New York dispatch. [volume], July 26, 1885, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
no—so close that I drew back and held my
oreath—came Arthur. He disappeared down
the shrubbery walk, and still I waited. Not for
<ong however, for soon a fluttering, white-robed
sgure flitted past me and sped after him.
“ I followed noiselessly, and, crouching in the
darkness, I heard my affianced husband speak
tender, passionate words of love to the woman
who called herself my friend. I heard him be
moan the fate that tied him to a woman he
could not love, and then he clasped her in his
arms, calling her his first and only love. Just
heaveift, the very words ho had said to me ! I
turned away and left them.”
Here my aunt’s voice faltered. When I
looked up, her face was buried in her hands.
“ Dear auntie,” I said eagerly. “ And so I
suppose he married her?”
“I wish I could say ‘ Yes,’ Beatrice; but my
story has a much sadder ending. The next
day I returned him his ring and gave him back
his freedom. I said nothing about the meeting
in the shrubbery, though I think he guessed
that I knew of it. In a few hours he had de
parted, and soon after I, too, returned home.
“About six weeks later wo received the start
ling intelligence that poor little Dolly had fled
•with him; not long afterward I received a letter
from her, dated from some out-of-the-way Ger
man town, begging me to forgive her. She had
already discovered that the man in whose
honor she had trusted was a thorough scoun
drel. I answered her letter, assuring her of
xny forgiveness, but, some time afterward, it
■was returned. They had gone away, no one
knew whither.
“ It must have been quite a year after that
that I received a telegram from Dover begging
me to come without delay to see some one who
xvas dying. You can imagine how I wondered
ns to who had sent it, until all at once it Hashed
across me that it could be none other than Dolly,
or—and even then a bitter pain shot through
kny heart—perhaps Arthur himself, dying amid
strangers.
“You know, although young, I was com
pletely mistress of my actions; so I started
without delay, and there in a poor lodging
house lay Dolly, dying—dying of a broken
heart. I cannot describe our meeting, nor what
was said; suffice it to say that once having per
suaded her to fly with him, he had deferred
fcheir marriage under various pretexts, until
anxiety and remorse had reduced her to a pale,
Wan woman, quite unlike the bright, wilful,
laughing girl he had wooed; then, tired of her,
he had pleaded pressing business as an excuse
for leaving her for a short time, and Dolly
never saw him again. She received a letter
from him enlosing a check, and telling her she
Jwould receive a like amount every quarter.
*The shock nearly killed her; but she rallied
and crossed to Dover, and there her strength
forsook her. It was then that she begged her
landlady to send for me.
“ * May heaven mete to him the measure he
lias meted out to you I’ I said; but she caught
my hand with a faint pressure.
“ ‘ No, no !’ she cried. ‘Do not say that—
father pray for him as I do/ and so she died,
praying for forgiveness, both for herself and the
man who had brought about her death.”
My aunt ceased speaking and I crept closer to
her.
“And what became of him—of Arthur?” I
asked.
“He ? Oh, at first there was a terrible to-do
about it I The poor child had no one to take it
lip; she was an orphan and had been mostly
brought up at schools, her nearest relative be
ing in India, but Arthur’s friends forbade him
their houses; so he traveled about for a time,
and then, when he came back, they had, or
seemed to have, completely forgotten poor
Dolly Preston, and he was courted and admired
as much as ever. And the next I heard was
that he had married a very young and pretty
with a considerable fortune. I saw her
eeveral times and I noticed she looked far
from happy; but there was no open rupture
between them, so far as I know. Now, my
oear, you know why aunt Jane developed into ft
Hour old maid.”
< “Oh, my dear, dear auntie/’ I cried, pressing
Jkias after kiss on her trembling lips, for she
ri»uld scarcely control her emotion during the
. last part of her narrative, “what you must
Jaave suffered I”
“Well, it is all over now, child,” she said,
Btriving to speak cheerfully, “and now, dear, I
ahall ring for lights; we have been gossiping
long enough in the dark.”
From that evening our relationship to each
Other underwent a complete change. We were
simply what we had been, each
scarcely tolerating the other, but were now
•Arue and sincere companions; not that my aunt
Bhowed any open difference in her manner.
To strangers she would have appeared the
game; but to me there was a great change,
fljittle thoughtful acts of kindness, a certain
in her tone when speaking to me,
endeared my aunt Jane to me during the re
jmainder of my visit. As if by mutual consent,
we studiously avoided all mention of Aubrey.
IX tried hard to banish his memory from my
fieart, but I am afraid I succeeded rather badly,
or I still found myself clinging obstinately to
the belief that in some unaccountable way aunt
Jane had made a mistake.
CHAPTER VII.
** NOTHING ELSE COULD HAVE MADE YOU LOOK SO
t HAPPY.”
It was now the end of November, and thor
ough November weather it was. Damp, heavy
fogs wrapped everything in a shroud, and these
were succeeded by cold, drizzling rain. I had
been home for more than a week. How pleas
ant it was to return to those so dear to me af
ter my long absence I
We so rarely strayed from the parental fold
that my return was quite an event. I had
worked myself into a state of intense excite
ment as the train neared the little station.
Yes, there they were—Lil and Floss and George,
my youngest brother, eagerly scanning the car
riages as the train slowly came to a standstill.
“ Here she is !” shouted George, rushing for
ward, and in another minute I was ashing and
answering questions with a rapidity that must
have astonished any one who happened to be
within hearing. All talking together, we passed
up the High Street, and then presently we came
within sight of the dear old home. There was
Hannah standing outside with a branch of myr
tle in her hand, which she waved over my head
as I passed through the gate. This mystic per
formance, she religiously believed, would bring
us luck, and no amount of ridicule from us
could shake Hannah’s faith in the potency of
the charm.
