New York dispatch. [volume], January 11, 1885, Page 6, Image 6

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

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6
BY LINDA GARDINER.
IVe. wandered in a garden jfifir.
When Summer sun was ■sbinirg,
And laden was the balmy air
With scent of roses rich and rare
Arcund.vs intertwining.
K There trilled the thrush his glorious song;
There trilled the echoes all night long
The warbling nightingale.
You taught^2call each
And,in each floweret's heart you read
•Some hidden tale;
You said their message I should JiDCU —
’Twas an easy rhyrne--
But that upon a time
Lppg ago 1
vWe parted in a...woodland glade.
When Autuipn winds wore sighiaigo
gold and russet bright arrayed
a A glowing canopy,displayed
The Summer leaves a-dying;
.And, but the.wip4L.no other sound
/Than a leaf that filtered to the ground,
• And a far-off robin singing,
We heard. You guessed my
•In Spring, tbeswallows who have fled
Will back be wingjsg;
Tho trees a brighter emerald show,
The rose a richer crim«pn glow,
Than any gleamed in. this year's prime/’
All thMas once time
Long ago!
*' What though awhile, we part,” you cried;
What though the wind in sighing;
The Spring will Autumn’s frost deride,
The Sumhior laugh at Winter-tide,
Long ‘power to grief denying.
We part, fiuL never say farewell,
Nor Jet the d§ad leaves to us tell
A tale of changeless sorrow;
Fair Spring sparkling.jSswn the dell,
And in that morrow.
If still upon thio world below,
meet’noath yonder spreaA&slime,”—
•>ou said.so pnce.&pon a time
.ago 1
.Perchance.yon have Jorgot all
'JL’jras long ago;
Perchance you sneer.&t words.like
And lovers’ woe.
Or else.you are amused —as I—
To tbipk we once swore .we should die,
If fate.iis parted:
To think we vowed so soup to meet,
And said ip Spring-time y#> would greet,
Or else be broken-hearted,
fitrango—is >tpot?—to have Ancied ao.
You smile, no doubt, such to know.'
Or do you cour4 it as a crime
To think.of once .upon a time
43rcnmstances Alter Cases,
BY ETTIE BOGERS.
'•And so. miss, you have teen sleighing with
that Frazer boy from the city, hare you? And
you need net attempt to deny" the matter, either,
Dodo ! there was a plenty of people staring at
you as his fast-fancy horse took you flying down
.the new turnpike road,” Mrs, Tracy snapped
Sas she jerked off her purple woolen mittens, un
tied her voluminous purple nubia, and turned a
shapely displeased visage toward her young
daughter.
" Where was-the harm, mother?” said Dodo
—a petite little thing with cropped yellow curls
kinking all over her pretty head from the in
nocent childish brows to the nape of her satiny
white neck. .
“ My stars ! what a dunce you can pretend to
be,” the mother ejaculated? “The barm is,
Dorinda Tracy, that going sleighing after fast
fancy horses and with strange boys from the
city is not the proper right thing for a young
woman, leastwise for a child like you,"
“ I am not a child at all,” declared Dodo, as
suming as loityapose as was possible lor her
fairy stature. “lam almost seventeen.”
“ Yon are almost seventeen,” Mrs. Tracy
mimicked with piercing disdain. “ Well, 1 was
more than half that' again afore 1 allowed
any fellow to come.shining up to me, and he
was your own father as I married.”
“ But then, mother, you were never a beauty
Eke our Dodo js, you know,” interpolated Mr.
Tracy—a stubby affd unwieldly little man with
blinking eyes and a net ijnl.indly countenance.
“ Perhaps she never knew any young gentle
man like my Jemmy - so nice and so handsome,
I mean,” Dodo faltered, half rougishjy but half
tearfully, although she had intended neither
jest nor disrespect.
“I never wore dandy clothes nor drove dash
ish horses if that is whatyou mean belittling the
looks and ways ot your own father, my girl,”
farmer Tracy’ said with hasty irritation. “ And
I never went roaming around with fancy fixings,
hunting game for wicked pastime, tramping the
wheat and such into the ground, and spoiling
fences and everything, as them city chape are
doing lately hereabouts. That wheat in my cor
ner lot by the wood is ruined, root and sprout;
though maybe lam not as cantankerous and ob-
Bteperous as some I might mention, putting
pizened meat there and yon for the pesky dogs
as are always yelping at the heels of” them
brigands in fancy toggery. Hight is right:
though I do not purpose to plant and sow for
simple spoiling; and more and over though I
do not purpose to let my daughter put horsell
in the way of that palavering Frazer chap.”
“I don’t put myself m his way,” Dodo pro
tested with a troubled pout of her dainty car
mine lips. “Jemmy just always happens to
meet me somewhere when lam coming from the
village. And he does not palaver—and he is
sorry about the wheat in the corner lot, father.”
“ Most folks do manage to be sorry after do
ing the bad as cannot bo undone,” Farmer Tracy
said grimly. “ I believe myself in doing only
what is fairly certain not to bother our con
sciences when the thing is over. And whether
the hunting chap is sorry or only pretends the
like just to flatter and befool you, makes no dif
ference, my girl—you arc to have no more meet
ings with him, coining from the village, nor any
where/’’
“ You hear your father now, Dorinda Tracy,”
the mother said, as she handed a gorgeously
troeheted bag to the girl, who had made Iteauy
for a walk to the adjacent village. “And if
Thai Frazee fellow happens along you are to
step straight on m light proper silence and are
not to notice him at all.”
- “But how can Ido that?” Dodo cried in girl
ish distress. “ How can I bo uncivil when
Jemmy lias always been so nice, and when I
care for him just as he seems to care for me?”
“ Dorinda Tracy!” her mother exclaimed,
with a gesture of horror, “ I ought to lock you
in the garret and keep you on bread and water.
I am amazed at your indecorous actings and
saying I”
“So the hunting chap pretends caring for
you, does he?” demanded the father, rising in
swift wrath, “Well, right is right; but there
may bo something uSSiuB pizened meat neces
■feary round hereabouts, I’m thinking.”
But Dodo did not heed. She had already
closed the door behind her, and was tripping
down the snowy path which led along the frozen
fields, past the leafless hilly wood, over a rudely
bridged stream, and so intersected the single
unpaved street of the rustic hamlet.
As she walked slowly onward there was a rus
tle among the frosty'f allen leaves beside the
path ; the' next instant somebody emerged from
the covert of the wood, and she lifted her trou
bled gray eyes to behold a smiling young fellow
—a shapely and handsome young gentleman,
whose beardless face was rosy and boyish, and
who wore the picturesque habiliments of a styl
ish sportsman.
“You are late, little one,” was his jovial but
entirely respectfill salutation as he paused with
his gun on his shoulder, a brace of birds in one
hand, and a magnificent setter at his heels.
“I'was afraid I should not come at all,” she
eaid, simply and sorrowfully.
“The father is vexed about the wheat lot, I
suppose?” said he, noting the hot crimson of
the soft cheeks and the glimmer of tears in the
gentle gray eyes. “I must explain to him that
the fault was not so much mine, and I have,
already arranged to recompense him for the
damage,” he added cheerfully.
“There is more than that,” she returned
mournfully. “ And I must do as they wish,
Jemmy—l should be miserable if I should do
anything which would grieve my mother and
lather—they have no one but me.”
The shy and loth little speech was not very
comprehensive, certainly, but he sufficiently
understood her girlish tribulation.
“ I know what they would urge,” he said, so
berly. “ They have some uncomplimentary no
tions about me, perhaps, but we shall convince
them that I am not altogether unworthy of what
I crave. Dear heart, you need not fret; you
will do nothing which will grieve them, and
they will not keep me from the precious girl I
desire as my honored wife. I fancy I can dis
pel all their senseless little prejudices.”
Just then there was a crackling and a stamp
ing somewhere on the frosty leaves and frozen
enow, and both turned to perceive a stubby and
unwieldy figure lumbering toward them.
“What is that about senseless prejudices ?”
demanded Farmer Tracy, who was yet several
goodly rods away, and whoso keen old ears had
not interpreted aright. “ May be I do have
nrejudiccs against strange city chaps as go
roaming around, hunting and destroying, shoot
ing innocent birds, and enticing silly misses
with their dashing toggery and sugary sayings.
