New York dispatch. [volume], April 12, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
Old Mr. Irwyn waa dead !
* * * * * «
How tho next two days passed Lyn scarcely
knew. Amid the confusion and excitement that
reigned in the house, she and Maggie were rele
gated entirely to the school-room; but Lyn did
not mind that, being too excited with her
own] preparations for departure, Mrs. Cobb
telling her that it would be best for her
to go home till they saw how matters
turned out. She seemed to have little doubt
but that they would turn out satisfactorily
for themselves at least, and grew quite cheerful
when there was no occasion to keep up a deco
rous solemnity. All the guests bad departed
hurriedly; Estalbv, too, had left, having to go
up to London upon business. The two girls
saw very little of Muriel; they only knew that
the death would delay the wedding for a few
months, rather to Mrs. Cobb’s disgust. Maggie
went about spiritless and dull, she, too, being
affected by the gloom and enforced silence of
the house. She and Lyn were friends again,
her genuine remorse driving away all resent
ment from the latter’s generous heart. Maggie
was very subdued on the morning of Lyn’a de
parture.
The carriage came round early for Lyn and
Miss Tibbs, who was to see her off. Maggie
went down with them to the door.
“Lar is gone, and now you are going,” she
said, as she stood on the terrace while Lyn’s
wraps were put into the carriage. “It will be
so dull without you I I don’t suppose either of
you will come back again. I wish I had known
you longer. I think things might have been a
little different. You are so much better than
we are !”
She kissed Lyn, and ran back into the house
before the latter could reply. The carriage
drove off, and a little later Lyn stood again in
Usk station. Miss Tibbs put her into the train,
and, a few minutes afterward, she was once
more on her way home.
As she drew near London, she forgot every
thing else in the thought of the coming meeting.
How great was her delight on catching a glimpse
of the faces of her mother and sister waiting for
her in the London station! What kisses and
eager, loving, half-tearful greetings there were I
And then there was the delicious excitement of
reaching that dingy house in Westgate street,
dingy and ugly no more, lor it was hallowed by
the love she had hungered for during all those
past weeks.
The three sat up very late that night talking.
Now that there was no longer any fear of trou
bling them on her account, Lyn felt that she
might speak freely of all that had taken place.
Anne’s indignation knew no bounds ; but her
mother said little, only the tender loving kiss
she gave Lyn as she bade her good night amply
repaid the’girl for anything she might have
borne. Though Lyn and Anne talked half the
night through, there was still bo much to be
Baid the next day that the maid-of-all-work,
Eliza, being of a meditative turn of mind, had a
blissful time of repose m the kitchen. Break
fast had been very late, for the two girls had
overslept themselves, after being awake half
the night, and, in spite of the lateness of the
hour, they were still lingering over it.
This morning Lyn did not look round disdain
fully upon the shabby carpet and faded chintz.
On the contrary, though the room certainly
looked smaller and dingier, and more shabby
than ever alter the luxury of the other house,
her eyes lingered with something like a loving
Welcome upon all its defects.
She wondered a little now how she had man
aged to live through the past week as she had
done. But she felt very glad that she had not
rebelled and given in, as she would have done
perhaps ii it had not been for-.
But her thoughts did not go any fuither.
They ended abruptly with a hot scarlet flush, as
if suddenly two dark eyes, with a very irritable
suspicion of amusement in them, looked out at
her from the memory of those past weeks.
She saw them at this moment, as, Anne hav
ing run up stairs to see if their mother wanted
anything else, she was left alone, and, forget
ting to go on with her own breakfast, let her
eyes stray dreamily toward the open window
through which came the noisy sounds of the
London street. They discomposed her so much
that, as Anne’s footsteps sounded outside again,
she had to pass her hand quickly across her
own eyes to clear them of a curious mist that
had suddenly dimmed them.
“ I wish you could have seen more of grand
father. What a brute that Mr. Cobb is I” ex
claimed Anne, settling down to breakfast again.
“ Yes, I wish I had; perhaps I ought to have
tried more, only I was afraid; and Mr. Estal
by ”
“Who is he? You mentioned him once or
twice in your letters.”
“ Oh, he is—a man I”
“I suppose he is,” returned Anne, cutting
herself some more bread; “at least, I never
thought he was a woman.”
“He was—a young man.” Lyn stooped down
for the kettle, and it was probably the exertion
that made her face so red.
In their animated conversation they had not
heard a ring at the door-bell, and they became
suddenly aware of what appeared to be an al
tercation going on between Eliza and a stran
ger.
“Gracious!” cried Anne in comic dismay,
flinging’up her arms. “Itis a visitor; and look
&t the breakfast-table and the marmalade pot
and the tea-pot!”
She made a rapid dash at the table, and
whisked the large jam-pot that offended her fas
tidious eyes off into the sideboard, then turned,
and, with as much ease as she could command,
awaited the visitor, who seemed at last to have
been allowed to mount the staircase.
Lyn was looking out of the window in a beau
tifully careless attitude—as Anne described it af
terward; but then she did not see how curious
ly white her sister’s face had grown, nor how
she was trembling from head to foot, the sound
of thejvisitor’s voice having awakened the wild
est thoughts.
The door was pushed open in the noisy
fashion peculiar to Eliza.
“ A gentleman to see you, Miss Lyn; and ho
was obliged to come up, lor he hadn’t any time
to spare.”
“ Will you forgive me such an early visit ?”
Lyn turned, with a passionate effort subduing
the excitement that had set her nerves throb
bing and quivering, and saw, advancing to meet
her, Dar Estaiby!
She went forward and gave him her hand.
“It does not matter at all,” she said quietly.
•• Anne, this is Mr. Estaiby.”
Anne, who had been looking at the young
man with a feeling of decided approval and ad
miration, mingled with wild housekeeping re
grets that the place did not look more pre
sentable, bowed gravely, asked Mr. Estaiby to
sit down, and conducted him over to the arm
chair near the window, from which, as Anne
said afterward, be must have had a particularly
good and comprehensive view oi all the holes in
the carpet.
“I should think you will wonder what
brought me here,” Dar Estaiby began, with a
quiet ease of manner that filled Anne with ad
miration as she dexterously slipped her own
chair over the largest and most unsightly patch,
and sat down with the calm dignity of a victori
ous general. “But I was sorry that I did not
see you before I left Usk Hall.”
“ I know you left in a hurry,” responded Lyn,
trying to speak quietly, and then stopping as if
she had nothing else to say.
“It must have been a very uncomfortable
time,” said Anne, feeling that she must try to
entertain this well-dressed and very handsome
young man whom Lyn was treating so coldly,
“ We were all very sorry.”
“ Yes, it was so sudden. I was afraid the
shock must have upset your sister, and that is
one reason that I came this morning to see how
she was.”
“It was very kind of you to come,” said Anne
again, looking appealingly at Lyn. The latter,
with a desperate effort, tried to break the spell
laid upon her by that fatal kiss, which she could
not forget, though he had, apparently, so per
fectly unconscious and easy was his’ manner.
“ Yes, it was dreadful! I don’t know what they
would have done without you !”
“ Without me ! Oh, I did nothing! There
was nothing to be done.”
The smile died out of his face, and he spoke a
little wearily.
“ I hope—this will not make any difference to
you,” Lyn ventured to say, forgetting herself at
the sound of the long-drawn breath, as he leaned
back in his chair.
“To me ? No. What difference could it
make ?” he asked quickly, a flush passing over
his face and dying away again, leaving it curi
ously pale and careworn.
“ I thought perhaps ”
Then she stopped, abashed.
“ With his life, all connection ceased between
us,” he said, as she paused. “ Beyond the loss
of his friendship—and we liked each other—
there was no connection between us. I only
trust that he has made things right for you.”
There was no doubting the earnestness of his
words, and Lyn flushed faintly and her eyes
grew troubled beneath the grave, keen look in
his.
“ Yes ; but we expect nothing,” Lyn returned
hurriedly, lor Anne, saying something about
seeing if their mother was able to come down,
rose from her seat and left the room, and she
felt shy and constrained again.
“ But it is your right,” he said.
“I do not know about that. But I think he
ought to have remembered you. You were al
ways so good to him—so patient; and I know—
for Maggie told me—how unkind he was to you
Bometimes. How could you bear it ?”