I hurried indoors to receive the loving em
brace of my mother. How nice it was to be at
home again 1 We sat up late that night; there
was so much to tell and so much to hear. First
of all, I was told that Frank and Lil were to be
be married in March. Frank was to have his
holiday then, and be had pleaded so hard to
take Lil with him that at last my parents had
consented, although they would fain have kept
her with them a little longer. Then 1 was told
that Rupert Travers was lying dangerously ill,
suffering from a violent attack of inflammation
of the lungs. Indeed at that moment he might
be dving.
“ How dreadful!” I exclaimed. “ How I feel
for his parents I He is their only child. Sup
pose he were to die ?”
“Heaven’s will be done 1” said mamma, in
her low, sweet voice. “If he dies, it will in
deed be a terrible blow to them.”
“Papa said yesterday that the anxiety has
already aged Mrs. Travers wonderfully,” re
marked Lil.
“Is he conscious?” I asked.
“ Yes/’ replied mamma. “ Your father said
this morning that he had recovered conscious
ness ; but, in bis opinion, unless a change occurs
soon, he will not last much longer.”
“It seems scarcely credible,” I observed,
“ that only such a short time ago he was in full
vigor, and now lies dying—is perhaps dead I”
I shivered. Death seemed awfully real, now
that it had laid its icy hand on one so well
known to me. This news seemed to throw a
gloom over the rest of the evening.
Every day my father brought us news of his
condition, for he attended him professionally,
and one morning we heard that he was dying,
and that his relatives and friends were being
summoned to his bedside.
Christmas was drawing near now, and my
father would have to confess that he was unable
to meet his liabilities. I shuddered as I thought
of the coming enforced departure from our dear
little village, for my father bad seriously de
cided upon going to London. What his further
plans were I knew not. I could plainly see he
keenly felt the separation that seemed inevita
ble. He never in my hearing mentioned the ap
proaching change, but he became more reserved
and preoccupiod. I had not recurred to the
subject of my intention to seek a situation, and
I now decided that it would be positively mean
to leave them just now when trouble was about
to overtake them. I resolved therefore to wait
until alter the crisis had passed, until we had
settled down a little in our new home.
I dreaded to think what that change would
be to my mother. During the few weeks I had
been absent a great alteration had come over
her; she would now lie for hours together
gazing into vacancy, her work almost entirely
neglected, but no word of complaint ever passed
her bps.
It wanted but four short weeks of Christ
mas. Wo were very busy preparing the simple
trousseau for the bride, and were hurrying
that forward as much as possible, for we knew
we should have very little time to spare after
we left West Orran. As yet Frank knew noth
ing of our intended departure, and I could see
Lil was very uneasy about it. Would it make
any difference to him ? I wondered; but I
soon convinced myself that Frank was not the
sort of man to be influenced by any such con
siderations.
One afternoon we were all very busy, sewing
and talking about Rupert Travers, my father
having just been hastily summoned to see
him. We were full of anxiety as to what could
be the reason, when my sister Floss, who was
looking out of the window, uttered a cry of sur
prise.
“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed, “here is a
servant from the Grange coming—and look at
his horse, it is panting so ! He must have rid
den fast.”
We rushed to the window and eagerly looked
out. Yes, there was old Collin—as he was gen
erally called by us irreverent young folk—get
ting oiThis horse. His face wore a very solemn
expression as he hobbled toward the house, and
a sudden hush fell upon us. When he entered
the room, we felt that something momentous
ha doccurred.
“What is it, Collins ?” I asked, as soon as he
appeared in the doorway.
“If you please,” he said, looking straight at
M. "I was seat to fteK if Mies Lilian Sevan
would be kind enough to come to the Grange
immediately. My master has asked to see
her.”
“Is he worse?” I asked, in an awe-struok
tone.
“ Well, miss, I don’t know exactly. It is the
terrible weakness they are afraid of; the least
excitement may prove fatal; and, when he
asked for Miss Lilian, at first Doctor Bevan
would not hear of his seeing her, but he was
obliged to yield, for Mr. Rupert kept asking so
often that at last Doctor Bevan said I was to
come and fetch her.”
“Beatrice,” said Lil, “I cannot—l really can
not I”
She was very pale, and trembled with sup
pressed excitement.
“You must go,” I urged firmly. Then I
whispered, “Remember, you ought to go.”
“ Yes, I know; but, oh, Beatrice, that is just
it I lam ashamed to see him.”
“ You will please excuse me, miss,” broke in
the voice of Collins, “ but the carriage will be
here in a few minutes for you—l came on first
so as to lose no time.”
“Lil,” I again urged, “there is no time to
lose ; you must go and dress yourself at once.”
“ Yes, I will,” she assented, with apparent
effort, and we both left the room.
“ Beatrice, come with me,” she pleaded nerv
ously, “1 cannot go by myself.
“But I am not wanted,” I replied; “I can-
“ You can wait for me at the Grange,” she
urged. “ Do, do come, dear !”
Seeing that she really was unfit to go by
herself, I consented, and hastily dressed my
self to accompany her. During the drive Lil
sat very quiet in the corner of the carriage, till
we camo in sight of the Grange, when she gavq
a start.
“Oh, Beatrice/* she cried, turning on me
great pleading eyes, “ why, why did you make
me encourage him ? It was wrong, you know it
was.”
