains, 1
with the news that old Lessi was ill—perhaps <
dying—and that Tonio must go at once to see
his father. There was nothing to be said against I
this. Signor Conti looked blank, but of course f
he let his model go.
While Tonio was trudging out of Rome, Livia •
was sitting, silent and uneasy, in Mr. Rowe’s
studio. It was all very well to earn money— ’
for ribbons, and the young Englishman was ‘
very kind and considerate, letting her rest, etc.; £
but that was not everything. What would Tonio
say ? This thought haunted her, and spoiled 1
every hour of tho day. i
By the time she reached home Livia was -
quite in a penitent frame of mind. She resolved ‘
to bear all Tonio’s reproaches meekly, and even '
to desert Mr. Rowe in the middle of his picture, -
should her aggrieved lover require such a sa- :
orifice.
Bat the evening passed, and Tonio never £
came. Tho children seemed noisier than ever, £
and the old grandmother more fretful than she
had ever known her. At last, disappointed and <
unhappy, Livia crept into bed. £
The next day she made some cautious inqui- I
ries. Nobody knew anything of Tonio Lessi. 1
What could have become of him ? Livia grew <
angry. After all, he need not sulk like that— ’
going away without a word of explanation. It <
was really too bad. 1
So tho next day at the studio was passed in a 1
very different mood—angry and bitter thoughts £
filled the girl’s mind. But she suited Mr.
Rowe’s purpose just as well. Dressed in some 1
fanciful embroidered jacket, representing some I
character in history that she had never heard I
of, she sat there, gloomy and preoccupied, i
while the young artist hardly as much as no- '
ticed the difference.
But as the days passed by, and Tonio did not <
appear, Livia’s spirits returned. Her pride as- 1
sorted itself. She was not going to wear the 1
, willow for such a strange, moody lover, espe
, cially as she had no lack of admirers.
But, if the truth must be told, it was a new
i ana different feeling which was comforting poor
Livia. Tonio had been right; with the keen
perception of love he had discovered the truth.
There was actually a germ of reality in the fool
, ish chaffing about Mr. Rowe, and the pretty,
silly model was cheriehing a wild dream.
She was beginning to lose her heart to the art
ist—a proceeding as hopeless as the desire of
tho moth for the candle, and with about the
( same result.
t One afternoon, as the light was fading, and
she was preparing to go, Mr. Rowe sai’d, ab
sently:
“ How tho time has flown! I have not half
, worked in the detail of that sleeve.”
; {’J T c . ai ! come again—this evening, if you like,”
said Livia, eagerly.
The artist was standing back from his easel,
gazing at the general effect. He was so preoc
cupied he did not hear Livia’s offer.
She repeated it.
“ Well, yes,” he said; “that would help me.
I’m horribly behindhand.”
Perhaps something in Livia’s expression
struck him, for he added, hastily.
no ' I had better wait till to-morrow. I
shall only spoil it if Igo muddling on. Beside,
I have no right to tire you out.”
“ If that is all the signor fears, I can come; I
shall not be tired.”
Mr. Rowe laughed and made some careless
reply, in which nothing was settled.
Livia resolved to return.
After a hasty plate of minestra, she was again
at the studio. There was a curtain across tho
door, but she could see lights —ha was working.
Ah ! she was glad she had come.
She drew aside tho curtain, but her steps
were arrested on the threshold. A fair-haired
English girl was there, looking at the picture.
Mr. Rowe stood by, Ho took her baud—Livia
had never seen him look like that before.
She loaned against the doorway; she felt cold
and faint. Her own tolly was revealed to her
as by a lightning flash. She staggered down the
stairs, and nearly tell over the servant.
“ Ha ! ha !” ho laughed; “Mr. Rowe is going
to be idle to-night— bis sposa has ijust arrived.
Ah, you Mid not know? Yes, he is engaged. He
is to marry next week.”
Cutting short the talkative servant, Livia
rushed into the street. The cool air did her
good. Well, it had been a dream, and, like a
dream, it was over. How could she have im
agined tho English artist would ever have mar
ried her ? Yet such things have been-.
Her thoughts reverted to Tonio. What could
have become of him ? Has every one goin w to
desert her ?
Somebody touched her arm. She turned.
Tonio slood before her .'—Tonio. pale and sad
looking, without a word of reproach at finding
her there.
“ Ah, Livitta mia he cried, almost break
ing into a sob; “how good It is to see you
again !”
And they walked home hand in hand, like chil
dren, while Tonio explained his absence—how
the father had died and left him the farm in the
Abruzzi; and would Livia marry him now at
once, and go and live there, and take care of
the mother ? Not a word of Mr. Rowe. The
solemn event which had taken place had driven
his anger and jealousies out of his head; they
seemed to have been part of a previous exist
ence-long, long ago. AU that was left was his
love for Livia and the immense comfort of see
ing her again.