“You don’t know how much I and mine owed
him, or what he suffered at our hands !” he an
swered quietly, though the color deepened
faintly upon his cheek.
“Yes; but see how wicked the Cobbs were—
what things they used to say—Mrs. Cobb and
allot them? How could you bear it?” Lyn
asked quickly, her voice vibrating with passion,
though she scarcely knew herself what feeling
moved her to speak as she did. He looked at
her, and then his eyes wandered to the win
dow.
“ When you arrive at my age, you will find
out that you have worse things to bear than the
ill-natured speeches of others, Miss Irwyn,” he
said slowly.
And she knew that he was thinking of Mu
riel.
“ And now you have perhaps nothing ?” sho
asked involuntarily.
“No”—he looked round again, smiling at
her, though his face was still pale; “but, if you
have plenty, it does not matter.”
He rose, and she mechanically followed his
example.
“ You have not asked me yet why 1 came at
this early hour. It was because I had no other
time to spare,” he said, in a different tone. “ I
have to go down to Usk Hall to-day, and per
haps I may not be in London again, at least,
not tor any length of time. So I thought 1
should like to come and say good-by to-day, as
I might not see you again.”
“ Say good-by ?”
“ Yes. I don’t much care about staying in
England. I have made all my arrangements,
and shall leave on the day after the funeral. I
have wasted time enough as it is; perhaps I
shall do better in another country.”
Lyn did not speak. It seemed’ as if an icy
hand had been laid suddenly on her heart.
“ But I wanted very much to say good-by to
you ”—he spoke more hurriedly now—“ partic
ularly you. Do you remember that day m the
woods ? I have often thought of you since, and
the look on your face. Thank you for what it
said to me. I wanted sympathy badly enough
that day; but . Good-by ! Will you forgive
me anything I ever did to offend you ?”
Did Lyn answer? She could not tell herself.
She only knew that her hand lay for a second
in the strong warm clasp of his, and the next
moment he had gone, leaving her palo and
strangely agitated.
CHAPTER VIII.
“a foolish will.”
“ But it is preposterous! I never hoard of
such a will in my life ! It is infamous !”
Dar Estably stood in the library of Usk Hall,
where the will had just been read, staring in
blank amazement and disgust at the late Mr.
Irwyn’s solicitor.
“ Yos, it is a foolish will!” the old lawyer de
clared, crumpling up with unnecessary energy,
an old letter ho held in his hand. “And I don’t
wonder at -tho Cobbs’s anger, though I must
say their conduct after the reading of the will
was scandalous. I would not have believed
it possible for any man to show his rage
and spite as Mr. Cobb has just done. Still it
is a most foolish will, and if Mr. Irwyn had al
lowed me to draw it up, I should have put be
fore him strongly the injustice and folly of it.
But these London lawyers—what do they care ?
Beside, how could they have his interests at
heart as I should ? He knew that I would not
have allowed him to make such a will, and that
was why he had it done secretly in London. But
I really’feel hurt.”
The young man, staring blankly out of the li
brary window scarcely heard the lawyer’s com
plaint. He could only think of the will just
read in the presence of the Cbbbs, the doctor,
the clergyman and himself.
The whole of the property was left to him and
Lyn Irwyn, on condition that they married each
other. They were to have one year in which to
make up their mfnds, during which Mrs. Irwyn
and her two daughters were to reside at Usk
Hall. Dar Estaiby himself was in the mean
time to live at a small farm of the testator’s a
mile or two away from the Hall, and during that
year the two were to meet as often as they could
so that they might come to a decision. If, at the
end of the year, either of them declined to agree
to the condition, the whole of the money and
property, with the exception of some small lega
cies, was to go to the Cobbs.
The rage and disappointment of the latter as
the will was read out may be imagined. They
had shown their indignation and spite so plain
ly, and had accused Dar Estaiby so shamelessly
of having influenced the old man by underhand
means, that the doctor and clergyman had been
thankful to get away, while old Mr. Hubert, ac
customed to the disappointed speeches of un
fortunate clients, was scandalized. Dar Estaiby
had been very quiet through it all. He said
nothing of what he felt till, the door closing on
Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, all bis indignation against
the injustice of the will broke out in that pas
sionate protest.
“A most iniquitous will, certainly, Mr. Estal
by ! Those Cobbs deserve to suffer; but you
and Miss Irwyn ”
“ And Miss Irwyn?” asked the young man,
the color deepening in his face.
“Will be broken-hearted, as any delicate
minded girl would bo,” the old lawyer intended
to say, but checked himself suddenly.
Bitterly as he resented the fact of the will be
ing drawn up by strange bands, still more did
he dislike the idea of the Cobbs in any way prof
iting by it. Hs would say nothing to widen the
breach the will would probably make between
two foolish young people.
“ After all,” he said abruptly, “ we must not
bo too hard upon those that are dead and gone,
and, listen; 1 will tell you a secret—l know it is
safe with you. Charlie Irwyn, her father, was
weak and wild; perhaps, too, his father, the late
Mr. Irwyn, was not as forbearing as he might
have been. You know that the woman he mar
ried was not the woman he loved—your moth
er ?”
“ I know,” answered the young man gravely.
“ I always felt that anything I did for him was
little reparation for the pain she caused him.”
“You put up with a good deal. I wondered
sometimes that a young man could be so patient.
Well, never mind ! At any rate, he liked you; I
believe he felt more affection for you than any
one, after the death of his son. And it was of
him I was speaking. He was foolish and ex
travagant. He ended by disgracing the old and
honorable name that he bore. No, it was not
bis marriage with a penniless girl, as the world
thought, that made his father turn him from his
doors. Ho had committed forgery.”
“Forgery!” Estaiby looked at him in be
wilderment.
“ Yes; in plain words, he was a felon. But it
was hushed up so completely that not even his
wife and children knew of it—you must have
seen how Miss Irwyn reveres his memory.”
The young man’s face softened.
“Poor child I” he said, under his breath.
“I think it would break her heart if it were
found out. It would have broken the old man’s
if it had been known. As if was, he turned his
son away; and to this day it is believed that his
imprudent marriage and reckless extravagance
excited his father’s anger. The old man pre
ferred the charge of cruelty and hardness to
that of disgrace. Perhaps you will wonder at
my reason for telling you this,” the lawyer went
on, as the young man was silent. “ But I know
you too well to believe that you will think that
the father’s sin casts its shadow on the children.
It will make you think more tenderly of the in
nocent, whose faith has never been shaken. Mr.
Irwyn swore a solemn oath that not a penny of
his fortune should go to his son, and with him
he disinherited his children. Something soft
ened him before he died—perhaps one of those
children themselves. He had grown to love
and trust you, and, in his way, tried to do jus
tice to both.”
The old man, thinking of the troubles and
sufferings of the disinherited family, had grown
very earnest, as if he had never found fault
with the will drawn up by strange hands. The
young man reminded him of his grievance.
“ It was not doing justice.”
But the tone was faintly doubting, and the old
lawyer detected it. He had, with a keen insight
into the young man’s nature, suspected that the
story of the forgery, casting its shadow over the
already trouble-filled lives of Mrs. Irwyn and
her daughters, would, instead of repelling, give
him a deeper interest in them. They were
drawn closer to him by the very secret he held,
of which they themselves were happily uncon
scious.
“Yes, it was a foolish will,” he said. “But,
there—it is in your hands. They are miserably
poor; Heaven only knows how they have existed
so long ! Once my old client offered Mrs. Irwyn
help alter her widowhood; but she refused it
naturally, as she believed in her husband. But
it is different now; she lost nearly everything in
the failure of a bank, beside being so delicate
that I doubt if she will ever live io see the con
ditions of the will carried out. What will be
come of the girls I do not know. Now I will
wish you good day. I will get out of the house
as fast as I can. I have no desire'to meet any
of the Cobbs again. A most foolish will I Good
by, Mr. Estaiby; I leave it in your hands.”
* * * ♦ * - ♦
A foolish will I It was a cruel will! So Es
taiby thought, as two days later be rang at the
door in Westgate street. What he bad gone
through during those two days he would not
have described to any one. Even after all his
doubts and struggles and scruples he had only
one clear idea in his head—that he would go
straight to Lyn herself. It might make it easier
for them both if they faced the position at once.