“Lil,” I answered, completely subdued, “do
not speak to me like that. I have been pun
ished enough for my wickedness—ah, you do
not know how much I”
“But—but suppose,” she persisted, “he
should ask me to—to ■”
“To what?” I asked quickly, for we were
nearing the end of the row of chestants.
“To marry him,” she faltered. “I could
not bear to dispute his wishes; but I love
Frank. Oh, how I wish we had never com
menced that dreadful plot!”
“Here we are I” I said breathlessly, as the
carriage stopped before the door. “ I can give
you no advice, Lil,” 1 continued mournfully.
“I think a great deal of sorrow would have
been avoided if I had never advised you. ’
There was no time to say anything more, for
my father came forward and led Lil up the
stairs, while I sat, miserable and self-accusing,
in the great deserted drawing-room. Alter a
little while papa came to me, and told me I had
better return home, and he would bring Lil
later on. So I again entered the carriage, and
was driven back.
It was late in the evening when Lil returned,
accompanied by papa. Her eyes were swollen
with excessive weeping, and she went to her
room at once.
“How is he?” we questioned eagerly, as
papa came in.
“Better,” he replied. “I think he will re
cover.”
We all drew a breath of relief.
“ Then Lil’s visit has had a beneficial effect ?”
observed mamma.
“ Yes,” answered papa; “ I was afraid at first,
and Doctor Phillips—the London physician—
positively forbade it; but if she had not gone,
the excitement consequent on being thwarted
in his wishes would, in my judgment, have been
infinitely greater; so, after consulting his father,
we decided to send for her, and, as I expected,
the visit has done a great deal of good instead
of harm.”
I never asked, nor did my sister tell me,
what had passed between her and Rupert; but
for some days afterward she was very thought
ful and sad.
'lb? £]ay* sped away, and now it wanted but
one week’ to Christmas day. The weather was
very fine and Wild for the time of year, and a
great longing cSJQQ over me to visit again the
spot where my youxig hopes had been so com
pletely blighted.
Rupert was still very illbut his recovery was
not now thought hopeless, a»d it was intended,
as soon as he should be strong enough to bear
the journey, to take him to a milder climate.
This longing to visit the Five Beeches grew
upon me, and accordingly one afternoon I found
myself walking up the familiar path that led to
the spot. With what different emotions did I
regard the scene now from those which the
same view had excited within me on the last oc- ;
casion I had traveled that road !
At length I stood under the gaunt spreading 1
branches of the Five Beeches, now divested of 1
their foliage. There was the spot where I had
seated myself—a natural seat formed by the
roots of the trees. I went toward it with the in- ’
tention of resting, but the interstices were filled 1
with moisture and half-decayed leaves, so I 1
turned away and wandered on a little farther, i
and at leng"th found a tolerably dry seat on a
fallen tree. 1
How dreary it seemed I I buried my face in s
my hands and gave myself up to thought. Ido f
not know how long I bad sat there when I was
startled by hearing a firm, muffled footfall com
ing across the thick carpet of leaves. 1
My heart felt a thrill of fear as I then per- (
ceived that I must have sat there considerably t
longer than I intended. The short afternoon
was already on the wane, and thick dark shad- r
ows lurked around me. I hastily rose to my t
feet and crossed the space intervening between
myself and the clump of trees by the roadside, c
trembling at the sound of my own feet on the
dead rustling leaves. I drew a long breath of i
relief as I passed them and saw before me the i
road. Then, as if spellbound, I suddenly stop
ped, for there, leaning against a tree, stood Au- j
brey. He slowly turned and looked at me, then
stretched out his arms with a low, glad cry. <
“ Beatrice, mv darling!” he exclaimed, his (
voice choked with emotion.
I seemed riveted to the earth, and the sud- I
denness of the meeting completely bewildered 1
me. “ Beatrice, my darling I”—the words rang
in my ears. I felt that there must be some mis
take—that I should eventually wake up and find
it all a dream. But no; the next moment strong *
arms encircled me, and a voice I loved, oh, too (
well, whispered loving words in my ear. I
yielded to the rapture of the moment, never
asking what had wrought this wondrous change
—what had caused him to speak words of love
and fondness. I forgot that he had a wife al
ready, that from this man I ought to have
turned in horror; for a brief time all was forgot
ten in my great happiness. At length 1 became
aware of the increasing gloom stealing over us,
and recovered in a degree my self-possession. 1
I gently disengaged myself from his encircling <
arms, and blessed the friendly darkness which 1
partially concealed my blushes.
“ Aubrey,” I said, his name involuntarily es- 1
caping my lips, “I did not expect to meet you i
here.” <
“Did yon not?” he rejoined. “ I expected to i
see you; I knew you would come.” I
“Why,” I said, in undignified astonishment,
“ I did not myself know I was coming until a ;
short time before I started.”
“ Nevertheless I knew you would come,” he ’
remarked, smiling.
“ Oh, Aubrey 1” I asked at length, shyly,
“what has happened to make you think so dif
ferently of me ?’’
“lam indebted to your Aunt Jane,” he re
plied, “ for my present happiness.”
“ Aunt Jane !” I echoed in amazement. “Why,
she—she ” I stopped in confusion. “She
detests you,” I was about to add.
“Thinks lama villain of the deepest dye,”
he added, laughing slightly.
I “ I did not believe it,” I assured him eagerly.
“ Although her story seemed conclusive, still I
held to the belief that there must have been
some mistake.”