And so Livia’s foolish dream passed away and
was forgotten. She lives happily up in the hills
with her Tonio; and if you ever go there and
see a handsome woman with two little children
playing round her, it may perhaps be Livia
Lessi.
A WAKWARD WARD.
LOVE HM TAUSHT LOVE'S LESSON.
It is the business of the philosopher, as all
the world knows, to find law and order in even
the most abnormal phenomena, to suggest (ak<
least) an adequate explanation of every enigma.
For what other purpose does he exist than to
throw light on the surrounding darkness. He
is a torch-bearer to humanity’s ignorance. If
now and again, by reason of a pessimist tem
perament or defect of training, the rays he sheds
around intensify rather than dispel the gloom,
and cast shanows as of Egyptian night across
man’s forward path, surely he misconstrues his
mission.
But the wisest head is sometimes puzzled, and
the shrewdest explorer ot the all-environing
mystery is sometimes confounded. A problem
presents itself which cannot be resolved by any
of tho familiar processes. The why of some
suddenly disclosed fact is as inscrutable as the
Sphinx of the Eastern desert. It was thus with
Bernard Ralston.
Those who thirst for fame, as misers thirst for
gold, or coquettes for admiration, would have
found much to envy in this young man’s posi
tion. At an age when a statesman is currently
supposed to be studying his parliamentarv
primer, and when a future general may still be
writhing under the sarcasm of a barrack-room ■
instructor, Bernard Ralston had been welcomed '
into the front rank of philosophical thinkers.
His book on “ Instinct, Conscience, and Reason”
was read and criticised by the few, praised and
avoided by!the many. The noisy heterodox :
claimed him as a new and promising recruit;
and so also, to the amusement of ths onlooker, i
did the staunchest maintainors of old land
marks. He was flattered, feted, and the lion of
his season.
It was from his suddenly acquired distinction
that his- embarrassment had approached. The
solicitor’s letter that was the beginning of sor
rows made this clear. It ran thus:
“ Deak Sir— We have to inform you that by
the will of our late client, Mr. Humphrey
Power, you are appointed sole guardian of his
only surviving daughter, Olive. As this may
be in the nature of a surprise, we beg leave to
quote the precise paragraph ot the will: ‘And I
hereby empower Mr. Bernard Ralston to act in
every respect as the guardian of my child. I
am sure that Olive can have no fitter or wiser
protector, none bettor qualified to advise and
to regulate her life; and should he—as I earn
estly beg—accept and fulfil this charge, I give
and bequeath to the said Bernard Ralston, over :
and above such reasonable expenses as he may
have incurred on my daughter’s behalf, the 1
sum of five thousand pounds, to bo paid by my
executors on my daughter’s twenty-first birth- 1
day, as a small tribute of my gratitude.”
“The young lady is a very considerable heir
ess, in her eighteenth year, and at present at a
private pension in France. Further particulars ,
will follow on your reply.
“ We are, dear sir, yours obediently,
“ Fanshawe & Fitch.”
The gift of the proverbial white elephant could {
have produced in no heart a greater consterna- ,
tion. What should a retired and solitary etu- .
dent, of serious pursuits and uncourtly man
ners, answer to such a challenge ? if Glee- ■
thorpe Hall wore large, it by no means followed
that he wanted more life within its bounds, and
a girl in her teens, a mere child, as with the
sage wisdom of five-and-thirty years he conoid- ‘
ered her! How could her presence by his fire
side be harmonized with the quiet current of
the life he elected to live ?
Yet the bait of five thousand pounds was a ■
temptation. The glories of Cleethorpe Hall had ‘
been sadly tarnished through the improvidence
of Bernard’s father, and philosophy is not a
particularly remunerative hobby to ride. Mr. .
Humphrey Power’s legacy, if not precisely a J
fortune, would be an assistance in the keeping
up of the restricted Cleethorpe establishment. f
The matter was debated long and anxiously, ‘
and as the result Miss Olive Power arrived at
the Hall one snowy February morning. Slight ;
of figure, winsome of feature, with merry, vio
let-tinted brown eyes, and lips continually part
ing ■in a piquant smile over teeth of whitest
pearl, Bernard Ralston was forced to admit
that, if he was properly to protect his ward, his
position might not prove a sinecure. Neither
did it.
The girl’s beauty attracted suitors as clover- '
blossoms allure bees; and it soon an open
secret in the country-side that Miss Power, as
well as being a lonely and lovely young thing, *
was a richly dowered one. This brought the ,
sometimes lugubrious voice of Prudence into
reasonable accord with the chorus of adoration. .