Eliza conducted him up stairs and ushered him
into the sitting-room.
Mrs. Irwyn was there alone. The eight of her
only deepened his shame and indignation, and
as he looked at the wan face and saw the haunt
ing wisttulness that darkened the eyes and sad
dened the curve of the lips—the signs that
death traces on the faces of those he has marked
for his own—his anger grew hotter and more
bitter. Even this protector would soon bo taken
from Lyn and then only this unjust will came
between her and utter desolation.
Mrs. Irwyn greeted him kindly; but, though
she was quiet, she evidently was as troubled as
he was himself.
“ May I see her?” he asked abruptly.
And ’she, thinking that delay could only add
to the pain and trouble they were all suffering,
told him she would send Lyn to him.
“ You will be good to her?” sbe said, appeal
ingly laying her hand in his. She has suffered
so much already.”
He muttered something, with a quick catch in
his breath. A few minutes of intolerable sus
pense and then Lyn stood before him. He was
shocked at the white face and dark-circled eyes.
“ Miss Irwyn,” he began hurriedly, as ’she
tried to speak, but the words died on her pale
lips. “ I felt that I must see you before we had
time to let any shadows come between us. Will
you believe me when I say that I would rather
have died than that this thing should have hap
pened to us ? It was not my fault.”
“ I know.”
She spoke very softly; but even that faint
sound of her own voice brought the color to her
face, dyeing it scarlet from brow to chin.
He could not help seeing the flush, though he
looked away from her, as he went on:
“We cannot alter it. But I wish to ask one
thing of you. Let this year go on as if no such
thing as this existed; let us meet and talk and
see each other just as if we were strangers.
Then, at the end of the year, if I can come to
you and ask you to be my wile in the spirit that
a man should ask a woman to be his wife, I will
come to you, and it I come Well, will you
then promise me to believe that what I ask you
is asked in perfect truth? Will you promise
me to believe that I love you, if I tell you so ?”
There was a short silence. He waited patient
ly, looking down into her face.
The heavy lids were raised at last, and her
eyes, shamed and troubled, looked into his.
But she saw there now no lurking spirit of
mocking mischief. They were true and grave
and steady, and as troubled as her own.
“ If I can say it honestly ?” he said again.
“ I will believe you,” she replied.
“Then there is still one thing,” he continued.
“ Will you promise me that if I come to you,
loving you as a man loves the woman he desires
for hie wife, you, ia your turn, will speak the
NEW YORK DISPATCH, APRIL 12, 1885.
truth to me, that you will let nothing weigh
with you but that truth; that if it is ‘ no,’ you
will say it and send me away, and, whatever
happens, we will forget the money ?”
Again she looked at him; but this time some
thing crossed her lips—it might have been a
smile, or only the tremor of a sigh, so pale and
wan it was.
“I promise that,” she said, more softly than
before.
(To bo Continual.)
A telili MAWft
A SPORTSMAN’S WILD ADVENTURE.
Twenty odd years ago the Adirondacks—the
region of forest land situated in the northern
part of New York State, and populary known as
the Great North Woods—were not as they are
to-day. It is true that “Adirondack” Murray
had just written the book which made him fa
mous, and not a few of what wore known as
“Murray’s Fools” had penetrated the forest
and made another warfare upon the game, but
there were no railroads, no fashionable hotels,
no dudes in fancy outfits to make the lonely
region, what it has since become, a sort of imi
tation watering-place. Nature was there in all
her grandeur, untrameled and undefiled.
Yet amid all this beauty, sweetness and soli
tude of nature there was enacted, at the time of
which I write, a tragedy which, although its de
tails were never made public, possessed all the
elements of a domestic drama.
Three of us had gone to the North Woods for
our Summer vacation. There were Dick Moran,
a young lawyer; Jack Harrison, an artist, and
myself. We were all keen sportsmen, and looked
forward with much pleasure to our anticipated
outing among the deer, the trout and the grouse,
and if we could perchance have captured a bear
we would have been all the happier. Our start
ing-point was old Milote Boker’s hotel, near the
head of the Lower Saranac. At that time “go
ing into the woods ” meant much more than it
does now. The trip we had laid out was almost
entirely by water, and it was necessary to se
cure three boats and three guides to take charge
of them and guide us through the intricacies of
the forest. Then, too, we had to be victualed
like a small army—flour, salt pork, hard-tack,
maple-sugar, cooking utensils, and an adequate
supply of spiritui fermenii, all had to be ob
tained, for we were to do our own cooking, and
depend upon our guns and rods for the flesh
and fish that were to grace our sylvan table.
The Adirondack guides of those days were a
splendid set of men—big, manly, stalwart fel
lows, with the chests of a Hercules and the skill
of a wild-woods Francatelli when it came to the
matter of cooking. In the selection of two of
our guides we were peculiarly fortunate. Hank
Maxwell and Dan Hendricks were both typical
men of their class. Well skilled in woodcraft,
hearty and open in manner, brave as lions, and
with an inborn gentility that seemed to be as the
nobility of the antique heroes brought into new
life by the magnitude of the natural surround
ings in which they were placed.
But the third of the trio was in strong con
trast to his companions. Indeed wo had taken
him as a makeshift, having been disappointed
in a better guide we had hoped to have secured.
Ira Dawson was a man about forty years of age.
He was short, thick-set, and the muscles on his
arms stood out like knotted ropes. It could
readily be seen that he was possessed of im
mense strength. His head was covered with a
shock of coal-black hair thickly matted, he wore
a stubby beard of the same color, and shaggy
eyebrows arched and overhung a pair of eyes
that irresistibly attracted you. They were small,
gray and cat-like, but at moments they flashed
with a weird aud ominous splendor that showed
you that Ira was something out of the common
run—a man with a history.
And he was. Ira Dawson had not always
been the almost repulsive creature he was at
this time. Ten years before there had not been
a better known or more popular guide and, in
the Winter, when the lumbering season com
menced, there was none more daring, skillful,
and expert. He was handsome, too, and in the
whole Saranac region none of the lads caught
more smiles from the farmers’ daughters, ar
could top a livelier measure at the country
dances. And Ira was in love. Annie Moore
was universally conceded to be the belle of the
neighborhood. She had rippling brown hair
that took on a golden hue when the sun shone
through it, her skin was soft and silky, her
mouth temptingly luscious, aud her large blue
eyes seemed to assume the color of violet when
she was moved to emotion. Upon this pretty
girl, wayward and frivolous at times, as he was,
stout Ira Dawson bad set his heart. His suit
prospered well, and the wedding day had been
named.
There was not a happier nor a handsomer
couple in the place, and Ira was the envy of all
the men, while Annie caused sharp pangs of
jealousy to agitate the hearts of the female por
tion of the community. Then Edward Kent
came. He was a head clerk in one of the large
Albany warehouses, and had been tempted to
visit the Adirondacks by the glowing accounts
of some of his sportsmen friends. When he ar
rived almost the first person be met was Annie
Moore, and be decided that here was better
quarry than the deer of the forest. Why repeat
the old story ? He, a dashing, handsome man
from the city, with all the oily jargon of flattery
at his tongue’s end. She, a country maiden,
innocent oi the wiles of the town, and dazzled
by the pictures of luxury her new lover painted.
Ira Dawson’s honest Jove was discarded, and
fickle Annie soon let it be known that she was
to be married to the rich Albanian. Then, after
awhile, Kent returned to the city. Ac first, he
wrote to Annie, but, little by little, his letters
became shorter and further between, and then
ceased entirely. Meanwhile, the light was fad
ing out of Annie's bright eyes, people began to
look askance at her, and she crept around the
village streets with the air of a frightened fawn,
afraid to look to one side or the other. And yet
there were no tidings of Edward Kent. The
Summer melted into Autumn, and the forests
were arrayed in all the splendor of gold and
crimson. Then Winter cast its pall of white
over the dreary landscape, and, later, the
streams burst from their icy fetters, and sprang
onward to the Hudson. When Spring freed them
from their Winter thraldom, Summer had come
again, but Edward Kent came not with it.
And, during all this time, how was it with Ira
Dawson? He had become pale and hollow
eyed, his step had lost its elasticity, his voice
its cheeriness. He could not drive out from
his heart the abiding love he bore for the faith
less Annie Moore, and {night after night he
would stand in front of her father’s house, leak
ing up to the window of the little room in which
he knew she slept, and praying that God might
change her heart and bring her back to him.