“ I have not said there has been any mistake,”
he answered, with a roguish twinkle in his eye
—“ I may still be a scoundrel.”
“Oh, Aubrey,” I said, looking up into his
face, which, by-the-by, 1 could scarcely see,
“one has only to look at you to know that you
are not.”
“ You little flatterer !” he rejoined. “ But see
how dark it is getting ! I think we had better
walk toward your house, and I will tell you how
it has all come about. After I met you in Cam
den Town, when my cousin was with me,” con
tinued Aubrey, as we slowly bent our steps to
ward home, “ I was really troubled in my mind
about you. The look with which you regarded
me I could not believe was one of deceit.”
“ Oh, Aubrey 1” I exclaimed.
“Forgive me, dear,” he went on. “I am
ready to admit now that I judged you very
hardly; but 1 loved you, Beatrice, and it was a
cruel blow to me to hear that the woman upon
whom I had lavished my love was only a heart
less schemer. I felt very unhappy, and, after
our accidental meeting, I often walked down
the same street, hoping to see you again. One
day,twhen slowly pacing along, I saw coming
toward me your aunt, Miss Bevan. I looked
around, but could not see yon; I therefore ac
costed your aunt, with whom 1 was but slightly
acquainted, determined, if [feasible, to find out
where you were. During the conversation
which ensued I asked if you had returned to
West Orran. She appeared greatly surprised
at the question, and at first did not seem in
clined to satisfy me. At length, however, she
asked if I wanted the information for myself or
for any one else. It was now my [turn to be
surprised at so singular a question. Wonder
ing what could have prompted such an in
quiry, I told her it was for my own satisfac
tion I sought the information, and asked her
on whose behalf she thought I should make
such an inquiry. She replied that she was
afraid it was for my cousin Arthur. After that,
she begged me to call on her on the following
evening, which I did, and then Miss Bevan told
me she thought she had made a great mistake,
which she would like to remedy, and then by
degrees I learned the whole story.”
“ What did aunt tell you about me ?” I de
manded, for an unpleasant thought had crept
into my mind that Aunt Jane must have told
him that I loved him, or how could he have
addressed me as he had? He must have divined
my thoughts, tor he immediately replied:
“ I first told your aunt how dear you were to
me, and then she reluctantly, and after great
pressure, admitted she thought you were not
altogether indifferent to me.”
By this time we had reached the little gate
leading to the garden.
“ Will you not come in ?” I asked, rather
timidly,
“No, not now,” he answered; “ to-morrow 1
will call; but now good by, my darling.”
Wo had so many last words to say that it was
, fully half an hour before I made my appearance
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 26, 188 J
indoors. How I shrank from presenting myself
before the family, for I well knew my great hap
piness was reflected on my face I My heart was
brimming over with joy; not even the thought
of the trouble hanging over our house had pow
er to damp it. I found my mother and sister in
a state of alarm at my protracted absence, for I
had told them on going out that I should return
in about an hour, and now it was nearly six
o'clock. Was it possible ? I thought. How the
time had flown, and how pleasantly I
“ Your walk has certainly done you good,” ob
served Lil, looking at me rather inquisitively;
“I thought your eyes were positively dancing
with delight. I shall begin to think you have
struck on some hidden treasure.”
“So I have,” I well-nigh exclaimed—“ the
priceless treasure of a good man’s love I” But
I only laughed a low, quiet laugh of supreme
content. “You will know to-morrow what makes
me so happy,” I said aloud; and, glad to escape
their questioning looks, I hastily left the room.
The next morning I awoke with the lark, and
felt oppressed with the weight of my happiness.
As the hours wore on I worked myself into a
state of intense nervous excitement, and every
ring at the bell caused me to tremble. While
pretending to be occupied in some of the vari
ous household duties that fell to my share, I
strained my ears to catch the sound of his ap
proaching footsteps; but the morning wore
away and no Aubrey came. Then I began to
torture myself with fears lest he might have
been waylaid and robbed and murdered on the
previous evening. It was a very lonely road,
and the night had been intensely dark; he might
even have "missed his way and fallen into one of
the numerous ponds in the district.
Perhaps while I had been peacefully sleeping
he had been fighting a fierce battle for life I As
tnesd disquieting thoughts Were coursing
through my mind, a loud peal of the bell caused
me to start to my feet in alarm* 89 firmly had
I persuaded myself that sviilo calamity Had
happened, that I waited with bated breath to
hear my dread forebodings verified. It did not
occur to mo that if Aubrey Galveston had met
with any mishap no one would have thought of
sending to me to communicate the dread tid
ings.
But instead of hearing a strange voice speak
idg words of dreadful import, it was Aubrey’s
clear mellow tones that fell upon my ear, it was
Aubrey's firm step that sounded crossing the
hall. The next moment Lil came running up
the stairs rather excitedly.
“ Beatrice,” she cried, “it is Mr. Galveston 1”
“Is it?’ I returned, trying to speak carelessly
and look indifferent; but I failed lamentably.
“ Beattie,” went on Lil, reading my secret in
my guilty looks, “can it be ? Oh, lam so glad I”
And she threw her arms around my neck and
pressed warm kisses upon my cheeks. “ You
saw him last night?” Lil asked at length, shak
ing her head at me in mock reproof. “ Oh, you
sly girl I That was what made you look so hap
py; how silly I must have been not to guess it
was something of the sort I Nothing else could
have made you look like that.”
“ Oh, Lil, I am so happy !” I exclaimed, hard
ly knowing whether to laugh or cry in my un
bounded happiness.