But Olive was not minded to be an easy cap- ’
ture for any ot her wooers. With a woman's 1
instinctive dexterity she kept them all at bav,
and at twenty had escaped tho necessity as of 1
yet refusing any offer in formal and unequivo- ‘
cal terms. She was developing a taste lor study <
which half amused, half interested her guardian.
One evening he playfully rallied her on her ap- ,
plication to sundry big tomes in the library.
“ I shall ba accused of transforming a merry
and bewitching young lady into a blue-stocking 1
—a disciple of my own dry-as-dust pursuits,” '
he said; “some one some day may have special
cause to blame me, I fear.”
A sudden Mush was on the maiden' cheeks, !
and her glance fell. It was impossible that she
should misinterpret Bernard’s meaning.
“There ia Oswald Harbury to think of,” 1
Olive’s guardian was daring enough to add. 1
Two shining eyes were momentarilv uplifted. 1
Was the flash they gave onejof indignation, of 1
scorn, or merely of confusion at a betrayed !
secret 1 Bernard could not guess.
“ The nature of my employments can make 1
no difference whatever, in any way that I can
imagine, to Mr. Harbury,” she answered. Then
—it seemed to Bernard a strange transition— ■
“ Will you forgive me for asking a favor ?” she
went swiftly on; “I should like—oh, so much ! 1
--to help in your work. Could I not copy out ’
your notes, or revise proofs sometimes ?” i
What philosopher could have successfully re- 1
sisted the volunteered help of such an amanuen- i
sis ? Not Bernard Ralston. 1
It was Summer, three months later than the 1
date of this conversation. Olive’s guardian was 1
seeking his ward in her own boudoir, with a i
gloom upon his face, and a depression of soul 1
which defied his analysis. He had a message to I
convey, and a proposal to informally submit i
which he had little doubt would be accepted. :
Oswald Harbury, the young owner of half Clee- i
thorpe, had asked permission to lay himself and i
his fortunes at Olive’s feet. He loved her, he
said; he would do his best to make her happy. >
“ And I believe that he will. He has a homo ■
to offer you, and is a true-hearted, honorable
gentleman. As your guardian, Olive, I am :
bound to give my sanction to so fair and prom-,
ising a suit. May 1 bid Mr, Harbury to come
and plead his own cause ?”
He had spoken hoarsely, and in a queer, far
off kind of voice that he hardly recognized as
his own. It was surely singular, and must tes
tify to an unsuspected weakness of charaotor
- that the prospect of separation from the ward
originally received with so much doubt and
r dread should thus make havoc of his peace. He
r waited for the answer in a suspense that was
i positively harassing. At last it came.
“ No, you may not,” Olive said, “ unless, in-
- deed,. you wish to get rid of me—to send me
, away. And not even then, for I cannot consent
to marry a man whom I do not love.”
Send Olive away ! Was not every pulse in his
f body beating with fierco, unbidden joy at the
> verdict she had given ? The measure of his re
cent terror was tho measure of his present re
l lief.
“ That is a fear which my ward—my wayward
ward!—never need harbor,” he said, with a
’ slow, broad smile ; “ she has brought too much
sunshine into my lonely life for me to wish to
’ lose her. Bat change is inevitable some day.”
“Why?” a low voice murmured; and again
camo the mysterious illumination of Olive’s
■ eyes.
“ Because, Olive—if for no other reason—tho
/ears of my guardianship will soon be at an
end,” he answered steadily, almost sternly. He
must face the future resolutely, as befitted a
i teacher of his fellows.
And a few seconds later his quick, nervous
{ step was echoing in the passage without.
An early Summer vacation iu Switzerland—
when the glorious Alpine flora should be at its
loveliest—aad been the cherished dream of
years to Bernard Ralston, and at last it was re
alized. A woman’s hand had guided his steps
thitherward. Oliver Power had persuaded him
to lay aside his work and make playtime of the
sunny weather.
“ You can finish your book on 'Vanity as a
Force of Human Affairs ’ when you return, and
the critics will all say that the last chapters are
the brightest,” she said pleadingly. And when
she added a slight involuntary expression of
her own eagerness for the change, he surren
dered. The trio—Miss Ralston, Bernard’s sis
ter and housekeeper, was Olive’s chaperon
had now been from England a fortnight.
They had reached the Riffel, and were thus
encamped under the shadow of the majestic
(grim and uncouth, for variation of epithets)
Matterhorn itself. Here Olive went into eosta
cies. To watch the sunrise bathe the rugged,
furrowed sides with waves of liquid light, was
an occupation of which she never tired. And
then there was the Gorner Grat to see, the Gor
ner Glacier to see.