One night—it was the 4th of August—he had
taken up his accustomed station in front of An
nie’s window.
It was a beautiful night. The great round
moon shone brightly down upon the forest and
the little village at its edge, and made quaint,
fantastic shadows along the fields and roadway.
Ira stood there, unconscious of the beauty
around him, with his eyes rivetted upon Annie s
window. He was somewhat surprised to see a
light in the room, and the shadows of figures
flitting about from one spot to another.
The night was deathly still, and as he stood
there, praying, hoping that Annie might yet be
his, there was wafted out from her room upon
the night air a sound, that chilled him to the
bone, caused his heart to stand still, and his
brain to whirl. It was the wail of a new-born
infant 1 From that night Ira Dawson was an
idiot.
Time wore on. Annie, fearing to meet the
gaze and endure the taunts her neighbors, took
her child and went to hide her shame in the
house of an aunt who lived at Ansable village,
some miles distant. This aunt was a cheery,
good-hearted soul, who pitied her while others
condemned, and when she learned of her sor
row and dishonor, was the first to offer her a
home. Thither, then, Annie went, and, as the
years rolled by, little Eddie grew to be a
bouncing boy. But there were no signs nor
tidings of Edward Kent. Indeed, he had been
forgotten by all save the woman he had so cru
elly wronged. One pleasant Summer day, as
Annie was sitting in the porch of her aunt’s
house, with her child playing in the garden be
fore her, she heard hurried footsteps on the
road, and presently a man stood at the garden
gate. He was dusty, travel-stained, and had a
scared, hunted expression in his eyes. Annie
looked up, and the man.cried :
“For Gods sake, hide me samewhere, and
give me something to eat. I am nearly dead
for hunger, and the cursed sheriffs aTe close
upon my heels.”
“ Who are you, and why are you pursued by
the sheriffs?” questioned Annie, instinctively
clasping her child in her arms.
“ Never you mind who I am, my beauty,” the
follow answered, surlily. “ Give me something
to oat, or else ” here, with a sudden dash,
he grasped little Eddie, and, holding the child
aloft, cried, “See bore, if you don't give me
something to eat in two minutes, I’ll knock out
this brat’s brains against yonder tree !”
“ Not by a darned sight,’ Edward Kent!”
The words came sharp and quick. The child
was snatched from the ruffian’s hands, and the
next moment Edward Kent lay sprawling in tho
pathway, and in a second two sheriff’s officers
had handcuffs on his wrists. The blow was
from the brawny fist of Ira Dawson, who, when
he learned that Edward Kent, the forger, had
escaped from Dannemora Prison, quickly volun
teered to assist in his capture, and his knowl
edge of the country rendered him a valuable
assistant in tracking the fugitive and placing
him again behind prison bars to serve out the
term of his sentence. That was the last time
that Annie Moore stood face to face with the
man who had ruined her.
The recapture ot Kent had occurred five years
prior to the Summer when our merry party
started into the woods. Ira had become a
harmless lunatic, who, while he was about the
settlements, acted in a moody, but never in a
dangerous manner. He did odd chores around
the hotel and would frequently go off in out-of
the-way corners and mutter incoherently to
himself. The moment he went into the woods,
however, his whole nature seemed to change.
He was a spendid woodsman, well skilled in
the craft of the forest, and the resinous odor of
the pines, the leap of the trout and the excite
ment of the chase inspired him with new life.
It fell to my lot to have him for my special
guide. We had crossed the Upper and the
Lower Saranac, skimmed the smooth surface of
the Wampum waters, floated peacefully along
the ever beautiful liacquette, and one night
found us encamped at Setting Pole Rapids. It
was a most picturesque camping ground. Sport
had been good—a haunch from the body of a
royal buck sputtered oyer the camp-fire; flaky-
fleahed trout were frying in a pan, and, after a
while wo sat down to a feast that Lucullus
might have relished had he lived to be an ama
teur hunter in tho Adirondack woods.
It must have been nearly midnight when I
strolled out from the tent to throw a fresh log
upon the smoldering fire. It was a perfect
night. The moon was shining through the tree
tops, the rapids danced and spurted at my feet,
and all was silent, save for the occasional hoot
ing of a retrospective owl or the far-off derisive,
almost human, cry of a loon. I could not re
sist the temptation to light a pipe and contem
plate the silent grandeur around me. I threw
myself at full length upon the grass aud mused.
“ Hist I”
The word was whispered into my ear with a
fiery breath. Turning, I saw Ira kneeling at
my side with a wild expression in his eyes.
Continuing, he said, half above his breath:
“Say, Mr. Brown, this would be a grand
night for a jack hunt. Let’s go.”
I attempted to expostulate, urged the late
ness of the hour, and other excuses. For an
swer, Ira placed the muzzle of a cocked revolver
against my forehead, and, pointing to our boat,
which had been drawn up on the shore, mut
tered :
“ Get in thar, and I’ll show you more fun
than you’ve had in a lifetime.”
Almost unconsciously I arose and did as I
was bidden. Ira had already placed the guns
in the boat, and the moment I was seated be
leaped into the frail craft with the lightness and
agility of a cat, and with a push sent it out near
ly into the middle of the narrow stream. Then
he grasped the paddle and deftly guided the
boat through the rapids. When we had reached
smooth water he rested slightly, and, leaning
forward toward me, said, in a quick, sharp
voice :
“ Say, Mr. Brown, do you know what you’re
goin’ to hunt to-night?”
“ Deer, I suppose, Ira,” I answered, in as
calm a voice as I could command.
“Deer !” he replied shortly, with a contempt
uous laugh and an oath. “The deer we're
goin’ to hunt is a man I”
“A man 1” I exclaimed in astonishment, and
then, trying to laugh the matter off, added :
“Nonsense, Ira ; you didn’t bring me out here
at this time ot night to hunt for a man.”
“Don’t you be so certain about that, Mr.
Brown. Three days before we came into the
woods I got word that Ed. Kent had broke loose
from Dannemora prison ag’in, and a pard of
mine, who d just come in from the woods, told
me he’d seen the cuss loafing around Setting
Pole Rapids. That’s why I brought you here.
I’ve sworn by the Eternal Jehovah that the next
time Ed. Kent and I met I would kill him, and
you’re out here with me to see me do it 1”
The whole situation flashed upon me. I was out
alone, in a mere cockle-shell, with a maniac.
There was no hope of rescue, nothing to do but
humor the fellow and lure him to turn back to
camp it I could. We had a pre-arranged signal
in our party that whenever we became separated,
the discharge of two shots, in quick succession,
from a gun would toll of each other’s where
abouts. Could I but obtain possession of one of
the guns and give the signal, I might be saved;
but Ira had foreseen this and placed both guns
beside him on the narrow seat. My case was
hopeless and there was nothing lor it except to
see the adventure out to the end. We crept
along in the shadow of the bank, Ira plying his
paddle noiselessly. We had progressed in this
manner for about a mile, when suddenly a boat
shot cut from the shadow of the opposite shore.
As it did so, I turned and, as tho moon broke
out from behind a cloud, saw that tho boat con
tained a single occupant and that he was attired
in prison garb ! Then I looked at Ira. His
eyes fairly glistened, an expression of fiendish
joy came into his face, he bent to his paddle and
the waters fairly boiled as he lustily plied it.
The huntsman had found his game ! Tho man
in the other boat, seeing that he was discovered,
increased his speed. It was a chase for life or
death ! Od, over on, the two boats flew and
hardly seemed to touch the water, so rapid was
their flight. The chase continued for wnat ap
peared to me an eternity; but, in reality, hardly
ten minutes had elapsed. Suddenly, the man
in tho other boat stopped for a moment and,
raising his rifle to his shoulder, fired; but the
bullet whistled harmlessly by us. Quick as a
flash, Ira grasped his rifle and returned the
shot, but with apparently the same ill-luck, for
tho man in the other boat resumed his paddle
and the chase continued. But, unwittingly, the
two men had given the signal, which was sure to
be heard at our camp, and I might yet be saved.