“ Of course you are ; I know all about that,”
laughed my sister, with conscious superiority.
“ But, Beatrice”—in a halt whisper—“ is he
well-off—rich, I mean ?”
“ I really do not know,” I answered, with su
preme nonchalance, “ nor do I care.”
“Dear, dear,” laughed Lil, mischievously;
*‘how dreadfully in love we are I I can see it
is of no use talking to you at present about
pounds, shillings and pence.”
At this juncture Hannah tapped at the door.
“ You are wanted down stairs, please, Miss
Beatrice,” she said.
With a palpitating heart I descended. What
really occurred then I do not distinctly remem
ber ; but 1 do know that I threw myself into
my dear mother's arms and received her fer
vent blessing. I know, too, that I laughed and
cried by turns, and I understood that my lover
was a rich man, and that I should be able to
live the life of a lady. But at that moment the
question of riches did not weigh much with me;
to be with him, to spend my days with him, was
all I craved.
At length Aubrey rose to go, and I accompa
nied him to the door.
“Aubrey,” I whispered, “ why did you not
come this morning, as you promised ?”
“ I could not/’ he answered. “ Rupert was
exceedingly restless, and I stayed to read to
him. I knew my darling would not mind
that.”
“Oh, no,” I answered, eagerly. “But, oh.
Aubrey, I thought aIJ sorts of things—that you
had met with some accident, or perhaps had
been murdered.”
“Foolish child!” he said,, tenderly. “Do
you not think I caq take care of myself ?”
“ Yes, of course,” I replied,, with a smile;
“but one never knows wbstf might happen—it
was dreadfully dark.
Aubrey laughed aloud.
“Who ever heard of a mi’rd'er ocunrring
within l the limits of decorous- and law-abiding
West Orran ? The most flagrant breach of the
law one would hear of here wou.id' be an orchard
robbery. ”
“Well, you might have a pa®cJ,”
I persisted; “ but, Aubrey, I wish' to ask you
something. Is your cousin much' like yon in
figure?”
“ Very much indeed,” he answered!
“Then that explains,” I said. “It was to--
him my aunt was speaking the day I saw you in 1
Camden Town ; but, as his back vmsb turned
toward me, I mistook him for you.”
“Of course it was. I entered the shop to
make some purchases, and left him outside
talking to Miss-Bevan.”
“Aubrey,” I asked, in a low voice, “isyour
cousin such a very, very wicked man ?”
“My darling,” returned Aubrey, gently, “I
would much rathery&u did not speak of him ;
it is a very painful subject to me.”
“I will never db*so*again,” I responded, “if
you do not wish it;”
I watched him down the garden path and out
of the gate, and then 1 re-entered the house, all
doubts, all fears set at rest forever.
“Mamma,” I said l , as I knelt in my favorite
place by her side, “you must not fret so much
now about our having to-leave here.”
“ W T hy, dear ?” askeffmy mother.
“Because, after I am- married, I will ask
Aubrey to give me the money to pay Mr. W’in
throp, so the disgrace will only attach itself to
our name for a time.”
“May Heaven grant it f’ said mamma, fer
vently.
(To be Continued.)
TIIE TWO* CffIIPORALS.
BY AN EXrBEBEL.
Being, as I am. a man of no education—never
having been given a fair show in my younger
days—the reader is asked to excuse my plain
language and bad grammar.
You most know that I belonged to the Fif
teenth Alabama Infantry, and that we went to
the front pretty early in the war. We thus had
our pick of good men. In my company the
third corporal was a powerful big chap named
Sam Chapin, who had been overseer on a plan
tation near Huntsville. He was not only big
and powerful, but his nigger-driving habits had
made a selfish, overbearing and cruel man of
him. He hadn’t been in the company a week
before half the men were down on him for his
meanness.
Big Sam also had his dislikes, but there was
one man he hated in particular. I shouldn’t
have said man, for he was only a boy 17 years
old—slim, pale-faced, and as timid in look as a
girl. Sam took a hatred of this boy on sight,
and let no occasion pass to nag him and render
his hard lot still harder. Jimmie, as the boy
was called, bad no complaints to make. He was
of a forgiving disposition, and no matter what
he felt or thought, we never heard him con
demning anybody by word of mouth. Some of
us would have killed Big Sam had we been in
Jimmie’s place, but such a thing as striking
back seemed never to have occurred to the boy.
Well, one day when a part of our regiment was
cut off from the brigade by a flank movement of
the Union troops, and our situation was desper
ate, our captain steps out and says:
“Boys, I want to send word to Col. .
Where’s the man who’ll take it?”
He was looking right at Big Sam all the time,
but that individual turned two shades whiter
and hid himself in the rear ranks, muttering
that nobody but a fool would try to push past
three thousand Yankee muskets with the mes
sage. The first thing we knew Jimmie had
mounted a horse from which some officer had
been shot and was riding away. How he ever
ran that gauntlet with his life was more than
we could tell, but he did get through, and
down came enough of our forces to help us out
of the box.
There was new cause for Big Sam to hate
Jimmie. The boy had not only exhibited great
er courage in the face of danger, and right be
fore us all, but he was promoted to be third
corporal. This was a promotion right over the
head of Big Sam, and he felt it to the ends of
hie fingers. He couldn’t nag the boy any more,
and I have no doubt he swore a solemn oath to
kill him at the first opportunity. Indeed, he
hinted as much, and became so ugly and abus
ive to all that some of us wanted to kill him.
Well, in about six weeks we had another tus
sle with the Yanks. We got into it hot and
heavy, and as we were driving them, for the
moment I found myself alongside of Big Sam.