At the hotel there was pleasant company, in
cluding a couple of young Americans, who
swept ths ordinary reserved and cautious stu
dent forward into a participation in their own
reckless adventure by the sheer force of enthu
siasm. The three went off one afternoon on a
quest for edelweiss. The gloom was thickening
in gorge and pass, and gray shadows were fol
lowing the crimson eunset glow on the huge
crests aloft, before there was any sign of a re
turn. The ladies grew uneasy. Stories of ac
cident and awful peril wore staples ot the con
versational bill of fare in the hotel salon, and
inevitably exerted their influence on nervous
minds. In this case the presentiment of evil
was but too surely justified.
Two of the venturesome explorers returned,
weary and disheveled, but Bernard Ralston was
missing.
“We .thought he was before us,” explained
Mark Croxford, the elder of the brothers. “ We
drifted apart among the boulders and ice
ridges of a glaoier-edge, and we looked for him
to rejoin us at the lower tnrn of the track. Not
meeting him, we supposed he had hurried
homeward.”
A sudden chill had gone to many a heart in
tho little group of listeners. The thought
ot precipices and of their hidden and treacher
ous dangers was in every one's mind. A search
expedition was quickly organized and started.
“ I hear steps behind,” eaid the guide, halting
on the first stage of the journey and prominent
ly displaying his lamp.
“ Why, it is Miss Power I” cried Mark Croxford
in astonishment.
It was indeed Olive. With blanched cheeks
and agonized eyes and dauntless resolution,
she insisted on accompanying the seekers. It
was at her reqaest that Bernard Ralston had
oeme to Switzerland. If he perished, would it
not in a sense be her fault ? Better that her own
life should have been'sacrificed I To persuade
the girl to return was useless—only a loss of
precious minutes. With a muttered growl ot
disapprobation the guide was compelled to al
low her to proceed.
Hours were spent in a vain pursuit.
“ Guide, is there any hope ?” demanded a
stalwart Cornishman at last.
“ I fear, none!” he answered; “at the bottom
of yonder chasm ”
His words were cut short. A cry, half tri
umphant, half fearful, slipped over Olive Pow
er’s bloodless lips.
“ Listen t I hear a groan,” she said.
A silence that might be felt prevailed.
“The wind across the glacier, miss,” an
swered the leader in sulky despair, “ There is
nothing for it but to go back.”
“I will not,” the girl declared, “until you tell
me whose voice that is. Hark litis no sound of
wind !”
Again they listened and again without result.
Mark Croxford gently laid his hand on Olive’s
arm. “Believe me, you are mistaken, Miss
Power.” ho said ; “ you do not suppose that any
one of us would give up this search if the least
chance remained? But the guide knows best.”
And yet, as he uttered his melancholy re
monstrance, there was a sound from over the
neighboring ice-floe hard to credit to even the
most eerie of Swiss breezes.
“There! surely you hear it now?” the girl
said.
If only to make clear the girl’s folly to her
self, the quest was recommenced.
The quick ear of love had not blundered, after
all. This time a chance gleam of the guide’s
lantern over a jagged precipice-side revealed a
dark form huddled against an inner ledge. It
was Bernard Ralston, insensible from the effects
of his perilous fall, end proving that he still
lived only by an occasional groan.
“ I beg pardon very humbly, Miss Power,”
Mark Croxford whispered.
* » # * » *
“ And they tell me, Olive, that I owe my life
to you,” the convalescent said, wheeled out on
the broad mountain terrace of his resting
place. “ How shall I contrive to repay yon, I
wonder ! Do you know—nay, you caniiot know
—1 had a dream this morning. After the doo
tor had left my room I dozed, and it seemed to
mo that—that the doarst girl in the wide world
—and surely the bravest—came to my side and
smoothed down the pillow—and—dare I whis- !
per the words ?—caressed my forehead. It was
singular, was it not?” '
Something in the poise of the averted face
awakened a swift suspicion—a keen thrill of '
happiness,
“It cannot be that—that it was not a dream ?” ;
he queried. “ That my ward is willing to be
still dearer—to be my wife?”
The small palm was not withdrawn, the lovely
crimsoned face was swiftly and momentarily up
turned, as he had seen it twice before, and this
time a look of ineffable content was mirrored
thereupon.
“If you really desire so to extend your guard- '
ianship of your ‘ wayward ward,’ ” mischievous '
accents answered. And Bernard Ralston’s some
time problem had become his dearest treasure.
Love itself had taught love’s lesson.
humorous’ DEFINITIONS. 1
MORE HAPPY ILLUSTRATIONS 1
THAN PROVERBS.