Ira grew furious as ho saw the object of his
pursuit slowly widening the distance between
us. He plunged his paddle into the water with
tho vicious vehemence of a madman. Fire
flashed from his eyes, his whole frame swelled
and throbbed with tho wild excitement of his
passion.* By and by there came upon my ears
the sullen, bellowing noise of roaring water.
Starting forward I cried to tho now frenzied
man:
“ Great God ! Ira, what is that?”
“That’s Pcrciefiold Falls and they’re just
half a mile away!”
And I was to die thus ! To be dashed to
pieces among the black and jagged rocks that
lifted themselves up from the boiling cauldron
of water that seethed and struggled one hun
dred and fifty feet below tho crest of tho falls
that were only half a mile.away ! I could move
neither hand nor foot. A sudden numbness
had overtaken me and I could only sit and gaze
with a sort of fascination at the boat in front of
us. We were both clearing the water in tho
middle of the stream. It gradually widened,
and tho figure of tho fugitive stood out sharp
and black against the sheen of water lighted by
the rays of the moon. Closer, closer we were ap
proaching the falls. The man in the other boat
evidently did not hear, or did not heed, their
roar.
He kept straight on. The falls wore not more
than a hundred feet from us ! Tho other boat
had reached their crest. Then tho poor wretch
for tho first time seemed to realize his danger.
He throw his hands toward Heaven with a
despairing shriek, and man and boat were
hurled into the abyss !
With a savago shout of rage and disappoint
ment, Ira arose from his seat, and shaking his
list at his victim as he disappeared over the
falls, shouted, his voice sounding shrill and
strident on tho quiet night.
“Damn you, Ed. Kent! You’ve fooled mo
here; but damn you, I’ll meet you in hell 1 In
hell I”
Then, before I could utter a word or make a
movement, he plunged into the water, and I
saw his body carried over the cataract, he
shouting and cursing as he went to his death.
With the quickness of thought I seized tho
paddle ho had dropped, and made desperate
efforts to reach the shore. Will I ever forget
the struggle? It seemed hopeless. I almost
reached the shore, but I was only ten feet from
the edge of the falls. Their mist enveloped me
in a shroud, and the roar was the anthem of
death. Lifting my eyes and uttering a hasty
prayer I bado farewell to life, when I saw a
large cedar overhanging the stream. There was
not a moment to lose. With superhuman
strength I leaped, and, thanks be to Providence,
caught one oi the branches. I felt the boat
slide from under my feet. For a moment it
stood poised on the summit of the falls,
and then went hurtling downward to
destruction. Then I swayed myself toward
shore on the branches ofthe cedar, and in a few
moments was safe. I flung myself upon tho
grass and became unconscious. The next
thing I remember was seeing the kindly faces
oi Hank and Dan bending over me. They
poured some brandy into my mouth and I soon
recovered.”
Day broke shortly afterward, and, toil
fully, we made our way to the foot of the falls.
There on the shore, side by side, lay the dead
bodies of Ira Dawson and Edward Kent. Their
rivalry on earth had ceased, and the poor girl
down at Ansable village had lost at once, her
true lover and her deceiver.
HE’D SOT AND SOT.
BY M. QUAD.
“You Boe,” she was explaining to a lawyer,
after boating bis counsel fee down to $3. “I
have a daughter Maria.”
“ Yes’m.”
“ Maria has a beau.”
“Exactly.”
“ Has been waitin’ on her for six years.”
“ I see.”
“ And I’ve been waitin’ on him for the same
length ot time—waitin’ for him to marry her.”
“Just so, ma’am. ’
“ How long should a couple spark ?”
“Well, that depends. It takes some folks a
long time to make up their minds.”
“ Isn’t three years long enough ?”
“I should think so.”
“ And I gave him six. I’ve been getting mad
der and madder for tho last three months, and
finally last night I couldn’t hold in any longer.
I went into the parlor and there he was, giggling
and winking and loving arouhd same as five
years ago. There was Maria, simpering and
cackling and acting like the same fool she alius
was. Don’t talk to me I A gal can bring a beau
to time inside of two years if she’s got any
marry in her. You didn’t fool away six years ?”
“ No’m.”
“Nor I, either. Well, I stood it as long as I
could, and when I went into the room says I to
William, says I:
“ ‘ William, you’ve sot and sot, and it’s my
duty as a mother to know if you intend to marry
Maria.’
“ Maria she give a screech, and William he
turned fiery red, but says I:
“If you love why don't you marry ? If you
are hanging around here to pass away time
you’d better skip !’
“ Well, William coughed and gasped and
stuttered around, and said he wanted to write
to his ma in lowa.”
“‘Your ma in lowa I’ says I, feeling my
dander climbing up. Mobbe you ain’t weaned
yet?’
“ Then he says he couldn’t be bulldozed, and
that one objeption to marrying Maria was hav
ing me for a mother-in-lsw. Then the cyclono
broke loose—also the whirlwind—also two or
three earthquakes. Inside of four minutes
Maria had fainted, William was a wreck, and
we had upsot the stove and broke three chairs.
He come to and slipped out, ’while I was hold
ing camphor to Maria’s nose,'and I’ve heard
to-day that he is after a warrant for me for as
sault with intent to kill. Can he get one ?”
“ Yes’m.”
“ Can he do anything?”
“ Well, you want a.jury.”
“Sartin—sartin. I’ll go before a jury and
tell ’em how he and Maria have sot and sot for
seventeen hundred nights—how I’ve had to be
soft on him—how I’ve poked up Maria to bring
him to time—how I stood it and stood it until
eutluu* had to break—how it cost me two him-
dred dollars for fuel and oil—how But
that’s all. Il they are men they can’t find no
verdict agin me.”
“No’m.”
“Well, I'll-go home and wait. Maria lies
there sighing and weeping, and there’s the
stove to put up and the chairs to mend, and if
William gets the warrant I’ll let you know. His
ma in Iowa! I’ll let him know that some
body’s ma in Detroit is alive and kicking and
alius on deck 1” ,
ONE TRUE HEART.
“You are getting too fond of Elfrida.” said
Mr. Arnold to his employee, a young handsome
fellow with brown curly hair.
“ Too fond of her, sir ?” stammered the young
man, surprised and confounded.
“Yes, too fond of her I” said Mr. Arnold. “ I
saw you last night standing at the garden gate,
and you held her hand lor five minutes, and
when you said good-night, actually kissed her.
Can you deny this ?”
“ I have no wish to deny it,” said young
Frank Nettlefold. “Miss Elfrida did not seem
angry with me for doing it. It was an impulse
I could not resist, sir.”
“ You should have resisted, sir,” said Mr. Ar
nold, getting very red in the face. “ How dare
you kiss my daughter ?”
“ We are engaged, sir.”
“Engaged!” said Mr. Arnold, while Frank
closed the door of the private office. “ How
long have you been engaged ?”
“ Since last night,” said Frank, blushing like
a girl. “It was when she consented to bo my
wife that I kissed her. That was the first kiss I
ever gave her.”
“ And it will be the last,” said Mr. Arnold.
“ I hope not, sir. If you were to separate El
frida from me it would break her heart.”
And Frank pictured her as he had seen her
on the preceding night, clad in the blue silk
ball dress, trimmed with lilies. How lovely she
looked, and what white shapely shoulders she
had.
“ You are ta’king nonsense, Mr, Nettlefold.
My daughter is too young to think of being en
gaged; she is only seventeen. Why, it is only
the other day that she was put into long frocks.
Be more discreet in future, sir, and I will still
employ you. If you persist in trying to see my
daughter against my will, you shall quit my
service at once. It was very ungentlomanly of
you to try to win my daughter without con
sulting me. I consider you have behaved bad
ly.”
“When I escorted Elfrida home ”
“Miss Elfrida, if you please.”
“ Well, when I escorted Miss Elfrida from the
ball last night, tho words slipped out, “ Will
you be my wife ?’ I cannot withdraw them now.
You don’t know how -I love her. Your daugh
ter is the most lovable and beautiful girl in the
world.”
“ You are at liberty to think as highly of my
daughter as you like,” said Mr. Arnold; “but
you are not at liberty to marry her. I have
higher views for her future. Promise me that
you will give her up, and you can remain here;
but if you persist in trying to see her, you will
leavo-my service in a week.”
“ Very well, sir,” said Frank, “I will leave
this day week. I would sooner lose my situa
tion than lose Elfrida.”