Maybe as I do have prejudices, but I was
proper wise coming straight alter you, my girl,
I’m thinking.”
Dodo shrunk back and then paused ; her pal
ing lips quivered with a suppressed sob, her
small hands were clasped as if in scared en
treaty.
And as she stood there, apart alike from the
composed lover and the wrathful father, sud
denly something came skipping across the glis
tening field behind her. Then some big, black,
rushing thing tumbled over the low edge, and
the next instant a huge dog, with froth on its
blood-red jaws, and with a hideous green glare
in its blood-shot eyes, leaped toward her.
“ Have a care," my girl,” Farmer Tracy
shouted, as he stumbled and panted down the
path.
Ent Dodo, like the child she was, only stood
rfcd trembled and screamed hysterically. And
tlj| dog still crouched there, motionless and as
if poising lor a savage leap at her pretty
throat.
“ Why don’t you shoot the beast ?” Farmer
Tracy vociferated in alarm and wrath. “ Can
you do nothing, Frazer ?”
But the young man had already adjusted bis
gun for an unerring aim; there was a flash, a
tingling snap, a tiny wattage of malodorous
smoke, and then the animal tumbled quietly
over on the frozen snow.
And at the moment Farmer Tracy approached
Jfor.
Your old father wasn’t miiefc use- to you just
' >now,”.- he ruefully admitted, as he put a stubby
| .arm about her, “ and that we owe-something to
[ the hunting chap is fairly certain. Right is
right.; ai>d we shall just take him home with
us, and-may be mother will not be-so cantanker
ous and-obstreperous against him vwh.en flhe
tknows about the beast, and how he banged dais
: fancy gun just in the nick of time to save you.”
There was a curiously mirthful look.upon-tho
Tiosy feabwas of the handsome young‘fellow,
but he very -courteously acknowledged the un
polished commendation of his prompt and effi
cient marksmanship.
And so with the half comforted Dod© between
them, the two. men walked very amicably io the
cheery farmhouse.
And on the-very threshold they were met by
an elderly gentleman who introduced himself
as the senior Frazer, and who announced bis
purpose to make a just compensation for all
damages accruing from the devastated wheat
lot. '
“ These children of ours will have their little
follies,” be laughingly said to the mollified farm
er Tracy. “ But then we were all young on-co
ourselves, although, we all did not have rich
fathers to pay for our youthful depredations.
But I can afford to .indulge Jemmy, even if lie
has a boyish passion for an occasional shooting
expedition. He is an excellent business man,
. and 1 have decided to promote him to a part
nership with me, now. since he has chosen a
- .wile. He has-chosen admirably too—Miss Do-
. rind a is* a sweet girl.”
Mrs. Tracy could on}y profess a surprised
satisfaction at the delightful ending of it all.
“My stars 1 Dorinda Tracy, you are an amaz
ingly lucky girl 1” she ejaculated. “You will
hayo.euch a rich husband, and a right proper
niceiyoung fellow Jemmy is too, as folks cannot
deny.knowing the grand business house in the
city. Though I never afore could exactly ap
> prove.of fast fancy horses and sporting weak
• nesees,.why circumstances alter cases, as folks
can not deny either. And then your Jemmy
was a real.hero, saving you frem that dreadful
dog.”
But Fipfpmr Tracy only ehumded and his
keen old.eyes blinked very knowingly.
“Jam not fairly certain aboututhat,” he said;
“just betwixt/surselves, mother, that dog was
stone dead store the fancy gun banged at all.
That pesky beast had a dose of pizened meat
and a convulsion leveled him just there; long
afore.he tumbled ever the hedge be .could not
have bit a bird ,pnt in his jaws—as I was curi
ous enough to make sure without the sly-grins
i of the hunting chap t© help me. That our girl’s
■ Jemmy is a right .proper young man 1 don’t
gainsay; more and over, boy kind mostly has a
■harmless hankering lor dashing horses and
fancy fixings, and circumstances alter cases, as
you have neatly hinted; bast betwixt ourselves, ‘
mother,,our girl’s plighted husband is no more
a hero than commoner folks/’
But the same, he was a hero to pretty
Dodo, .who was wholly comforted when she
learned how happily “ circumstances had al
tered CSrtJ6i2.. M
TBWElmmTvoicEs.
BY C. DESPARD.
CHAPTER I.
THE SPIRIT or THE VOICES.
It was the afternoon of ths twenty-third of
December—bright, genial, snowy, seasonable
weather—the sun shining, the sky clear, the
air delightfully crisp and invigorating. From
the window of a handsomely furnished room m
Piccadilly, a young man looked down into the
snowy street,’and wondered where he should
spend Christmas Day. His family were on the
Continent, or he would not have had any diffi
culty on that point. Now this pleasant change
in the weather had come about, ho began to
wish he had given orders for Seaforth—his fath
er’s country home in the Shires—to be made
ready for him. In such case he would have
seen
He paused, and smiled to himself soltly.
“I’ve half a mind,” he said, half aloud, “to
send a telegram to Mrs. Jenkins, and run down
to-morrow. ”
And here he stopped again. Might it not be
better to keep out of the way a little longer ?
He had not committed himself; but he believed
the state of his feelings had been guessed. She
would not be likely to do anything precipitate.
“If it were not for that stupid mystery,” mur
mured the young man, “I shouldn’t hesitate
another moment,”
The Honorable Francis Stapleton -this was
his name and style—had a particular objection
to mysteries. They were vulgar; they smacked
of the melo-drama’ and sensational literature.
People ought to be open and above-board, use
their own names, and let the world know their
true position. He had always been so himself,
and it was this very frankness of his—a charac
teristic which he regarded with some compla
cency—that rendered it incumbent on him not
to ally his fate with that of any one who could
not show an open record before the world.
There are "many people who will admire
Francis Stapleton for his cautious desire to look
before he leaped, and his corresponding objec
tion to have his eyes vailed by any secret or
mystery whatsoever, when lie was meditating
that desperate measure.
I am bound, however, to confess that at the
moment to which I am referring—the bright,
snowy afternoon of the 28d of December —he
could not argue with his usual logical acumen.
There seemed to be some disturbing element
in the air.
After many an effort to think prudently, he
gave way to the soft influences that were steal
ing over him. leaned back in bis luxuriously
cushioned chair, and fell into the most deli
cious thought-wandering imaginable.
The scene about him grows confused. It
vanishes. He is out in the open. Ah, what is
that ? A sweet and penetrating music that fills
the air.
Bells ? No, surely 1 Never in hi« life has he
hekril bells ring so sweetly.
FOl‘ a few mSments he listens with delight:
then, close at his elbow, he hears a low, clear
voice. """ ■' ....
“You are surprised,” it says. “ ion wonder
what the music is. Foolish boy I Don’t you
know that those are the Christmar voices in the
air? If you are wise ydfi will listen to them.”
“ Who are you ?” asks the young man,
“lam the spirit of the Christmas voices,”
says the nnseen one.
“ Then, perhaps, you can tell me what they
mean.”
“Listen—listen 1” says the voice, impatiently.
“If you begin to argue, all is lost.”
With a curious tremor at his heart, the Hon
orable Francis sets himself to listen. After a
few moments a strange softness steals over
him, and his eyes fill with tears.
“My sister !” he murmurs—“ my poor little
Jeannette 1”
The unseen one gives a low laugh.
“ Why do you do that?” says Francis.
“Because"you are beginning to anderstand.
But listen again.”
“We were so happy together,” he murmurs—
“ years, years ago, and 1 have never been so
happy since.”
“ You were happy because you loved,” says
the voice. “ When you and she were together,
yon never thought of yourself.”
“ Never 1 never ! And she was the same.
Always thinking of her brother; never of her
self. If Jeannette had lived ”
“If Jeannette had lived and been obedient,
she might have become what you are now.”
“ What I am now 1” echoes Francis, feeling,
through his dream, a sense of bewilderment.
“ What—l—am—now !” he repeats. The words
seem to join themselves to the music, making a
strange, monotonous song. “ What—l-—”
He started to his feet, wide awake.