We were disputing for a rise of ground, and far
in advance of us, carrying the flag which the
color-bearer had mropped as a bullet had hit
him, was Corporal Jimmie. I was feeling proud
to see him there, when, as Heaven is my judge,
I saw Big Sam raise his musket, take deliberate
aim at the boy, and the next moment Corporal
Jimmie went down.
It was a hurly-burly time, with grape and
ead cutting all around us, and I let the inci
dent pass lor the time, determined, though,
that Big Sam should pay the forfeit after the
battle.
We kept on and on, but as we rose the hill we
were checked. In five minutes more we were
being driven, and that was how it came about
that Corporal Jimmie, with his left arm broken
by Big Sam’s bullet, found himself lying beside
the ex-overseer, who had a Yankee bullet in hie
leg. There were plenty of other wounded, and
some dead ones, too, but our two men lay al
most side by side. Big Sam was groaning,
cursing and whining, like the coward he was,
when a canteen was held within reach, and a
voice said:
“Take it, comrade—a drink will ease your
pain.”
“ W-what! is it you ?” exclaimed the overseer
as he rose up on his elbow and gazed at Jim
mie.
“ Yes; both of us are down, but you are hit
the worst. Can I help you ?”
“You help me?”
“ Of course.”
It paralyzed Big Sam to meet with such words
from the man he had tried to kill. After a time
he groaned out:
“Say, Jimmie, you orter shoot mo through
the head !”
“ What for ?”
“ ’Cause I’m the man as fired that bullet into
you I”
“ Well, I don’t want revenge. I’m now able
to crawl away, but I won’t leave you.”
The Yanks were massing artillery to play on
that rise of ground, and what does Corporal
Jimmie do but get up in the face of all the
sharpshooters, and, wounded and faint as he
was, half drag, half carry Big Bam down into
a sheltered ravine. More’n that, he binds up
his wound and makes him pretty comfortable,
and there we found ’em along toward
when a grand charge finally gave us the
ground.
You remember I had seen Big Sam draw a
bead on the boy, but when I went to make a
stir over it, Corporal Jimmie said :
“ Please, don’t! He has been punished
enough. I think he will be a changed man.”
And so he was. They took to each other like
twin ducks, and were the fastest, firmest friends
you ever saw. Big Sam dropped all mean
ways, and within a year was orderly sergeant
of the company, while Corporal Jimmie was a
lieutenant.
Steamboat Eeminiscences.
AN EXCITING RACE IN THE EARLY
LAYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI.
{From the {Minn.) Globe.)
Shortly after dusk the other evening a repre
sentative of the Globe was strolling along the
dock at the foot of Jackson street and saw at the
end ol the Diamond Jo dock a man sitting on a
post. He was a most singular looking indi
vidual, with a lur hat of coonskin, from under
neath which a growth of long shaggy hair fell
in wild abandon, a coat that had seen better
times, uo vest, and a pair of overalls, the bot
toms of which were neatly packed inside a pair
of top boots. As the reporter approached he
found no difficulty in recognizing Whirlpool
Pete, one of the oldest boatmen on the Missis
sippi river. Pete was very condescending on
this evening, and was more sociable than when
approached on
“I was just thinking of a Fourth of July I
spent thirteen years ago,” said Pete, as he
pitched a worn-out chew of tobacco into the
river, which caused a big splash, and placed
another plug between his long and lank, though
powerful, jaws.
“ Yes, it was thirteen years ago the Fourth,
that I had one of the greatest rides and races
that was ever known on the Mississippi. I was
then an engineer on the “Star” of New Orleans,
which has long since been turned out in ashes
from the stove, and though the boat was a
fairly fast one, it had never secured any notable
reputation for making quick time. The captaiu,
Dick Jones, was a new one, but he was a stun
ner, and when any one got the upper hand of
him it was while he was asleep. The South
erners were coming up to St. Louis in large
numbers to spend the Summer, and they had
any quantity of tin, and weren’t sparing of it,
either.
The only thing they did while on the trip was
to sit and bet on full hands or make a bluff on
nothing at all, and to win or lose a thousand or
two was thought nothing of; why the loser sort
o’ gloried in being able to squander that much
without its seriously affecting him.
“ Well, it was just such a crowd of people as
this that the ‘Star’ had for its passenger list
to St. Louis. It was about seven o’clock in the
morning of the Fourth that we cleared from
New Orleans, and one of the brightest days
ever seen. About noon the ‘Sea-Gull/ the fast
est boat on the river, caught up to us and ran
alongside lor a little ways. A young man, per
haps not over twenty, but with one of the finest
looking faces I ever saw, was playing at the
poker-table with a dark chap, who looked like
a Spaniard or a Mexican, and as soon as he no
ticed the ‘Sea-Gull’ he raw out of the cabin
with a fistful of money and called out, ‘ I will
bet ten thousand dollars that-She ‘ Star' reaches
SL Louis first.’ The ‘Sea-Gull’ was qwickly
leaving us, and a man called’ from the deck of
that boat that he would accept the bet, the set
tlement to be made on arrival. The young man
then spoke to the captain, and h® comes to me
and says-:
‘“Pete,, one of the young bloods on board 1
has just now made a bet that we will beat thy
“Sea-GuH” to St. Louis. I know the bet is a
foolish ono, but just for the fun of if? we will see
how the “SW” can run, and ifshe'beats the j
“Sea-Gull” 1 will give you one huiMlred dol
lars.’ The c ’Gull’ was then several-hundred
yards ahead* of us, and by the blank smoke
"coming from her smokestack it could be seen
that they were firing in the wood to- the fire
place for all they were worth. The hundred
cases struck me-pretty hard, and I said- to my
self that if there'was any go in the ‘ Star ”it was
going to show it day. I had the deck-hands
bring the dry piuw slabs to the fire-place, and
soon alter the steam; was just a-seething. I
looked at the register, and the steam had al
ready increased ten pounds and was going up
like a race-horse. I chucked in more slabs 3>ad
oiled others that wevc in readiness, and then
took time to look aftepthe- ‘Gull/ When I did
see her for an instant m-y spirits forsook me.