“ You are throwing up a good situation,” said
Mr. Arnold. “ Times are hard; you will find it
very hard to find another place; but if you will
be Headstrong you must go.”
That evening, when Mr. Arnold arrived home,
Elfrida was surprised to see that he was quite
alone.
“Why, where is Frank—Mr. Nottlefold, I
mean? 1
“He is not coming here any more, you sly,
wicked little jade,” said Mr. Arnold. “ I have
told him to go about his business. He will
leave mo next week.”
“Why, papa?” asked Elfrida, knowing per
fectly well why, all tho time, and she turned
very pale.
“I have dismissed him for kissing you last
night,” said Mr. Arnold. “ What right have
you to be engaged, you weak-minded baby ?”
“ I love him, papa. I couldn’t help it.”
“But you shall help it,” said Mr. Arnold
“You shall never marry Frank Nettlelold with
my consent. All through you I have been
obliged to dismiss him, and be will go to Samp
son & Trudge’s, and I shall be ruined—ru
ined, do you hear ?—and you’ll have to wear
shabby hats and sell your piano.”
“Frank will not work lor Sampson & Trudge,”
said Elfrida.
“Do you think he’ll starve?” said Mr. Ar
nold.
“ Yes, ho would sooner starve than go to the
rival firm. He would do nothing to injure the
father of the girl he loves.”
“Time will show,” said Mr. Arnold, with a
peculiar smile. Then he added: “ I will tell you
whom you must marry. He is very rioh and
very fond of you.”
“ Who ?” asked Elfrida, with feminine curi
osity.
“ Young Partridge, the son of the mayor. He
is very rioh.”
“ He is a very nice young fellow,” said El
frida, musingly.
“So he is, ’ said her father—“so he is, my
dear.”
“ Yes, he is very nice,” Baid Elfrida; “but not
like dear Frank.”
“Frank is a scamp I” cried Mr. Arnold, and
then he sat down and wrote a letter inviting
young Partridge to come and spend the next
evening with him.
He came, but Elfrida was very cold to him.
At the end of the week Mr. Arnold shook his
head. She is very fond of Nettlefold, ho told
himself.
Quickly the day came when Frank Ncttlofold
had to leave Mr. Arnold; very sad he felt as he
passed through the door for the last time.
Not far from Mr. Arnold’s shop he mot a
gentleman who came up to him with a smile on
bis face.
“ You are Mr. Nettlofold,” he said, looking at
the young fellow.
“ Yes,” said Frank, wondering what the man
could want with him.
“You have just left Mr. Arnold’s,” said tho
stranger.
“What is that to you?” cried Frank, rather
savagely, for this was a sore subject.
“1 will tell you,”said the stranger. “My
name is Sampson, of the firm of Sampson
Trudge. Hearing that you were going to leave
Mr. Arnold, I have come to ofior you a situa
tion in our firm, i’ou shall have double what
Mr. Arnold gave you. What do you say to
that ?”
“I thank you for your offer, Mr. Sampson,
but I cannot accept it,” said Frank.
“ Cannot accept I” cried Mr. Sampson, in sur
prise, for he had thought that the young man
would have eagerly closed with the offer.
“ I cannot injure my old master,” said Frank,
in a decided voice.
“ You are very foolish—excuse me for saying
so,” said Mr. Sampson. “ You aro throwing
away a chance you will never get again; consid
er what you are doing.”
“I have considered,” said Frank. “I will
not go to an opposition firm in this town. lam
going to the great city.”
“ You will find it overcrowded,” were the last
words Mr. Sampson said, as he hurried away.
Frank had to start for the great citv without
seeing poor little Elfrida, but he managed to
get a friend to deliver her a letter.
“ Dearest Elfrida,” it ran, “ I have gone to
London. I was offered a situation by Sampson
& Trudge, but I would not go against your
father. He does not like me, but I like him,
and would not injure him in his business for
the world. Keep up your heart, love, and don’t
forget your own—Fkank.”
“What have you got there?” said Mr. Ar
nold, suddenly entering the room, and before
Elfrida could bide the letter, he snatched it out
of her hand, and quickly read it from beginning
to end.
“So he corresponds with you—does he ?”
said Mr. Arnold. “Oh 1 you sly, deceitful little
creature I”
“ Yes,” replied Elfrida, “ I am glad you re
ceived the letter. You now know what a noble
fellow he is.”
Poor Frank, on arriving in London, did not
find it as easy as he had imagined to get a situa
tion. After a time he succeeded in getting an
inferior one, and wrote and told -Elfrida of it,
lor he knew how anxious the poor little girl
would be on his account.
“ It is not a very good situation, but it is a
beginning,” he said.
Perhaps Elfrida left this letter about on pur
pose, and perhaps she didn't, but, at any rate,
Mr. Arnold found it and read it.
Soon alter this he announced his intention of
going to London. Three days afterward he re
turned, but not alone.
Elfrida was considerably astonished to see
him walk into tho house leaning on Frank Net
tlefold’s arm.
“ Oh, papa 1” said Elfrida, blushing with hap
piness, as ho linked their hands.
“I have brought him back,” observed Mr.
Arnold with a laugh. “It was all a little plot
of mine to see what this young gentleman was
made of. I did not want to give my daughter
over to the man she loved if he were not worthy
of her. Take her, my boy, and make her a lov
ing husband.
Frank did make Elfrida a loving husband,
and Mr. Arnold renews bis own youth in the
happiness ot his child.
ovebThe hill.
How the Ride Across ths Mountains
Strikes the Traveler.
(From the Laramie Weekly Boomerang').
Those who are familiar with the mountains
and have traveled over them frequently have
little idea of the charms they possess for the
traveler who rides over the hill for the first
time, or perhaps once in a year or two.
After the train leaves Laramie nothing is
seen but the great plains, with their girdle of
mounta'ns on the horizon, until Bed Buttes is
reached, where the country begins to appear
broken and the scenery grows wilder. Further
up tho hill, toward Sherman, the plains are lost
to view and a circle of hills, whose peaks seem
to pierce the sky, as the clouds rub lazily against
their snow-capped summits, surrounds one on
every side with a barrier which looks to be im
passable. The two Grand Moguls which draw
the train labor harder and harder, following the
shining trail of steel about sharp curves,
through deep cuts, on and up until they plunge
into the canyon at Dale Creek, whose granite
walls look as solid as adamant. From this
point to Granite Canyon the scenery is magnifi
cent. Huge boulders rise from the ground so
abruptly that they appear to have been hurled
about carelessly by Titans while at play, as-
suming at times fantastic shapes that never
cease to please tho imagination. At a distance
many of them look like immense pro-Adamite
monsters, and from one or two, alongside the
track, trees grow from a cleft, tho only soil
which nourishes them having been blown in by
the wind which whistles the century through
over the hills. As tho train plunges through
one snow-shed after another, threads its way
through the network of snow-fences, along
which the deep drifts alone remind one of the
Wintry altitude ho is in, through the desert,
whose scanty covering of grass, of russet hue,
glistens like silk in the bright sunlight, it is not
strange that one feels inspired with more than
admiration at the grandeur ot nature’s work.
The loveliest sight of all is, however, the view
from the hill just east of Granite Canyon.
From this point, high up among the bills, the
vast plains of Eastern Wyoming lie stretched
out before you as far as the eye can reach, look
ing like the waves of the ocean aud reminding
one of Dore’s scenes from the “ Inferno.”
Gradually the train approaches the level of
these rolling plains and starts out on its long
race of a thousand miles across them to tho
groat lakes.
generallirant.
Is the Old Hero Dying Because of
Medical Intolerance ?
Tho American Homeopathist baa an article on
the treatment of General Grant by tho Allo
paths, in which it says:
“General Washington was murdered by bis
medical attendants; but at least they were heroi
cally—too heroically endeavoring to extinguish
the disease. Their brutality was of the active
sort, and in purpose commendable, though dis
astrous in result. General Garfield was mal
treated for months under an error of diagnosis,
and at last es aped beyond the reach of bis emi
nent torturers. Here, also, there was much
medical heroism and activity displayed, albeit
misdirected. Other illustrious patients have
suffered from eminence in the profession; but
General Grant seems reserved as a shining ex
ample of cold-blooded expectancy. To him the
little group of eminence have nothing to offer
but a diagnosis. For him they propose no re
lief but in the grave. Ignoring the only source
of therapeutic salvation, they gather round his
bedside to observe bis unaided struggle. The
fiat has gone forth that nothing can be done;
and nothing will be permitted to be done.