“Beg pardon, sir,’’(said his white-haired ser
vant, who had just come in. “I am afraid I
disturbed you.”
“Disturbed me ! Then it was youjwho were
speaking, Jenkins. What did you say ?”
“ I made so bold as to ask what you were say
ing, sir,” said the stately old man. “ I came ki
to lay the table, and I thought you addressed
an observation to me.”
“ I must have been asleep,” said the Honor
able Francis. “Jenkins t”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Put my things together, and send a tele
gram to your wife. I shall start lor Seaforth
to-morrow.”
CHATER 11.
A HE VISI.AT XO N .
The morning of the twenty-fifth of December
dawned fairly over the little village of Aveling.
A ruddy sun camo rolling up, late but magnifi
cent, from hie slumbers in the east, and tossing
to right and leit the white mists that had gath
ered, during the night over the dark earth. The
world was snowy white and glittering, as it
decked for a bridal festival. On such a morn
ing it seemed impossible to imagine that trouble
could be.
There was a homo in the village—Aveling
Park, the next property to Seaforth—where one
might have thought that trouble could not come.
But the dark-winged messenger had touched
one who dwelt there ; and, in touching one, it
touched all.
The family at the Park consisted of three—
Sir Andrew and Lady Merton, and their only
and dearly-beloved child, Lettice. Sir Andrew
was rich," and could enjoy to the full the pleas
ures and refinements of living to Wliicli gold
gives the passport, while his wife sympathized
with him in all his tastes.
It was said, by those who were intimate with
Sir Andrew and his lady, that they had never
been known to disagree. On one point, cer
tainly, they were of the same mind: they had a
love,’ bordering on adoration, for their pretty
and charming young daughter.
Lettice was about nineteen years of age that
Winter—as good, as clever, and as winsome a girl
as ever parents were proud of. She was always
busy in some sort of work for those who dwelt
about her home, and on the Christmas live to
which we have referred—the Christmas Evo
when the Honorable Francis Stapleton was
leaving town—she was in the church until a
late hour, finishing off the decorations for the
next day.
The church was only just outside her father's
. park, and she had begged that no one should
wait for her. But when she found herself in
i the porch, she could not resist a little inward
, tremor, for the night was almost appallingly
i black. There was no help for it, however, and
she ventured out. Scarcely had she done so
before she heard the sound of lootsteps, and,
I turning, saw a man carrying a lantern. Sup
posing that her father had sent for her, she
JNEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 11, 1885
; stopped till the man came-np. To her contusion,
■ she saw that it was their neighbor, Francis Sta
' pieton.
“ Oh, Mr. Stapleton I” she said. “Do yon
moan to say that you— I beg your pardon.
You were going on somewhere. lam detaining
you.”
“Quite the contrary, dear Miss Merton. I
have been calling at Aveling, and I have come
out here on purpose to look ter you.”
“ It is a pity to have troubled you,” said Miss
Lettice. “ I know every step of the way.”
“ Pardon me ! Yon are making a false step
now. Can I not persuade >you to take my
arm ?”
She had only tripped through nervousness.
If, she had been alone, she would not have
been so stupid. Lettice did not. say this to her
companion, for fear of seeming ungraoious.
She-accepted his arm, and found the support
pleaeant, and they wont on together through
the . little postern-gata which . led from the
churchyard into Aveling Park. When they
reached the front door of the fine,-eld mansion
where Lettice lived, Francis stopped and put
down hie lantern.
“ You s-will come in now you have come so
far?”.said Lettice. “ Father will bo vexed if
you go away like this.”
“ I think he will excuse me. I ani. not sure,
in. fact, that he expects me. Goodnight, Miss
Merton. Wo shall soon meet again, I hope.”
“ Good night, Mr. Stapleton. Thank you so
.many times for your help. I will tell,you the
truth now. I-was afraid of the dark,” and Let
tiee held , out .her pretty ungloved hand. He
lifted it to hie lips, made a confused speech
about meeting soon, and hurried away.
Lettice, whose,heart was beating wildly,.went
to her own room, and sat down to think. Thon,
blushing and frowning, she got up and began to
bustle about tbe room. A little bit of unneces
sary gallantry I It was absurd of her to think
so much of it. Sbo would put it out of her hsad
at once.
Presently there oamo a gentle tap at the doo?,
and she ran to.open it.
“Come in, darling mother,” she said. “I
have a splendid fire. Sit down and warm your
self. There ! Are you quite comfortable ? Why
don’t you speak, mother? and what makes you
look at me so seriously?”
“It is nothing, darling—aothing,” said the
gentle old lady; “that is—l am sure it ought
to be nothing. I told Sir Andrew so. ‘ This
does not change anything,’ I said, and he quite
agreed with me.”
“Change! What do you mean, mother?”
asked Lettice.
Wild ideas were floating through her brain.
Had Francis Stapleton spoken, and had her pa
rents some reason for thinking ill of him? But,
if so, why did her mother look grieved ?
Lady Merton spoke again.
“Dearest,” she said, “come to the library.
Yionr father will tell you.”
With downeast eyes, Lettice followed her
mother to the pretty room where they always
sat when they were alone together.
Sir Andrew looked no less agitated than his
wife, and Lettice, as she sat down beside him,
felt curiously nervous. To cover her confusion,'
she began to talk a little wildly about village
matters. Then she thanked him lor the lovely
walking-dress which lie had ordered for her,
and which had arrived that day.
“ I mean to dress up in it to-morrow, and I
know you will say that I look bewitching,” said
Lettice, with her charming smile.
Alter a few moments ol iliisipretty babble, ho
interrupted her.
“My child,” he said, “do you know that I
Lave something to tell you ?”
.“Oh! tell her gently! tell her gently, An
drew !” cried poor Lady Merton.
“My dear,” said the baronet, “ did you not
ask me to tell her ? I must do it in my own
way, or not at all.”
Lettice, who was past speaking, looked mute
ly from one ot these dear Tacos to the other.
“ You see,” said Sir Andrew to his wife, “yon
are frightening her by your way of taking it.
Lettice, my girl, I hope you will bo brave. You
are our child, you know, whatever happens.
So tar as we are concerned, nothing has
changed, and if it had not been for those med
dlesome Lestranges coming here and tattling, I
don’t think I could ever have made up my
mind to tell you. But it is better, after all,
that yon should hoar, it from us than from any
one else.”
“ The Lestranges ?” said Lettice, dreamily.
“We knew them abroad, didn’t we ?”
“ Yes, yes, when we were abroad; when yon
were little—when you first came to ns,” said
Lady|Mertoi>.
“ You mean when I was born, mother.”
“ No, no, m„y child,” said Sir Andrew, gen
tly: “your mother has put it rightly. When
yon came !o us—came to be our pride and our
delight and the comtortof our declining days —
all that you have been, and you will be still,
even though you are no daughter of our house.”
“No daughter? I? No daughter? Not
your child ?” gried Lettice, wildly. “Fa
ther ! Mother!”
“Darling, yes,” said poor Lady Merton, in a
broken voice. “ Your lather your mother —so
long as God spares us to you. Lettice, my dar
ling, speak ! Say you forgive us for not having
told you before.’’
“ Wife, be patient,” said Sir Andrew. “ She
is confused. She does not understand it yet.”
“ I think 'I do understand,” said Lettice,
turning her sorrowful eyes toward him. “I am
not your child. AU you have done for me, you
have done out of the love and kindness of your
hearts. But please tell me more. If I am’ not
Lettice Merton, who am 1?”
She was answered by a story into which it is
not necessary to enter here minutely. Lettice’s
mother—a deserted wife—died at a hotel on the
continent shortly, alter her child's birth. Sir
Andrew and Lady Merton happened to be slay
ing at the hotel at the same time. They we:e
childless, and they loved children. When the
young mother died, refusing to the last to make
her history known, they took the baby, and
brought it up as their own.
V- s-. * s
It Wils with a sorrowful heart that pretty Let
tice Merton went to her room that night.' The
blow would have been a terrible one at any
time, but that it should come now! It was too
hard. It was more than she typ.M. J»»y,
Listen ! poof,. iron bled clnicl. ThefS STB
voices in the air. Soft and low, at first, as if
heard from a great distance ; but coming, with
each moment, nearer and nearer, they sing their
sweet song around you.