A smart, pithy, or humorous definition often
furnishes a happy illustration of the proverbial
brevity which is the soul of wit. A boy once j
said that “ dust is mud with the juice squeezed
out.” A fan, we learn from another juvenile
source, is “a thing to brush warm off with
and a monkey, “a small boy with a tail; “ salt,
what makes your potatoes taste bad when you
don’t put any on;” wakefulness, eyes all the ;
time coming unbuttoned ; and “ ice, water that !
staid out too late in the cold and went to
sleep.”
A school boy asked to define the word “ sob,” ?
whimpered out, “It means when a feller don’t 1
mean to cry and it bursts out itself.” A young- '
ster was asked to give his idea of “ reeponsi- !
bility,” so he said: “ Well, supposing I had ‘
only two buttons on my trousers, and one came f
off, all the responsibility would rest on the other ;
button.”
To hit off a jury as “ a body of men organized e
to find out which side has the smartest lawver,”
is to satirize many of our “ intelligent fellow- J
countrymen.” The word “ suspicion” is, in the 1
opinion of a jealous husband, “ a feeling that c
compels you to try and find out something that J
you don’t wish to know.” A lady's idea of a 1
ballet girl was “an open muslin umbrella with I
two pink handles,” and a Parisian’s of chess, ?
“ a humane substitute for hard labor.” Thin 1
soup, according to an Irish mendicant, is “a ‘
quart of water boiled down to a pint, to make it I
strong.”
Of definitions of a bachelor—“an unaltered f
man,” “a singular being,” and “a target for a c
miss,” are apt enough. A walking-stick may 1
be described as “ the old man’s strength and 1
the young man’s weakness,” and an umbrella ’
as “ a fair and foul weather friend who has had ‘
many ups and downs in the world.” A watch 1
may be hit off as a “ second hand affair,” and £
spectacles as “ second sight ” or “ friendly '
glasses.” Fashion has been hit off as “an arbf- '
trary disease which leads all geese to follow in 1
single fine the one goose that sets the style. '
An Apt Illustration.—John P. Hal?, 1
when on his way to Washington, in the Fall of
1858, was prevailed upon to attend a meeting of
the “Free Democrats 1 ’ in New York, where he
was loudly called on for a speech. At last he
came forward and said: “ I recollect to have
heard several years ago of a village clergyman
in New England, who asked leave of absence from
his parish for six weeks to go and marry a
lady to whom he had been for some time at
tached. Leave was readily granted, the clergy
man went, and at the end of six weeks o£me 1
back with a wife, but not the wife that he went
to marry. Such an event caused no little ex- '
citement and no little indignation in the parish,
ana the clergyman, to explain his position and ’
to appease the indignation that was excited,
came before his people on the following Sab- ■
bath and preached to them an explanatory ser
mon from this text: ‘lt is not in man that walk- '
eth to direct his steps.' And, my friends, when
I find myself, the second time since I have been £
in the State ot New York, contrary to the firm
and settled conviction of my own understand- (
ding, addressing a political assembly, and I ask
myself why it is, in contradiction to my own 1
settled determnation, that I am here addressing
a political assembly, I find no answer for it, ex- 1
cept that ‘it is not iu man that walketh to direct
his steps.’ ” i
1 POLITICS AND POWDER.
j What it Costs to Run a Campaign—•
Opinion of a Fireworks Maker,
3 (From Me Jtocfreste?’, jV. Y., Democrat.)
t “Five million dollars?”
“Yes, sir, five million dollars, of which two
3 millions are spent for fireworks, and three mil
-3 lions for uniforms, etc., every Presidential
. campaign.”
■ „ Thus said Mr. James Palmer, the Rochester
fireworks maker, to our reporter’s inquiry.
I “ The average spent in off years for fireworks
i is over one million dollars.
i “ Do we import the bulk of our fireworks ?”
) £ No, sir, we import nothing but firecrackers.
We make the rest in this country. There are
x only ten fireworks establishments in America.”
J Upon invitation of Superintendent Frederick
Fitz Fichner, the reporter inspected the Palmer
> establishment, not without some fear and trem
-1 at ® When the superintendent said he
» had been blown up twice, the reporter furtively
i, asked:
“ Is not this business a little risky?”
i “Yes, I suppose it would be so considered by
outsiders, but I have encountered greater dan
gers than any I find here and don’t feel oon
i cerned.”
I “ I don’t quite catch your meaning ?”
“ Well, I have been in this business many
i years and the constant though unconscious
i nervous strain has caused greater suffering
i than the explosions I have “ taken 1” Many a
day I would be very dizzy, and everything
would get dark. At other times I could scarcely
breathe from choking sensations. Then my ap
petite left me and I grew thin, weak, and lifeless.
I was drowsy by day and wakeful by night.
My side pained me, my baoa ached, my limbs
burned. I bloated fearfully and one leg got
paralyzed. For ten months I suffered desper
ately, and two prominent physicians gave me
up for a dead man, sure.”