She was about half a nrilfe- ahead and the flames
were spurting from heir smoke-stack, and th®
people were trying to coax- us on with their
handkerchiefs. This latter trick made me des
perate, and I did not thick-of any hundred dol
lars' then, but my reputation, and the ‘Star’
was-either going to finish tha race first or blow
up on the way. I again descended to the fire
room; and shoved in the woedv which was oiled.
It* had the desired effect.- The draft was so
greafr that before the slabs' were half burned
they would go up the smoke-'otack. The regis
ter showed seven'ty-five poundoof steam, where
there was a possible one hundred, and it was
rising quickly. In five minutes it was eighty,
and tc> minutes later eighty-ffve. The press
ure-on-the valves was so great that I was afraid
they would fly off, and I had them braced. I
was-flying around all over, and-the sweat was '
just a-pouring off me ; my boots'were half full;
when I would walk it would spurt out.
“The passengers were thoroughly excited,
and that young man was just as cool and col
lected as-could be, playing a big game with his
Spanish friend. Boats never traveled up the
Mississipni as those two did. I was always
afraid =to look ahead lor fear of not being able to
see the Sea Gull any more, so I stuck close to
the engine room, and every few minutes I would
stir up the fire. Wherever |I walked imy trail
was destructive, lor the water just rolled off me
in big drops, it was so hot down there, and to
keep up all right I had to duck my head into a
bucket* of water every minute or two. This
continued until the night before we were to ar
rive in. St. Louis. I rested very little during
that time, always keeping close to the Sea Gull,
but never able to overtake her. We would ar
rive about 10 o’clock in the morning at St.
Louis, and if I wanted to get there first I had
to do something pretty suddenly. The steam
bad, since it reached eighty-five pounds, never
been below that, and I then determined, at no
matter what cost, to put it above that point..
There was a cargo of cotton on board, and it
happened to be piled up near the fireplace. I
tumbled several bales iorward and put them im.
The result was almost instantaneous. The suc
tion was something terrible. That fire was so
hot that I thought the whole business would
melt and flow around the boat. It made a great
noise, and in a short time the steam was up to
100 pounds even. 1 was delighted, and I
pushed in another bale and left the door open
so the fire would have more draught You can
imagine how strong the draught was when I
tell you that it drew one of those bales in itself
which I had left about five feet from the door.
I worked it in this way until the morning and
then went on deck, and by the white whisky of
Kentucky and steers of Texas we were about a
mile ahead of the Sea Gull. I did not relax in
my efforts, however, but continued to fire up as
I did previously, and the distance between the
Star and the Gull got greater and greater, and
when we reached St. Louis at 9 o’clock we were
just about two miles ahead. I went up on deck
and that young man came up to me and put a
purse in my hand, and when I afterward looked
into it I found it contained $5. and both he and I
were almighty well pleased. The captain got
something pretty good also, and whacked up
with me, for, as he said, he would not have got
it had it not been for me, and besides, he gave a
recommend, which I will show you some time if
you come up to my place.”
BILLNYKS" HUMOR.
The Humorist’s Account of Visiting a
Chamber of Horrors.)
(From the Troy Times.)
There are horrors there in that orypt that are
well worth double the price of admission. One
peculiarity of the chamber of horrors is that
you finally get nervous when any one touches
you, and you immediately suspect that he is a
horror who has come out of hie crypt to get a
breath of fresh air and stretch his legs. That is
the reason I shuddered a little when I felt a
man’s hand in ray pocket. It was so unexpect
ed, and the surroundings were such that I must
have appeared startled. The man was a stran
ger to me, though I could see that he was a per
fect gentleman. His clothes were superior to
mine in every way, and he had a certain refine
ment of manners which betrayed his ill-con
cealed Knickerbocker lineage high. I said:
“ Sir, you will find my fine-cut tobacco in the
other pocket.” This startled him so that he
wheeled about and wildly dashed into the arms
of a wax policeman near the door. When he :
discovered that he was in the clutches of a suit I
of second-hand clothes filled with wax, he ■
seemed to be greatly annoyed, and strode rap
idly away. I returned to view a chaste and
truthful scene, where one man had successfully
killed another with a club. I leaned pensively
against a column with my own spinal column,
wrapped in thought. Pretty soon a young gen
tleman from New Jersey, with an Adam’s apple
on him like a full-grown yam, and accompanied
by a young lady, also from the muskeeto jungles
of Jersey, touched me on the bosom with his
umbrella, and began to explain me to his com
panion. “ This,” said the Adam’s apple with
the young man attached to it, “ is Jesse James,
the great outlaw chief from Missouri. How life
like he is ! Little would you think, Eineline,
that he would as soon disembowel a bank, kill
the entire board of directors of a railroad com
panv, and ride off the rolling stock, as you
would wrap yourself around a doughnut. How
tender and kind he looks 1 He not only looks
gentle and peaceful, but he looks to iue as if ho
wasn’t real bright.” I then uttered a piercing
shriek, and the young man from New Jersey
went away. Nothing is so embarrassing to an
eminent man as to stand quietly near and hear
people discuss him.
a wm iwaEus.