There are no words to the song, or no such
words as earthly speech can render; but Let
tice seems to have understood it, for when her
eyelids unclose, her lips are moving, and what
she says is:
“ I will! I will!”
Long after, she would tell of how, on one
strange night, the Christmas voices that were
traveling through the air came down to her,
and of how they brought with them a new joy,
a now hope, a new force for love and service.
|
CHAPTER 111.
IS THE SILENT DESIEUTED AVENUE.
Early on that Christmas morning, Lettice was
up and' out of doors. She had put on the pretty
and costly walking-dress, all trimmed with soft
furs, which was Sir Andrew’s present, to his
darling ; her basket was on her arm, and a lit
tle branch of mistletoe, which she had promised
to a sick child in the village, was fastened to
h«r girdle. She made a pretty picture as, leav
ing the park gates behind her, she stepped out
upon the snowy road;
There, for a few moments she paused, and
looked before her dreamily. She was facing the
world in a new character, and it was a little
strange to her. Yesterday’ all these things were
hers. To-day she feels like a pretender.
But the echo of the Christmas voices came tp
her, and she sped on swiftly, with a'smile on
her lips. If it is beautiful io give, is it not beau
tiful also io take—so only that we take with a
pure heart and a spirit steeped in love ?
To reach the village, Lettice had to pass the
gates of Seaforth. Scarcely were they in sight
before she saw Francis Stapleton coming out to
meet her.
“ You will not pass me by like this on Christ
mas day?” he said, as she smiled and bowed,
and would have gone on.
' Poor little Lettice ! If she could only have
been dignified ! But she could not. The Hon
orable Francis Stapleton took the basket from
her arm, and walked on with her to the village.
It was in the silent deserted avenue that he
told his story. He loved her. He had loved
her long. Once he had been foolish enough to
think that a man might live without love, but
lie had found out his mistake. Would she have
nity upon him ? Did she think she could ever
love him in return ?
Oh ! how hard it was—how hard for our poor
little Lettice ! Yesterday she could have an
swered with such a light heart. Could she not
love him ? It was easy enough—too easy; she
loved him already. To-day, what was she to
say?
Timidly she lilted her eyes to his face. “ Mr.
Stapleton,” she said, “you have asked me -Let
dice Merton—to be your wife.”
“ I have, Lettice. is there any reason why I
should not?”
“ There is—there is—a reason ! lam not Let
tice Merton. lam a poor deserted girl, whom
my dear parents brought up out of charity. I
have no right to anything here.”,
She stopped, for the effort was almost too
great for her strength. Iler cheeks were pale,
and her eyes were so dim with tears that she
could scarcely see anything. But she knew that
her lover had drawn close to her, and that her
hand was clasped in his.
“Is this all you have to tell me, Lettice ?” he
asked.
“ Is it not enough?” she said falteringly.
“ What if I tell you that I suspected this long
ago, and that yesterday I knew it?”
“You knew’it
“ Yes; Sir Andrew told me himself.”
“And yet ”
“ And yet—l love you. Can anything change
that ? Love me a little in return, Lettice, and I
don’t care who you are, or how you came to be
what you are, the loveliest —”
“ Francis !”
That naughty little piece of mistletoe was still
in her girdle. In her excitement she had for
gotten to give it away. Her lover caught it and
held it high up over her head. “Lettice !” he
cried threateningly. She laughed, broke away
from him, ran as fast as her feet could carry
her, up the avenue, and never stopped till she
was in Lady Merton’s arms and pouring out her
story.
There were plenty of voices m the air the fol
lowing Christmas—voices grand and joyous,
and lovely, and pure, and Lettice and her hus
band. heard them together. But nona sounded
to them so sweet and strange as those which
they had heard on tne Christmas before—cue in
snowy Piccadilly, the other in silent Aveling—
the voices which revealed to them the mystery
of life: which told them that while love is all,
and self is naught, we need not fear even though
we should be plunged into the deepest depths
of sorrow. Through love wo shall conquer—
yea, even conquer ourselves, which is the hard
est conquest of all.— Cassell’s Magazine.
talkTwith boys.
BY M. QUAD.
tf How many boys have been inhere this week
to post themselves ?” I asked of the manager oi
the lead pipe works the other day.
“Not a one,” he replied.
“ How many in the last month ?”
“ I do not remember of a boy coming in here
to see the process, since the works were started,
eight years ago.”
And, yet, it is one of the most interesting
things in the whole range of mechanics and
manufacturing. “Now, my boy, how is lead
pipe made ?”
“Don’t know.”
“ Give a guess.”
“Well, it’s cast. Yes, of course it’s cast, the
same aa gas pipe.”
Is it? Ask your father, and see what he says.
He’ll probably agree with you. I asked twenty
different meh, the other day, and such of them
as “ didn’t know,” replied that it was cast.
Let me tell yon why it isn’t cast. What is
called inlet pipe, or the pipe which supplies a
building with water, must stand the pressure
of the water works. Every throb of the big en
gine at the pumping works exercises a pressure
of no little force on every inlet pipe in the whole
city. Lead has not the density of iron, and this
pressure, in case ot lead simply allowed to cool
around a core, would send the water through a
thousand pin-hole. We will now see how it is
made.
In the paint.factory article I told you that the
corroder received his lead in “pigs.” It is the
same at the pipe works. A kettle, large enough
io hold 180 pounds of melted lead, is bricked in
as a furnace, and is provided with a strong
draught to insure a hot lire. Soft coal is used
f©r fuel, and it takes only a short time for the
lead to melt.
(dose by the furnace is the massive machine
which makes the pine. It is made of gun metal,
and is very massive, lor it must exercise a
pressGre of 25,000 pounds. In the centre of
this press is a cylinder which will hold all the
lead in the furnace as it runs in through a spout.
There issi water well underneath the press, and
it is worked by hydraulic pressure.
To illustrate so that you can plainly under
stand: Imagine a baking powder can, with one
end open, as the cylinder. This is lull of the
melted lead, but in tho centre of it is a steel
core. You can illustrate again by holding a
round stick in the centre -of the can. There are
grades of pipe from one-eighth of an inch to two
or three inches of core, and tho press has cores
of. every size needed.
When all is ready the machine starts, and you
are dumb-founded to see the bottom of the cy
linder slowly rising up. This forces the lead up
and around the core, just the way you pillion a
stocking. The core makes the hollow, and the
distance from the core to the sides of the cy
lender determine the thickness of the pipe. The
lead pipe comes up foot by foot, slowly lout con
tinuously, and as it rises above the press it is
run oyer a large wooden wheel. You never see
the pipe except in coils, and it is this wheel
which coils it.
As the pipe comes from the cylinder it is as
bright and shiny as silver, and every inch of it
has been subjected to a pressure of 25,000
pounds. This pressure would flatten six bars
of the lead you buy for bullets into the thick
ness of one. The 180 pounds of melted lead
has made 150 feet ofhall-inch pipe.
The process looks simple enough after we
have seen it done, but men spent years and
years before they perfected that press, and they
were smart men too. Years ago pipe was cast,
but it was of no use when there was any consid
erable pressure to force the water through.
Then they rolled it solid and bored it out, but
the expense and waste were too great.
Every boy has handled the bar lead found in
hardware stores and at tho gunsmith’s. These
bars are made in this same press. The cy
linder is filled just the same, but in place of’ a
solid steel core they use one with a hole in it just
the shape of a bar. The upward pressure forces
the lead up through this aperature, and it keeps
going over the wheel until we| have 300 feet of
it. It is then cut by a machine to proper
lengths, and these lengths are run through a
second machine to have the name stamped up
on them, and the edges dressed up to look a
bit more fancy.
If you live iu a city having water works, and
the plumbing in your house is well done, the
floors under every lavatory are lined with sheet
lead to catch any drip from the basin above.
The making of this is, of course, an entirely
different affair. The lead is cast into blocks’,
say four feet square. These blocks are placed
on large iron tables, .and powerful rollers roll
back and forth until the blocks are flattened to
thin sheets.