“ You don’t look it now ?”
“No, that’s so, but it was a fact, just the
same. When I found out my trouble lat once
resorted to Warner’s safe cure, and a dozen bot
tles put me in possession of the best health I
ever expected to enjoy, and I was pronounced
incurably sick with Bright’s disease. It is the
most wonderful medicine in the world.”
“ Indeed. You are a fortune man. Is there
any tailing off in the fireworks business this
year?”
“Not at all. On the contrary it grows more
popular every year, and this year we have done
an extraordinary business. The American people
are getting quite as fond of display as the’ mer
curial Frenchmen, and they manifest it by rock
ets and volcanos, political banners, campaign
uniforms, etc. I reckon that $10,000,000 won’t
cover the incidental political expenses of a
Presidential campaign.
THE PROGRESS.
AS VIEWED BY A LIVERY STABLE
MAN.
(From the San Francisco Post.)
" Yes,” said the livery stable keeper, “ I sup
pose I do have more custom than anybody else
m my line, but it is simply the result ot keeping
abreast of the times. My idea of introducing
trained buggy horses was a great scheme, sir—
a great scheme.”
“Trained horses, eh?”
“ Exactly; the horse is a very intelligent ani
mal, you see, and can bo taught most anything.
Of course, you know that livery custom comes
most all from young men, who take their girls
riding Saturday afternoons and Sundays. Now,
nobody wants a slow team, and yet if the horses
are too high spirited, why there is likely to be a
emashup when the young fellow gets talking
taffy and driving with one hand. Catch the idea,
don’t you ?”
“I’ve been there,” said the customer, with a
sigh.
“Of course; and there’s other things to be
considered. When the old folks see their
daughter’s young man slam up to the door with
a turnout of snorters that seem to be pulling
like a locomotive on the reins, they say to them
selves, ‘ Well, there can’t be much hugging go
ng on in that outfit,’ and they’re satisfied.”
“Looks all right, eh?”
“Precisely. But, bless your dear soul, no
sooner does that team strike a quiet road out of
town when it comes down to the slowest walk
you ever saw. That is, my teams do, for they
are all trained to everlastingly throw gravel in
the city limits and while anything is alongside
on the road, but they simmer down to a Metho
dist iuneral gait when the yumyum exercises
are opened, and don’t you forget it. Beside,
they are taught not to start up when they hear
that peculiar sound like pulling a cow’s foot out
of the mud, that Shakespeare speaks of.
“ Some of them old mashers—yes, sireo ;
there is nothing like keeping up with the de
mands ot the ago—nothing like it. You’ve got
to keep up with the procession or get left. Why,
I haven’t a turnout that isn’t engaged for a
month ahead, not one I”
So the customer bespoke a team for the next
Sunday six weeks, and walked thoughtfully
away.
VERY INDEPENDENT.
WOMAN’S LIFE IN DAKOTA.
A broad-shouldered and compactly built
young woman with brown face and hard hands,
sat in the Lake Shore depot the other evening
waiting for the departure of a train for the East.
She had just arrived in town from the East.
“ We don’t waste any time in foolishness out
our way,” she said to a young man who seemed
to be acquainted with her. “There is no love
making on my half-section. It's nothing but,
No. 2 wheat from May to August. That’s what
we are out there for. Now, I own and manage
a farm of 320 acres, and this year I took out a
crop of eighteen bushels to the acre, sold it, got
the cash, put it in the bank, discharged all my
men but one, who will look after things this
Winter, and I’m off for a little fun down East.
“Marriage?” said she, in response to some
remark by her companion, “ that's all the good
for-nothing cranks of men that I see from plow
ing time to harvest can talk about. What do I
want to get married for ? There are more than
three hundred of us girl farmers in the Terri
tory of Dakota, and we will hold a convention
some time. I never saw a man yet that I would
have around. I intend to farm it until I get
enough money to live on comfortably, and then
I’ll see. I’m in the habit of doing about as I
pleaso. There was a nice young fellow in my
neighborhood last July, who tried to be very
gallant, and wanted to help me whenever I did
any work. If I chopped a little wood he wanted
to do it. If I went after a pail of water he
wanted to carry it. If I put a bag of grain on
my shoulder he insisted on giving me a lift,
lie was a pretty nice boy, but he made me
tired. Ono day I wanted the hay-rick on the
wagon, and I took hold of one end and clapped
it up on the wheel so quick that it made him
dizzy.
“ ‘ Let me,’ says he, but he only threw the
whole thing down in trying to get the other end
up. He didn’t have the strength.
“ Says I: ‘ Oh, go away. You don’t eat enough
No. 2 wheat.’ Then I put the rick up in good
style.