Those who question such a decision aro quacks
and cranks; but who ought not to be proud of
such a designation from such a source? Schol
arly, refined, cultured, earnest gentlemen as
as they are, of what avail are all these good
qualities in the presence ot such thereapeutic
bankruptcy ? On tho contrary, while so-called
scientific medicine is to the fore, well may tho
daily papers announce in startling headlines,
‘ A bad day for General Grant—Seven doctors
in consultation.’ ”
Yes, the hero of Appomattox is dying I
He who knew no fear in war, knows no fear
in suffering. His quiet fortitude wins universal
admiration.
President Lincoln, in visiting a hospital dur
ing the late war, noticed a poor Confederate boy
mortally wounded. With his native tenderness
he put his arms round his neck in sympathy.
The sight melted tho hospital to tears.*
The heart of the American people in like
manner bleeds for Grant, the silent sufferer.
It would have him get well, by any effective
means.
His physicians say he cannot recover. They
fill him with anodynes, but despite their favor
able bulletins he is daily growing worse.
A specialist, who has won reputation in tho
treatment of cancer, visits his bedside. The op
position he encounters from the attending phy
sicians brings painfully to mind the story of
the dog in the manger.
And General Grant, perhaps, must die be
cause of this intolerance I Is it possible that
there is no hope of cure outside of the medical
profession ?
Preposterous!
For years medical men insisted that certain
fevers were incurable, but Chincona proved the
contrary. For centuries they have protested
that certain renal disorders were incurable and
yet a special preparation has cured and per
manently cured, the very worst cases.
Why may it not bo possible in like
manner to euro a case of cancer ? B.
F. Larrabee, ot Boston, was doomed to
death by many eminent Boston physicians.
J. B. Henion, M. D., of Rochester, N. Y., was
given up by the best doctors ot all schools.
Elder J. 8. Prescott, of Cleveland, Ohio, was
gravely informed by them that he could not
live, and yet these - men and thousands like
them have been cured and cured permanently
of serious kidney disorders, by a remedy not
officially known to the code.
Whafhas been done may be done again.
General Anson Stager died ot Bright’s disease
in Chicago last week. “ Joe ” Goss, the Boston
pugilist, died of it. Hundreds ot thousands of
people perish of it every year, while in their
doctor’s hands. To cause of death may be call
ed blood poisoning, paralysis, heart disease,
convulsions, apoplexy, pneumonia, or some
other common ailment, but the real difficulty is
in the kidneys. Physicians know it but they
conceal tho fact from their patients, realizing
their inability to cure by any “ authorized”
means. The remedy that cured Larrabee and
Henion and Prescott (i. e., Warner’s Safe Cure)
is a special, independent discovery. Its record
entitles it to recognition, and gets it from intel
ligent people. Its manufacturers have an un
sullied reputation and are entitled to as great
consideration as any school of physicians.
Professor R. A. Gunn, M. D., Dean of tho
United States Medical College ot New York city,
rises above professional prejudice and on its
personally proved merits alone gives it several
pages of the warmest commendation in his
published works—the oply instance on record
of a high professional endorsement of such a
preparation.
Tho unprejudiced people do not want General
Grant to 'die. If there is in all nature or any
where in the world a remedy or a man able to
cure his cancer, give them a chance.
“ Will they do it ?
No.
Why?
Is it not too often the case that many excellent
physicians who are greatly devoted to the code,
would prefer that their patients should die
rather than that they should recover health by
the use of any remedy not recognized under
their code ?
HAVANA HOMES.
Construction, Interior Arrangement and
General Effect.
(From the Detroit News.)
Probably tha first impression received by
most strangers on a near view of the city is the
color—or rather colors—that prevail about the
buildings. With a groundwork of white, the
blues and pinks, and salmons and lilic, and
other delicate shades -they never employ dark
or brilliant colors—with which the doors and
windows and cornices of the houses and the
columns of the arcades are relieved, have a
very pleasing effect, toning down the brightness
of the strong lights. The effect is hightened by
the round arch generally found over doors and
windows, filled with stained glass.
In speaking of windows, it should be under
stood that such media for the refraction of light
as we call windows—glazed frames -are not in
use here. The open spaces serving as win
dows, and extending from the floor to the su
perincumbent arch, are closed when desired by
doors opening in the middle, the upper halves
of which consist of movable blinds, by which
heat and light may be excluded, while the fresh
air is admitted. Another set of doors within
these may be closed at night, or when neces
sary.
Generally the windows look out on a narrow
balcony, guarded by a light ornate iron railing.
Where the balcony is not found, the lower part
of the window is guard: d by a similar railing’,
usually gilded, and ot elaborate and elegant de
sign, serving really as an ornament to the
house.
The houses are generally low and deep, fre
quently ot one story only, seldom rising above
two stories. The walls are very thick, the cal
careous stone abounding here being easily
worked in building; the roofs are usually flat or
terraced, and sometimes a small, square tower
or observatory on the top, a common feature of
the buildings in Cadiz, Spain. The predomi
nance of color is another feature reminding one
of the city ot the Mediterranean.
Withinj the houses are constructed on much
the same principle as obtains in warm countries
generally. They are massed together in solid
blocks, and each house is something in the
form of a hollow square. Immense wooden
doors in iront open up into the square court
yard in the middle of the building. This is
paved with stone or marble. A fountain occu
pies the middle, which constitutes also a re
ceptacle and drain for the rain that fails—for
the court is open to the sky—and, too frequent
ly, lor other less innocent slops. Broad, raar
bie-paved corridors, supported by pillared
arches, extend on each story around the court.
Here, in tubes and earthen pots, flourish, in
tropical luxuriance, shrubs and flowers un
known to the North. Doors glazed with stained
glass, hung between the columns, shut out ex
cess of sun or rain.
The ground floor apartments, when there is
more than one story, are usually reserved for
use ot servants, horses, coaches and inferior
uses generally; the upper Boors contain family
apartments. Each room has doors opening on
balcony and court corridor, thus affording a
constant current of air. 'lhe rooms are very
lofty, and the walls are wainscoted with bright
colured tiles; the floor is paved with mar ole,
and the ceiling is studded with wooden rafters.
Dwellings are constructed with the object of in
surance, ventilation, coolness and comfort, but
in this aim they also insure health and cleanli
ness.
There are no carpets, nor curtains, nor por
tieres, nor upholstered chains and sofas to col
lect dust, to invite vermin, to harbor the germs
of disease. The outer air has free entrance day
and night. Cane-seated chairs and settees are
the only ones seen, though among these rock
era abound, for the Cuban dotes on a rocking
chair as much as does his American neighbor.
The bed-rooms are furnished with elegant
simplicity. The Cuban bed is a simple iron or
brass frame, light and ornate, but with no su
perfluities of length or breadth, and not calcu
lated to support a heavy weight. A piece of
stout canvas or a fine wire netting is stretched
across this frame. Over this a piece of woven
straw matting is spread. The remaining para
phernalia consists of two linen sheets and a
coumorpane oi pmfc or blue cambric, covered
with sheer muslin and bordered with lace, fi
canopy of the thinnest muslin, and two narrow
pillows, stuffed with some vegetable fibre of the
country, hard and unyielding. But all thes<
accessories are of immaterial value to the nov
ice. lhe pillows have been tried singly, dou
bly, alternately endwise crosswise, in overj
method that a wakeful mind spurred to inge
nuity can devise, and are finally thrown away
as impracticable samples of the depravity of in
animate nature. Long before daylight the tor
tured wight is apt to find himself free from all
incumbrance of bedding, a martyr stretched
upon a wire rack, with body bruised and
scarified and muscles stiff with unaccustomed
exercise.
A point of merit also in these beds not to be
overlooked is, that they achieve cleanliness as
well as comfort. The vermin that infest the
Northern bedstead find no refuge here; in fact,
Havana seems singularly free from tho insect
pests ot warm climates aud Southern life.