In an hour’s time yon can see the whole pro
cess of making lead pipe, bar lead and sheet
lead, and it will be a well spent hour. It won’t
be worth a cent to you financially, but it will
have added to your knowledge and intelligence.
The mind is a great storehouse. Whatever you
learn is laid up on a shelf, as it were, and
though you may not take that particular item
down for years, the day finally comes when you
want to make use of it.
And don’t you know that the world is improv
ing so rapidly in science and mechanics, and
genius stands so near the head ot the procession
that men will forgive almost anything in a fel
low man sooner than ignorance/ Thirty years
ago, when we said of a man: “He is well edu
cated, and thoroughly posted,” we meant that
he was head and shoulders above ordinary men.
Nowadays, when you find a man who is any
thing, else but well-educated and thoroughly
posted, the world feels that ho deserves criti
cism for neglecting his everyday opportunities.
HARNEY’S RACE FOR LIFE.
An Incident of the Florida War that
Had Escaped the Historians.
(from the .-1.-my and Xavy Journal.')
“Ned Buntline,” a comrade of General Har
ney,in the Florida war, contributes the foliow
ing :
In 1838, when I was a midshipman, acting
lieutenant on board the Ifoited States schooner
Ostego, on the Florida coast, he was Lieutenant-
Co.lonel of the Second' United States Dragoons,
under Colonel Twiggs. It was the only cavalry
regiment in tho war, and Phil Kearney, Charlie
May, and Billy Fulton, the father of Chandos
Fulton, prominent now in your city, were then
iu the regiment. I could fill your'oolumns for
weeks with incidents of gallantry in which this
regiment, the old Third Artillery, and the Sixth,
Seventh, and Eighth Infantry were prominent.
But to come back to Harney. He looked
every inch a soldier, and he stoo'd six feet three
inches in his boots. He was not handsome.
He was stalwart, manly, ever impetuous in
word and action. He and Twiggs swore races.
Twiggs generally came out “first best.” Gen
eral Harney, though retired, is tho oldest general
in the army. I could give you one hundred stir
ring incidents of his fighting life, but will close
with only one, which the general will vouch for
as true.
In 1839 he had a post, with two companies of
the Second Dragoons, on the Caloosahatohie
river, some ten or fifteen miles above its
month. It enters the Gulf of Mexico at Sana
bel Island. The men were mostly in tents.
There was a small stockade, a slitter’s store,
and a temporary store-house, in the encamp
ment.
In the middle of a hot night—l forget the pre
cise date -the Seminoles, numbering three or
four hundred, under Arpiaka, the Fish-Eater,
and Billy Bowlegs, surprised the post. Colonel
Harney, in consequence of the heat and mos
quitoes, had taken his blanket and left his quar
ters to sleep on a knoll on the river bank, where
the cool breeze swept over the water. This
alone.saved his life. He was awakened in the
dead of night by the yells of the Indians, the
firing of guns, and the shrieks of hie dying men.
The houses and tents were fired, the soldiers
killed before they could offer resistance—in
short, it was a, massacre of the soldiers —not an
Indian killed in the whole affair.
Harney, in his shirt and drawers without a
weapon, could only run for life. Capture
would be death by the crnelest torture. He
ran down the river, through a dense swamp,
the Indian yells filling the night air and he be
lieving them close on his trail. For miles he
kept on, the scanty clothes he wore torn all to
pieces on the branches as he plunged through
the brush, and fast as he went he heard a crash
behind him. He was pursued. At last, breath
less, worn out so he could run no further, he
halted and turned. I give his own words to
mo of what then occurred :
“I heard the red cusses close onto me. I
knew it was death, but I thought I'd die game ;
I squared oft', clinched my fists and shouted :
‘ Come on. yon red devils, d—n you ; come on.’
‘ Howly saints, is it you, Kernel ? ’ cried one of
my own men, the only man beside me that es
caped, as be halted within my reach. I was
that mad. to be so scared by a white man, that
I knocked him down on the spot! It’s a fact.
Then I felt ashamed of my act, picked him up
and told him I was sorry !”
The two then crawled on through the swamp,
and got down by daylight to Sanabel Island,
swimming across the narrow channel to its
sandy shore. The next day we ran in there for
water in the Otsego and found Harney and his
soldier almost stark-naked on the beach, both
i hungry and thirsty, but thankful for life.
And this is known in Florida war history as
the “ Massacre on the Caloosahatohie.” The
reason of the surprise was, that there was a
temporary truce between the Indians and the
whites and feeling no danger, the sentinels
were few and careless. After that Harney
planned, and carried out a raid into tho Ever
glades, in which twenty-seven buck Indians
were killed or captured—and all of them hung
as soon as in our hands. We captured about
thirty squaws and children, who were held as
prisoners until sent West. I- was on the raid.
In it the late General Ord was shot through tho
shoulder. He was then a second lieutenant in
the Third Artillery. Sherman, now retired, was
a first lieutenant in the regiment at the time.
Pardon these old-time reminiscences. I am
full of them, and they will come out when the
spirit moves. A full chapter would be required
, to illustrate that raid of revenge on Harney’s
part.
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY.
A Game of Cards in a Mining Camp
Which was Never Finished.
(F/'om the, Denver Nezes..)
The wind howled and roared through the
trees in Newland Gulch as though ten thousand
fiends had broken loose. Anon it would sink
into a solemn and mournful dirge, then, as if a
whole kingdom of furies had been let loose, the
noise would bo perfectly deafening. Every one
in the camp had “ turned in ” except the select
poker party who had a big game in the tent at
“ the forks.” Six rough-looking miners sat
around the table, intent as if their lives de
pended upon the various deals.
At times the noise without almost precluded
conversation, and the betting was done chiefly
by signs. Suddenly Bill Ahern, who sat oppo
site the entrance, and who was dealing, happen
ing to cast his eyes upward, saw a vision that
seemed to transfix him in the midst of the deal.
Noticing his action and the fixed stare with
which he gazed over their heads, the others
turned quickly around, and there, at tho open
ing, stood a woman, young and, who would
have been, prepossessing but for her bedrag
gled state. Her hair was disheveled.and float
ing over her shoulders in a confused mass, and
the water was pouring from her soaked gar
ments in streams. Wildly and pleadingly she
addressed them:
“Oh, gentlemen, help, please—my husband
—he is dying down the gulch 1”
Instantly that poker game was broken up,
and those rough men, whose humane instincts
were easily stirred, ran out into the darkness
and the storm. Down the gulch went the wo
man, followed by the six men, crossing on a
rocky ford below where the mad stream dashed
and roared, threatening to carry them off their
feet, to a level mesa beyond, across which she
led them to a sharp bend in the creek, perhaps
three-fourths of a mile below the camp.
There in the shelter of a scanty scrub-oak
thicket a man was found lying, evidently dying.
Carefully he was taken from the wet ground
and carried back over the slippery and perilous
trajl and taken into one of the more substantial
tents, where he was laid on the floor and some
blankets before a fire, which had been
kindled purposely. It was soon evident that
his life was slowly but surely ebbing. Sudden
ly, and with an effort, he raised himself upon
his elbow, staring around with eyes whoso
sights were already dimmed with the shadows
of death, and reached out his hands in such a
suppliant, pitiful mamw. then in a voice,
husky and weak, he ejaculated, ■* Mary.”
Quickly going to him and taking his* head in
her lap, oh, so tenderly, she- stroked his hair,
already damp with the dews of death, and
placing her ear to his mouth, listened to his
labored, whispered words with a world of affec
tion and love in her face.
The group in the tent at this moment was |
striking; in the foreground and immediately in
the firelight the recumbent figure of the dying
man on the floor, with his head supported’ by
the woman and tho flickering light from tho
blazing logs playing fantastically on the two
central figures. In the background, partly
shrouded by the gloom, was the group of min
ers, standing with their hats off, in respectful
attitude, awaiting the presence of the angel of
death who was hovering near.