“ We meet lots of such fellows out there. They
are good enough, I suppose, but when I want ■
one 1 will send for him.’’
a bigTtrong box.
Look Abroad to Find Out What is
Going On at Home.
(From the London Globe.)
The construction of Mr. Vanderbilt’s treasure
house in New York is described in minute de
tail by one of the French papers, which begins
by calling the exterior building itself as a “ for
midable fortress of masonry and iron.” This
name is not, however, wholly inappropriate, if
it is true that no force, however numerous and
well armed, would be at all likely to taka It by
storm without the aid of heavy artillery. The
foundations of the house are laid, as it'is said,
on a solid rock, and the front wall is five feat
thick, the side walls measuring three feet. All
these are composed solely of brick and facing
stone.
There is no woodwork whatever about the
place, all the supports, sashes and framings be
ing of iron or steel, and the doors and windows
of iron, marble and plate glass. The sanctum
of this abode is, of course, the strong-room, 42
feet by 36 feet in dimension, composed alto- .
gether of iron and steel and having four doors, ;
each of which weighs 8,000 lbs. This chamber i
is built into the solid wall, which covers it on 1
the top, and it is, of course, fire-proof, water- ,
proof and burglar-proof. i
It is, moreover, guarded day and night by >
fully-armed men, subjected to the strictest dis
cipline, understanding the word in a truly
American sense. That is to say, their move
ments as they are on guard are reported to the
upper part of the house by electric clocks, and
this upper part of the house communicates
again with all the other telegraph stations of the
system, as well as with the central public office.
It is calculated that 100 men posted on the in
side of the building and armed with mitrail
leuses, could easily defend it against 10,000 as
sailants, which is more than even the enemies of
Mr. Vanderbilt are likely to be able to bring to
gether for the siege.
HOW TO SPOIL.
SOME GOOD SUGGESTIONS.
To spoil steak—Fry it.
To spoil tea or coffee—Boil it.
To spoil custard—Bake it too long.
To spoil house plants—Water them too much. •
To spoil butter—Do not work out all the
milk.
To spoil a carpet—Sweep it with a stiff, half
worn broom.
To spoil pancakes—Bake them on a luke-'
warm griddle.
To spoil a breakfast —Grumble all the while
you are eating.
To spoil potatoes—Let them lie and soak in
water after boiling.
To spoil scissors—Cut everything, from a
sheet of paper to a bar of cast iron.
To spoil a pair of garments in their making—
Cut them out carelessly and run all the seams.
To spoil children—Humor them in every
thing they happen to. think they want.
To spoil a school—Change teachers every
time some one in the district finds fault.
To spoil bread—Use poor flour and sour yeast,
and let it rise until too light and it runs over.
A TIIRILLING ADVENTUBE.
A- Man Saved from Wolves and Starva
tion by a Faithful Dog.
(From the St. Paul Day.)
Phillip Baird, a man of about fortv years ot
a arrived in this city to-day ou his way Bast
. and told a pitiable talo of suffering in the
1 weatern part ot Manitoba. In his own words he
■ • I wont out West four years ago and settled
on a claim in the Saskatchewan District, near
’ the Dow River. I had considerable money, and
noticing tho splendid quality of the soil, de<
elded to consume it all in improvements. Part
of my land was wooded, and I soon had a nice
garden laid off and a log cabin built. All I had
around me was my dog, the most trusty and
affectionate canine I ever saw. He was as large
as the shepherd dog, and had proven his devo
tion more than once. He was a yellow dog.
» Prospects were very encouraging for me after
I was there for two years, having in that time
got possession of a horse and some rough agri
cultural implements, which I made myself. My
crops were splendid on what ground I could
cultivate, and I always found a ready market at
Fort Walsh or Fort McLeod, both places several
days journey.
. *i/‘Jr alwa ? s made Preparations in the Fall, so
that I would not be compelled to go to either
iort during the Winter, as a journey in the
Winter meant the signing of one’s own death
sentence. It would ba impossible topitch a
tent for the night during the journey in Winter,
and then one had no protection against the
wolves, which were very fierce and daring. It
was the Winter of 1882, about tho middle of
February, I became weary of sitting around the
cabin, with nothing to occupy my mind. I 'de
termined to risk all danger I would be subject
to and make a trip to Fort Walsh. So, prepar
ing myself and fixing a blanket around mj
horse, I set out, leaving my dog to take care ol
itself at home.
day I set out was a very fine one, and
the thermometer could not have registered be
low zero. The snow was light, and I reached
the fort in three days from the time I left. The
mounted police at the fort were much surprised
to see me, and were persistent in their efforts
to detain me from undertaking the journey
homeward. But 1 was not to be deterred, and
I set out on my return, but took a different
route. I had bought myself a sled and a few
buffalo skins, beside some ammunition to pro
vide against an attack from wolves.