'There are mosquitoes, to be sure, that fly its
much by day as night, and that have no warn
ing note to herald their approach, but they aro
of inconsiderable size, while the common house
fly is a rara avis.
MULDOON’S DEATH.
A Pike’s Peak Canine with a Truly
Wonderful History.
(From the Colorado Springs Gazette.)
On tho morning after election, “ Muldoon,”
the dog that has guarded the post-office by day
and by night for the past ten years, manifested
alight indisposition, and seemed to realize
more fully that something had happened than
did Postmaster Price and his clerks. Ever
since that day Muldoon has been confined to
his box under tho mailing table, and under no
circumstances could he be prevailed upon to
leave it. Nothing would he touch in the way of
substantial food, and Mr. Price gives it as his
impression that the dog was determined on
starving to death in preference to being a watch
dog under a Democratic administration. Yes
terday morning, while Mr. Price was reading
aloud the account of the inauguration ceremo
nies at Washington, Muldoon left his box, and,
coming up beside his master, gave four hideous
yelps and fell dead upon tho floor. Muldoon,
as near as can be estimated, was in the neigh
borhood of twenty-eight years of age, and was
gifted with remarkable animal instinct. When
a pup he belonged to Judge Matthews, a resi
dent of Southern Missouri, who was the owner
of a number of slaves. Early in his existence
the dog was one day severely whipped by one
ot his master’s colored servants, and from that
day to this has had a pronounced antipathy to a
colored man, and one never went into the post
office but what ho would be viciously barked
at. Early in the sixties tho judge moved tc
Lawrence, Kansas, taking the dog with him.
During the Quantrell raid Muldoon was shot
through tho shoulder while guarding tho dead
body of his master, but survived the wound.
Later on the dog followed a bull team across
the plains via tho Santa Fo trail, turning up in
Colorado City, being tho property of a freighter
who was afterward hung in Hangman’s Canon,
for stealing horses. Until within tho past three
years the dog paid weekly visits to the place
where his master was executed. Old age only
was what prevented him from doing so any
longer. After the freighter’s death the dog
made his home with several different persons
in Colorado City, and was always well fed and
cared for. In the early days of Colorado
Springs, the dog camo into the possession of
Judge Price, and has been in the family ever
since. Muldoon knew about as much about the
routine of work of the post-office as any one
else. He would at command carry a package
to any one of the boxes on tho lower tier, and
seldom made a mistake. No one manifested
more uneasiness when the mails were late than
did Muldoon, and ho would pull the mail-sacks
to the rear door within a few moments of the
time that ho knew tho delivery wagon would b«
there. He was even taught to lick stamps and
place them upon letters, and when there were
a largo number of circulars to stamp ho would
perform the duty. Many other equally as diffi
cult tasks would be undertaken. He will bo
greatly missed, by not only those who have been
with him so long in the office, but also by those
who have become accustomed to seeing hia
head stick through the general delivery window
every time the mail opened.
Mermaids Board a Ship at Sea.
A TOUGH YARN.
(From the San Francisco Call.)
“About mermaids,” said the captain as he
stood upon the unfinished end of the seawall
and surveyed the landlubber with an expres
sion of pitiful condescension. “ Why, I’ve see’d
the most wonderful things in that line. Well,wo
were well over in the China sea. One night, just
after we’d passed tho Formosa group, I was
roused out of my bunk by the mate, who sings
out, ‘ Mermaids aboard !’ Out I jumps and gets
on dock in a turn of a helm. You can splice my
main’s if there wasn’t ’bout twenty of the big
gest mermaids a floppin’ around the deck I
ever seed. Two of ’em bed got the fellows on
watch cornered and was a kissin’ ’em. Tha
mate had took to the riggin’ after hailing me.
I was a leetle s’prised, though I had seen mer
maids afore, but never more’n one at a time.
‘Ladies,’ says I, ‘make yourselves at home,’
says I, and you bet your hawsers they did.
They quit floppin’ and* all got on the rail, side
by side, a boldin’ their tails in their hands and
commenced to sing, and I jest tell you they
whooped things up. They skipped through the
‘Sweet By-and-By? and took several reel# ir
the ‘ Red, White and Blue,’ and slewed to port
on a ‘ Life on the Ocean Wave ’ in beautiful
style.”
“Didn’t soe them again, did you?” asked a
landlubber.
“ Well, yes. The next day we was becalmed.
There wasn’t a smell of a breeze, and whistlin’
for it didn’t do any good. I was madder’ll a
stuck whale, for I wanted to make a quick pas
sage. Suddenly I sees a commotion in the wa
ter, and shiver my binnacle lights it them mer
maids warn’t swimmin’ around us. One of ’em
boarded us as slick as could be, and ses, ‘ Give
us a rope? Well, I throwed ’em one, and I’ll
lay to on a lee shore if they didn’t tow us till wa
struck a breeze. Got the" rope right in their
mouths—about fifty of ’em—and pulled us
along. I was so ’bleeged to ’em that I throwed
’em a mess ot looking-glasses, clocks and shoe
blackin’ out of the cargo.
“ Next day we struck another calm and I
’spected the mermaids would pull us out
again. They were all around a-donnin’
their mornin’ uniform in tho glasses. ‘ Hey|P
says I, ‘tow us along, will you?’ Well,
no sooner had I hailed ’em than every one oi
’em looked at the clocks which they had slung
around their necks. ‘ Scuse us, cap,’ they said,
‘we see it’s just time to keep our appointment
at tho bottom,’ and cuss me if they didn’t all
disappear 1”
TRAMPS.
WHAT TO DO WITH THEM.
(From the Laramie Weekly Boomerang.)
There is a class of people in the United States
which is growing in numbers every year and
the members of wh ch are designated as tramps.
It will at no distant day become a serious pro
blem as to what shall be done with these stroll
ing vagabonds, who have already become a
national nuisance. As a general thing they are
ragged, dirty and shiftless, continually travel
ing from place to place, they know not where
and care still less. They are to be met with
generally along the groat railway lines, seldom
venturing far from the iron track, except to beg
or steal from adjacent dwellings, or perhaps to
commie occasionally some worse crime. The
genuine tramp will not work, though he be of
fered the softest job in the world, preferring
starvation to manual labor. He will walk if
necessary, but his favorite method of traveling
is on a freight train, whoso empty cars offer a
convenient hiding-place; though if that is not
available, he will ride on tho blind end of bag
gage or mail cars, sit on the trucks, bumpers,
or any other place that will support him from
one place to another. Occasionally those tramps
congregate by the hundred in some one place,
preparatory to starting out for the Spring cam
paign, and at such times they have been known
to do their washing, which generally lasted for
the whole yeur. Various attempts have been
made to legislate them out of cities and States,
but the laws have never been enforced so as to
accomplish their object. The annual pilgrim
age is now about to commence, and we would
suggest a game of freeze out with the fellows.
Laramie has been visited by tho advance guard,
and they aro strongly suspected of having com
mitted the only robbery that has occurred with
in two months, this week. The follows should
not be allowed to loiter around even for a day,
but should be fired off the cars, fired out of
town, refused a single mouthful of food or a
night’s shelter, and they should bo arrested
and set to work and compelled to do it by the
lash, if necessary. Every Legislature should
pass a law against this dangerous class, and
when its members are arrested and convicted,
they should get a sentence of years instead of
days. Then let them be herded together and
set to work on some public improvement and
keep their nose to the grindstone till they learn
to work, from sheer force of habit.
MMFT THE BUOD
II
DAD BLOOD. SCROFULOUS, Inherited
and Contagious Humors, wit i Loss of Hair, Glandu
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tisc isse.s. Tumors, Carbuncles, Blotches, Sores, Scurvy,
Watting oi the Kidneys and Urinary Organs, Dropsy,
iniemia, Debility, Chronic Rheumatism, Constipation
and Piles, and most diseasesarising from an Impure or
impoverished Condition of the Blood, are speedily cured
by rhe Cuticura Resolvent, the new Blood Purifier, in
ternally, assisted by Cuticura, the Great Skin Cure, and
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Cuticura Resolvent is the only blood purifier that for
ever eradicates the virus of Inherited and Contagious
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Sold everywhere. Trice: Cuticura, 50c; Soap, 25c.;
Resolvent, $1.03. Prepared by Potter Drug and
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Send for *• How to Cure Blood Humor*”