An ominous rattle in the throat, a convulsive
gasp and all was over. Oh, what a helpless,
pitiful look came over the face of the woman as
sh’e glanced at the pitying faces around her,
and then buried her head in her hands. Look
ing up shortly with a tear-stained face, she said
in a voice sad but sweet:
tl Gentlemen, I thank yon for your kindness
to me more than I can say. This is my hus
band. \Ve were on our way to Denver in the
stage, but the high water made the ford impas
sable, and as he was very ill and they told us of
this camp, we started in the darkness and the
storm, but had not gone far before he became
exhausted and sank down on the trail and I
hastened here for assistance. We have just
come from the East for his health, which has
been bad for some time, thinking he would get
relief in this milder climate, but it is ail over
now.”
Again bowing her head she wept bitterly for
a time, then Bill Ahern, knowing that something
should be done, but scarcely realizing what,
touched her on the arm and said:
“Beg parding, missus; the boys here want to
do something for you, but don’t know how. We
thought as you would rather be alone like, and
maybe we’d better take the body to another
tent.”
“ No, no,” said the w-oman, throwing her
arms around Ihe body, “ I must stay with him.”
Then in an apologetic voice, “ Excuse me, but I
am nearly wild with my grief. I would rather
stay with him this one night;” this in an implor
ing tone.
The men got their heads together, and finally
concluded to give up the tent to the woman and
her dead for the night. Announcing this to her,
they silently filed out into tho darkness, back
to where they had been playing, but the game
was not resumed. They talked over the inci
dent until the gray light qf dawn.
The ram having ceased the sun shortly after
ward came marching ovex* the hill in magnificent
splendor. Soon the whole camp was awake,
and smoke from numerous fires indicated that
the morning me.il was in preparation. Ahern
and the rest waited until the sun was high in
the heavens for some sign of life from the tent, ’
but none came; they had cooked a breakfast for
the lonely mourner but hesitated to disturb her.
Einally the morning being pretty far advanced,
it was resolved that Ahern should be their
spokesman in tendering their hospitality. Go
ing to the opening he pushed back the flies and
found the woman in exactly the same position
as they had leff her tho preceding night. Speak
ing to her he received no answer, and going
closer, thinking she had fallen asleep, he shook
her gently at first, then more strongly; she
never moved. Becoming alarmed he raised her
head, and to his horror saw that she, too, was
dead. As there was no outward apparent
cause they concluded that she had died of a
broken heart.
On a beautiful little plateau overlooking the
gulch, in a bed of prarie lilies, wild roses and
honeysuckles, they dug two graves side by side,
and, placing boards at the head, placed on them
in rude characters: “Strangers, died June 30,
1869,” and despite every effort no information of
the unfortunate pair, as to who they were or
where they came from was ever obtained.
A REAL HOME.
BY ELLA GUERNSEY.
“ Noo, feytber, dinna tarry; I’ll be greetin’
abtine yon,” said the old wife, aa with a tender
look in the faded bine eyes she looked alter the
bent, homely “ gudo man ” who was to her tho
Prince Charming.
“Dinna greet, Janet, I ll no be lang away fra’
our wee bit home, an’ happiness.,’
As tbs gudo dame hustled about, I thought,
“ Yes, happiness, love, content were guests iu
this humble abode, in Arizona.”
The home that sheltered this honest Scotch
couple was scarcely as large as a Saratoga
trunk. Windows, it bad none : in fact the large
cracks in the thin walls let iu euough light for
Janet to see to mend and sew.
The fare was scanty, and Crunimie, tho “coo
with the crumpled horn,” was the stay ot the
lamilyl
As for clothing, there was little change need
ed, the check and cheviot gown was short and
skimpy, but clean.
The prayer book, Bible, and a collection of old
atmauacs were treasures, read and reread.
“And do'you never pine for Auld Scotland,
Janet ?”
“Mony times, leddy, an’ to see the dear
friends, though the kirk yard ha’ gotten mony
since we came to Arizona, but feyther an’ me
ha’ each ither to luve, an’ togither we strive to
like these new scenes. In tho Winter, when ’tis
cauld, we sometimes see hard times. Arizona
is na’ a paradise for puir auld people, but our
hame is here an’ we must be content.”
“ Happy and content.”
All that morning I gave myself up to idleness
and sat looking out upon the “not beautiful”
Arizona scenery, thinking of grand homes that
did not contain'contented owners.
Alter the small cheeses were turned, and the
churning done, the oatmeal cake baked, a hand
ful of gay flowers were gathered. Among them
was a real piece of heather, for feyther.
At ten o’clock the “ auld wife ” began her pil
grimages to the door, which was too low to allow
even this little shrunken woman to stand erect.
The table was neatly spread and more pilgrim
ages were made, the' noonday sun crept around
to the doorway, and Janet shaded her eyes with
one hand from its rays, and at last a joyful
“Feyther’s coming,” aroused me. I was not
quite sure but a faint color stole into the pale
cheek. Sturdily he tramped, the little woman
trotted out to meet him, and stood by with au
anxious inquiry “if he bean’t tired,” as he
bathed his heated face and made ready for a
“bite aud sup.” Hard times may 'ome, banks
may break, but that real home in Arizona en
dures “so long as they both live.”—Burlington-
HaickjEye. .
■ CHARMING SNAKES.
ONE OF THE CHABMERB GIVES
AWAY JTHE JNAKES.
It a snake lies out straight I know that he
isn’t going to bite, because he can’t. But it he
lies in a loop, like the letter “ S,” then look out.
In this position he can throw himself for
ward. He can’t do it when he is lying out
straight. A snake handler must know this,
and then he knows when he is in danger, aud
knows when to soothe the snake and when to
let him alone. It is different with venomous
snakes.
The only time a rattlesnake will strike is
when he is in a coil, and when a copperhead
means to strike he shapes himselt something
like a double “8.”
If a copperhead should put itself in this
shape, all a man would have to do would be to
throw it out ot position with his cane, and it
couldn’t bite him.
When you are handling snakes you must not
take hold of them in away that seems to con
fine them. Let their bodies rest on your
shoulders and on your arms and on the backs
of your hands.
If you let your fingers close around the neck
of a snake, he will be pretty sure to twist his
head around and chaw you on the arm. There
is danger of being bitten in handling snakes, I
admit, but I can make any snake in the world
let go his hold and move off by nibbing his
back down on each side of his backbone with
my thumb and forefinger. Snakes are very
nervous along tbo backbone, and they can't
stand rubbing in this way. It acts like magic.
It seems to soothe their anger, but it always
causes them to move off.
A snake is dangerous when he is blind— that
is, when he is about to shed h.’s skin—and ho
must be let alone then.
How to Split a Sheet of Paper. —lt
is one of the most remarkable properties of that
product, paper (says the British and
Colonial Printer and Stationer) that it can be
split into two or even three parts, however thin
the sheet. We have seen a leaf of the Illustrated
News thus divided into three parts, or three
thin leaves. One consisted of the surface on
which the engravings are printed ; another was
the side containing the letter-press, and a per
fectly blank piece on either side was the paper
that lay between. Many people who have not
seen this done might think it impossible; yet it
is not only possible, but extremely easy, as we
shall show. Get a piece of plate-glass, and
place it on a sheet of paper ; then let the latter
be thoroughly soaked. With care and dexterity
the sheet can be split by the top surface being
removed. But the best plan is to paste a piece
of cloth or strong paper to each side of the sheet
to bo split. When dry, violently and without
hesitation pull the two pieces asunder, when a
part of the sheet will be found to have adhered
to one and part to the other. Soften the paste
in water, and the pieces can be easily removed
from the cloth. The process is generally de
monstrated as a matter of curiosity, yet it can
be utilized in various ways. If we want to paste
in a scrap-book a newspaper article printed on
both sides of the paper, and possess only one
copy, it is very convenient to know how to
detach the one sido from the other. The paper,
when split, as may be imagined, is more trans
parent than it was before being subjected to the
operation, and the printing ink is somewhat
duller. Otherwise, the two pieces present the
appearance of the original if again brought to
gether.