“ It was the third night after leaving the fort,
when I was about to rest my horse, that in the
distance I heard a savage howl that stirred my
blood. Oh, but what a shock that one cry gave
me. My blood ran cold through my veins, so
well did I know what it meant. My horse under
derstood its meaning too, for he picked up his
ears and gave a low whinney.. He did not need
any urging, but started at full gallop and near
ly blinded me with snow. I was about forty
miles from home as near as I could judge, bui
my hopes of reaching it were slim. At all events,
I determined to die game. The cries cams
nearer and nearer, and I dared not look be
hind, but only kept asking myself what I had to
live for and who would ever think what become
of me if I should furnish a feast for the raven
ous beasts. At last my horse began showing
signs of exhaustion and I looked to my fire
arms. I had two pistols, two barrels each, a
rifle and a shot-gun together, and a fine revolver
ot six chambers, and then if it camo to close
quarters, I had an axe to defend myself with.
“ After 1 had made preparations, I ventured
to glance behind. There they were, only a few
hundred yards off, coming like race horses.
There was not over a dozen of them, and I felt
that ail hope was not lost. My noble steed
made a last effort but the wolves were soon up
with us, so taking my rifle I aimed at the head
one and had the satisfaction of seeing him give
a leap and fall. About half of his companions
fell on him while the others continued after
me. When they were within a dozen yards of
me I discharged my shotgun among them. It
was charged ..heavily with buckshot, and two
more fell. The others stopped to devour their
companions and I was alone. But it did not
last long. I had not proceeded over a mile
when they were again in hot pursuit. My horse
could not go auy larther from fatigue, so I re
loaded my rifle and shotgun and awaited the
onset. They appeared more ravenous than
ever; but courage and atm did not fail me,
and I fired right and left among them. They
wore right around mo, and one big giant beast
leaped up to grab me, but he fell from a bullet
in his head. I looked forward and shot one as
it was seizing my horse.
“ There were only two left, and I dispatched
the one in a hurry, when on turning around L
noticed two rolling over and over in front of my
horse. Great Scott I if I wasn’t surprised to
see my dog Yellow in fierce conflict with the re
maining wolf. He soon had it at his will, and
strangled it to death. Such a warm greeting I
had with the good fellow; never was a friend
more welcome. I was not fullv persuaded how
the dog found me until I went to the fort the next
Summer, when they told me that my dog had
been there, and had only left after satisfying
himself that I had gone. I only tell you this,”
said the narrator, “ thinking it might interest
you ; about what I have really to say occurred
last August. I had only got my harvest done
when one night I awoke to find my room brightly
illuminated. I understood its moaning at once,
and made all haste to dress and get my wallet
of money, nearly, three thousand dollars, and
get out of the cabin. It was as I suspected, the
dreaded prairie fire. Away in the horizon I
could notice its rapid advance. I know that my
only way ot escape was by hasty flight.
“ My horse was roaming over the prairie, and
I could not afford to look for him, so along with
my faithful dog I plodded mv way as rapidly as
possible toward the Bow Eiver. The distance
was two mites, and whether I could make it or
not I did not take time to consider, but ran as I
never did before. How I lasted the distance is
a problem to me. I reached the bank of the
river as the raging flames were within a hun
dred yards, and as I was standing there dazed,
my dog took hold of me and with a sudden
jerk pulled me headforemost into the river. The
cool waters revived me and I staid there until
the flames leaped the river and were licking up
the dry grass on the other side. Several buf
falo were in tho river, having been driven by
tho flames. I had no home any more and knew
not what to do. I wanted to go back and look
at the place where my homo was, but I knew
there was nothing there for me any more.
“ Then the first thought dawned on me that I
had ho means of sustenance, not even a fire
arm to assist me in securing game. I started
down the river, intending to keep by its course
until I reached the Saskatchewan, thus making
sure of something to. drink if nothing to eat.
The route was a good deal the longest, but tho
safest, and I plodded on. That night I was
tired and hungry when I laid down to rest.
Strange to say, I slept sound and awoke with a
prodigious appetite. To appease it my dog had
a flue prairie rabbit in front of me. He had not
touched it himself after killing it, but by the
wishful way he watched tho dead animal I knew
he was as hungry as myself. I shared with him
and continued on my way. I reached Fort
Walsh in five days after, my dog always having
something fresh each morning that would last
us the rest of the day. I told a young captain
by tho name of Forbes of my misfortunes, and
he was so pleased with my dog he would not
allow me to take him with me to the East, but
kept it himself. I have my money yet and in
tend to go to Elmira, New York, where I used
to live.”
'rj /■ \ I /
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