Horses in Battle. —War-horses, when
I hit in battle, tremble in every muscle and groan
deeply, while their eyes show deep astonish
merit. During the battle of Waterloo, some of
the horses, as they lay upon the ground, having
recovered from the first agony of their wounds,
fell to eating the grass about them, thus sur
rounding themselves with a circle of bare
ground, the limited extent of which showed
their weakness. Others were observed quietly
grazing on the field, between the two hostile
lines, their riders having been shot off their
backs, and the balls flying over their heads and
the tumult behind, before, and around them,
caused no interruption to the usual instinct of
their nature. It was also observed that, when
a charge of cavalry went past near to any of the
stray horses already mentioned, they would set
off, form themselves in the rear of their mount
ed companions, and, though without riders,
gallop strenuously along with the rest, not stop
ping or flinching when the fatal shock with the
enemy took place. At the battle of Kirk, in
1745, Major Macdonald, having unhorsed an
English officer, took possession of his horse,
which was very beautiful, and immediately
mounted it. When the English cavalry fled, the
horse ran away with its captor, notwithstanding
all his efforts to restrain him; nor did it stop
until it was at the head of the regiment of which
apparently its master was commander. The
melancholy, and at the same time ludicrous,
figure which Macdonald presented when he saw
himself the victim of his ambition to possess a
fine horse, which ultimately cost him his life
upon the scaffold, may be easily conceived.
Penalty of Fame.— ln his last days
Macanley was grievously vexed by the modern
penalty of fame. Any one who thought he had
a genius or grievance wrote to him either to
advance or to extinguish it, as the case might
be. The historian in his journal mentions the
clergyman who wrote to him three times to ask
what the allusion to St. Cecilia meant in the ac
count of the trial of Warren Hastings. A Scot
tish gentleman, who wished to publish a novel,
wrote that he would be glad to come to Loudon
and submit his manuscript to the judgment of
the essayist, if the latter would remit him $250.
A cattle painter appealed to him, “ as he loved
the fine arts,'’ to hire or buy him a cow to paint
from. A schoolmaster in Cheltenham, who pub
lished a wretched pamphlet on British India,
full of errors, received a courteous note from
Macaulay pointing out two gross mistakes,
whereupon the schoolmaster issued a new edi
tion, which was advertised as “ revised and
corrected by Lord Macaulay.” These are the
penalties of popularity, and, as the story now
goes, Lord Tennyson is now suffering acutely
from the same affliction. He has been obliged,
we are told, to give up answering, even by secre
tary, his multitudinous correspondents, and so
consigns the manuscriot they send him lo his
private Balaam box.
One of Senator Vest’s Stories. —“l
have a dog,” said Senator Vest, who heard a
previous crow story, “ who is much more saga
ciaus than this crow, though he cannot talk.
One morning he watched intently while a negro
boy blacked my shoes. The following morning
he came to where I was sitting with a blacking
brush in his mouth. You may not believe it,
but that dog got down on his haunches, spit on
my shoes, took the brush in his teeth and rub
bed away like a house a fire. But I must ad
mit that he did not get up much of a polish.
One Sunday, while I was living at Sedalia, this
dog followed me to church. I noticed that he
watched every movement of the preacher. That
afternoon 1 hoard a terrible howling of dogs in
my back yard. I went out to see what was the
matter. ’My dog was in the woodshed, standing
on bis hind legs in an old drygoods box. He held
down a torn almanac with one forepaw and ges
ticulated wildly with the other, while he swayed
his head and howled even more sadly than the
preacher L had heard that morning. There was
an audience of four other dogs, who barked and
yelped at intervals. This is not only true, but
the sermon interested me fully as much.as the
one I had listened to in the forenoon.”
Something New in Photography.—
Says C’/wwibers’s ■/ounial: Notwithstanding the
rapid advance that has been made during the
past few years in the beautiful art of photogra
phy, and the various new applications of it in
different arts and sciences, in one particular it
has stood still. A negative picture upon glass
can, as every one knows, be produced in a
fraction of a second. But the after-process of
producing so-called positive prints on paper
from that negative is a tedious business, de
pending in great measure upon the brilliancy of
the weather. Messrs. Marion, of London, have
endeavored to obviate these inconveniences by
the manufacture of a special kind of paper, the
nature of which they at present keep secret,
and which they now offer to ths photographic
world. By this paper a negative can be made
to yield a positive image in a few seconds, quite
independently of daylight, for a gas jet or par
affin lamp is sufficient to affect its extreme sen
sitiveness. This invention will enable a pho
tographer to send his patron a dozen or more
copies of a portrait that lias been taken the
same day.
Servants’ Dislikes. —“ Have you ever
observed,” writes .Sydney Smith, “ what a dis
like servants have to anything cheap? They
hate saving their master’s money. I tried this
experiment with great success the'other day.
Binding we consumed a great deal of soap, I
sat down in my thinking-chair and took the
soap question into consideration, and I found
reason to suspect that we were using a very ex
pensive article when a much cheaper one would
serve the purpose better. I ordered half a doz
en pounds of both sorts, but took the precau
tion of changing the papers, on which the prices
were marked, before giving them into the hands
of Betty.
“ ‘ Well, Betty, which soap do you find wash
es the best ?’
“ ‘ Oh, please, sir, the dearest, in the bine pa
per; it makes a lather as well again as the oth
er.’
“ 1 Well, Betty, you shall always have it then.’
“ And thus tiie unsuspecting Betty saved me
some pounds a year.”
Ear Diseases. —A German paper gives
some interesting statistics relative to ear dis
ease, which have been collected from different
aural surgeons. Brora these wo gather that
males are more subject to ear disease than fe
males. Ont of every three middle-aged per
sons, there is found one who does not hear so
well with one ear as with the other. The lia
bility to disease increases from birth to the age
ol forty, after which it decreases as old age is
reached. Of six thousand children examined,
twenty-three per cent, show symptoms of ear
disease; and thirty-two per cent, a deficiency of
hearing power. With regard to the result’s of
surgical treatment, wo learn that of the total
number of cases of all kinds, fifty-three per cent,
are cured and thirty per cent, are benefited.
We fancy that these figures are rather more
favorable than surgeons in this country can
show, it being well known that aural cases are
among the most uncertain and unsatisfactory
to deal with.
A Clever California Cat. —Says the
TWley Record: The other evening one of our
sportsmen came home with a string of snipe.
Pussy followed and watched the snipe hung up
by the kitchen door. She then climbed up and
tried to break the string, but it was too stout.
Disappearing for a short while, she returned in
company with a large Thomas, and their united
work brought the string to the ground. They
were then divided, each cat taking three, and
leaving one extra, which both were determined
to have. Finally it resolved into a pitched bat
tle, and the Thomas cat was knocked out in the
first round. Tabby departed with the four
birds, landing them in good order at her own
er’s door, fully a block away from the scene of
the raid.
An Interesting Discovery.—An in
teresting discovery is reported to have been
made bv the Governor of Irkutsk in the course
of a prolonged inspection of the province, which
shows that Siberia is still au unknown country,
even to the llussian authorities. His excel
lency came across the little town of Him, with
500 inhabitants, ItiO houses, and four ancient
churches, with remarkable relics of Cossack
times. It is still under the Republican rule oi
a public assembly, convoked by a bell, as in old
Novgorod the Groat, although the new munici
pal institutions were supposed to have been ap
plied to that part of the Empire ton years ago.
Net one ol the inhabitants can read or write.
Curious Statistics.— Tire returns o.
K lO 2 a . m ber of human bodies recovered from
the Seme are published as a matter of Course,
lew people, however, are aware that the Seine
Conservancy board push their administrative
solicitude to the extent of drawing up a list of
casualties in animal life 1 The returns hist is
■ tho d nr h n°"' dnri ß s ‘J 16 ., eumTtl ” v months ot
the present year the following bipeds ani
ma.s, and portions thereof were taken out of the
P V V : VP OSB ’ 3 ’ 929 ; cats - 310 ! rats, 191“
fowls, 191; rabbits, 130; pieces of meat. 23 •
geese, 8; turkeys, 3; sheep, 2; one goat, ono
monkey, one pig, and one calf. The foregoing:
is all we.l enough, and how they got into tha
water is easy of explanation. But the re
mainder of the list is rather startling, for ik
mentions two boars and eight .fe/i > Whether
the latter were drowned by accident or design
is not stated I
The Sprite Throng.—To protect chil
dren from being stolen by any of the sprite?
throng, ignorant Welsh folk put a knife in the
child s cradle when left alono, or a pair of tongfj>
across, but the best preventive of all is baptism,
in Friesland a Bible is placed under the child’s
pillow; in Thuringia tbo father’s breeches are
hung against the wall. In China a pair of trou
sers belonging to the child’s father are put one
the frame of the bedstead in such away that?
the waist hangs downward; on the trousers a.
piece of red paper is stuck, having four words
wiitten upon it, intimating that all unfavorable
injuences are to go into the trousers instead of
afflicting tbo child. The Portuguese babies al
ways have a little hand made of rod corah
called hand with the thumb thrust be
tween the first and second fingers- hung round?
their necks to keep off the Evil One.
Disappearing Rivers.— One of the
most singular features in the scenery of the
territory of Idaho is the occurrence oi dark,
rocky chasms, into which creeks and largo'
streams suddenly disappear and are nevermore ••
seen. The fissures are old lava channels, pro
duced by the outside of the mass cooling and
forming a tube, which, when the fiery stream,
was exhausted, has been left empty, while the
root of the lava duct, having at some point fall
en in, presents there the opening into which
the river plunges and is lost. At one place
along the Snake one of these rivers appears
gushing from a cleft high up in basaltic waited
where it leaps a cataract into the torrent be
""Ore this stream has its origin, or ai
what point it is swallowed up, is absolutely un
known, although it is believed that its sources
are a long way up in the north countries.
The Chain of Great Lakes.—Tha
surface of Lake Superior is about 650 feet above ■
tide, while its bed is 260 feet below tide level.
Lake Huron’s surface is fifty feet below that of
Superior s, and its bed is about on a level with
BUr^ac ® of Lake Michigan is
500 feet lower than Lake Huron’s, and its bed
is sunk a corresponding distance to the level of
the other two lakes. Lake Erie’s surface is
nearly as high as Lake Michigan’s, being 565
feet above tide, but its bed is also above tide,
being 650 feet higher than the ocean level, con
sequently its bed is 250 feet higher than those*
of the lakes above it. Lake Ontario’s surface
is the lowest of all the great lakes, being less
than 500 feet above tide, but its bed is 260 be
low the ocean, or about the same level as Mich
igan, Huron, and Superior.
Deal Men Tell No Tales.— Sir John
Jervis, who, it appears, had a not uncommon
habit of repeating gossip, chancing to hear oi
the late Lord Chelmsford that he was over head
and ears in debt, and had the bailiffs in the
house, repeated the scandal, and was horrified
to receive a letter from his lordship, demanding
his authority.
‘‘ How the duse, Jack, am I to answer this ?”
said he, addressing his son. “ I have not the
slightest notion from whom I heard the story.’*
His son could not assist him. Just at- that -
moment a member of the Bar sent him up the
following message: “Poor Godson died this
morning.”
“ I have it!” said the chief, his fare showing
how relieved he felt. “It was from Godson 1
heard it 1”
Molten Lead in the Eye.— A jet of
melted lead recently lodged in the eye of a>
French workman, without doing any injury to
the organ, and the case was investigated by Dr.
Perrier, who ascertained that the immunity was
due to the lead entering into the “spheroidal
stat© ’ in presence of the moisture on the sur
face of the eyeball. The temperature *of tbo
lead was found to be higher than 171° Centi
grade, which is the point at which th© “spher
oidal state” takes place, and hence the moist
ure was vaporized and formed a cushion round
the lead, keeping the latter out of contact with
the flesh. The phenomenon is a case similar to
that of a person plunging his moist arm into
fiielted lead with impunity.
Failures in China.— Bankruptcy is
too common nowadays, and it is often managed
with too little publicity for the general weal.
They manage these things far better in China,
for it a native dealer fails to pay bis creditors
they all assemble at his house, fortified with
their pipes and a goodly store of rice and tea,
and there they sit, calmly smoking, dipping ana
eating till the money is paid.- If, however, the
defaulter be a European thev post a police
agent at his door, and fasten on'it a huge sheet
of paper- on which each creditor writes the
amount owing to him. It is decidedly uncom
fortable to “fail” in the Celestial empire, and
consequently the occurrence is a rare one.
The English Hall of the Commons.
—Notwithstanding the vast sums of money
lavished by Great Britain upon her Palace of
Westminster, she now finds the Commons ,
chamber wholly unfit for the purpose for
which it was designed, and discussion of a new
chamber has already begun. The size of the
present chamber is based upon the idea that the •
best thing members have to do is not to listen
to debates.' There is not near seating capacity
for all the members, neither is there proper
ventilation. Members also begin to demand
desks for writing purposes, similar to those in
the French Assembly and American House of
Representatives.
The Camel vs. The Ox. —The camel
has twice the carrying power of an ox. With
an ordinary load of four hundred pounds he
can travel twelve to fourteen days without
water, going fourteen miles a day. They are fit
to work at five years old, but their strength be
gins to decline at twenty-five, although they live
usually until forty. They are often fattened at
thirty- for the butcher, their flesh tasting like
beef. The Tartars have herds of these animals,.
often ono thousand belonging to one family.
The Timbuctoo breed is remarkable for speed,
and used only for couriers, going eight hundred,
miles in eight days, with a meal of dates or
grain at nightfall.
Letter-Carriers in England. —Not
only are there letter-carriers in the large cities
of England, but in the towns and villages, an®
even in the rural districts, letters are delivered,
direct at the houses of their recipients. For
merly the letter-carriers went their rounds
afoot, but now all those in the rural districts
have boon provided by the Government with
tricycles, which run excellently ou the admira
ble roads of England. The carriers also take
with them a stock ot stampsand stamped en
velopes lor registered letters to sell to the peo
ple who live at a considerable distance from the
office.
A Use fob Horned Toads.—Travel
ers on the Red Hills, says the Hamilton, Texas,
Polley, have often shuddered at the eight oi
horned toads, which are as numerous ae black
birds. The ugly creatures are as much dreaded,
as rattlesnakes, But a Chinaman put in all Sum
mer and this Fall gathering them. Recently
he made a shipment of two thousand of the
toads to San Francisco, from which place they'
will be sent to China. The toads are there con
verted into various kinds of medicines, which,
sell very high. For the cure of chilis and lever
they are said to be the finest things known.
A New Fibrous Material. —Coraline,
a substance now extensively used in manufac
ture in this country, is made from the fibre of
the ixtle plant, which grows in Mexico and some
parts ot South America. In general appear
ance it resembles somewhat the American aloe
or century-plant, but its leaves are longer and
more slender-. Scattered through the centre
ol these pulpy loaves are a number ot round,,
tough, elastic fibres. These fibres are separ
ated from ths leaves, packed into bales and
shipped to the t’nited States, where they are
woven into a lough cloth.
An Upas Tree. —A veritable upas tree
grows in the keys south of Daytona, Fla. It re
called the manchineeb Any one taking shelter
under it during a rain, or sleeping under it
when the dew falls is sure to be poisoned. One
who experienced it says “it swells a fellow all
up, and makes him'feel as if ho had been
skinned and peppered.” A man who began;
making canes for the New Orleans Exposition,
from the wood became poisoned, and won’t
touch it any more.
An Ignoble Destiny.— Count. Span
tini a pioneer cremationist, placed bis grand
sire’s ashos in a beautiful urn ol Florentine
marble. Examining it lately, ho found half the
ashes -one. Inouiry elicited that the conntess’e
do- had been ‘taken sick in the room, and to
save the trouble of getting ashes to aid in clear
ing away the mess, a raw young housemaid had
helped herself to those in the urn. To stop a
hole to keep the wind away,” is a noble destiny
compared to this.
Among the Most Respected People.
—Forty vears ago a man in Enrannal county,.
Ga., sold'his wife for a jug of whisky. Several
davs later he was presented with the wile of a
man who had grown tired of her. The woman
first mentioned was afterward traded for a
bushel of corn. All hands then settled down
in the same neighborhood, and have lived there
ever since. Their descendants are among the
most respected people of the county.
The Most Curious Book.— The Prince
de Ligne is thought to be possessed of the
most curious book in the world—“ Ihe lassron
of Christ.” It is neither written nor printed,
but every letter of the text is cut out of a leaf,
and being interleaved with colored paper, is as
easily read as the best print. The general exe
cution is admirable. The unique work bears
the Royal arms of England, but why is un
known.