A TALE OF KENTUCKY PIONEER LIFE.
When a settlement was first made in South
Kentucky one of the great dangers of the colony
was the universal presence of the wolf. Around
the Green River lay heavy forests, into which
no one ventured to go unless ready to meet the
savage animal at every turn. Barnyards were
robbed of calves and pigs, belated wayfarers
were attacked, and sometimes even a child was
carried away.
Henderson, one of the most prosperous towns
near the mouth of the Green River, took its
name from a family of wealthy planters located
there. Now, they had an old black slave called
Dick, who was a skillful fiddler, but good for
little else. He was the most important “gem
mau of color ” in all the country, in constant re
quest for forty miles around for corn-shuck
ings, weddings, and breakdowns. His master
was wealthy and good-natured, and allowed
him to have very much his own way.
It happened once that a grand marriage festi
val took place among the colored people at a
plantation about six miles from Henderson.
Old Dick was summoned, of course, to act as
musician and master of ceremonies. He put on
his blue coat, with Ion" tails and flaming gilt
buttons, and rolled a brilliant cravat round an
immensely high ghirt-colhr, IU allowed the
younger ulggoTS to leave before him, because,
though ho liked puuoidallty, be would never
demean himself by unbecoming haste; and
when he was finally ready he sallied forth alotio.
His wav lay, for the most part, through a
forest, where there was no wagon road for
miles. It was a solitude so dismal that the
very silence seemed full of echoes. As Dick
went on, visions played before his eyes of a
warm and cheerful room, crowded with happy
people, of homage yielded to himself by old and
young, as the viceroy of King Etiquette. Still,
in spite of dignity, he could not but hasten his
steps. Perhaps "he was anxious to get out of
the woods as quickly as possible, and well he
might bo. There was a route of wolves in the
distance on every side. They were yelling be
hind him, and the dismal sound was echoed
from the front, on right and left, and they were
rushing with uncouth howls through the forest
in search of prey. Gradually the sounds came
nearer. They seemed to be closing around
him. He began to run, and heard them tear
ing along all the faster. The wood seemed
alive with devils, and a pack of hungry wolves
appeared charging upon him from every side.
But he soon stopped running. He knew that
the wolf is very cautious of attacking a human
being, and that if you walk steadily, without
seeming afraid, it is still more hesitating. The
old fiddler now kept on at a regular pace, but
the danger continued to increase. Every mo
ment Dick shuddered as a black form rushed
by, and he heard its jaws snap with a ring like
that of a steel trap. The pack was evidently
gathering, but he knew that a little way on
there was an old clearing with a deserted hut in
the middle, and this he hoped to reach before
the wolves began their attack.
They were growing bolder every instant. He
could see their green eyes sparkling through
the thicketp around. Then some €>f them swept
by close to his legs, snapping at him as they
passed. Ho struck at them with his fiddle; the
strings jarred loudly, and, oh ! what a relief
came to his shivering soul when ho saw that the
sound made the brutes stand off. He imme
diately struck his hand violently across the
chords. A wolf that was within two yards of
him leaped aside in terror. He walked rapidly
iorward smiting his violin again and again to
terrify the creatures that beset him.
Soon he reached the clearing. It was a broad
field covered with snow, and in the centre of it
stood the hut of which Dick was in search.- He
bounded hastily over the white surface, scrap
ing the strings with his hand until they shriek
ed harshly, and the wolves roared again with
terror. They paused at the edge of the clear
ing,. with tails between thejr legs, looking after
the singular being whom they desired but 1
feared to attack. Their savage instinct was in
stantly renewed, however, and again yelling,
they gave chase, their black shadows hurrying
like phantoms over the snow. Dick stiff con
tinued to 1 strike the fiddle, but even this would
not have saved him had ho not reached the hut
just as'the whole pack was at his heels. In he
rushed, stemmed the rickety door behind him,
clambered up through a hole m the roof, and
perched on the gable, with the frail tenement
Ijferally shaking, beneath his weight. The door
of the cabin did not for a moment withstand the
attack of the wolves, which immediately throng
ed the interior. They were now wild with rage.
They leaped np, they gnashed their teeth, they
closed their jaws with that sharp snap so horri
ble t3*tbe ears of the fiddler, and he almost fell
from his roost in despair; but be remembered
the effect of his-violin. He had not yet drawn
the bow from its- case,, but now did so, and
struck it shrieking across l the strings, forced all
the while to keep his lege kicking high in the
air to avoid the trap-like fangs that were only a
few inches below. In an instant the yells
ceased, and* the negro went on, drawing forth
the most wild, hysterical, and grating sounds
from his friendly violin.
This barbarous noise, however, had no other
effect upon the creatures than to astonish them.
Even wolves cannot be charmed by bad music.
When the first surprise-was they renewed
their attack. Presently a great, gaunt head, lit
by two eyes like globes of green fire, was
thrust up through the roof.
“ Who’s dar ?” shrieked the negro, mad with
horror. An instinct saved:himL Just as there
seemed no thread of fate to hold him from be
ing dragged down-and made the prey of these
ravenous brutes he once more smote his bow
upon the fiddle and began, with desperate ener
gy to play “ Yankee Doodle.” The loud, inspir
ing tones caused instant silence among the hun
gry rout below. Orpheus piping to the brutes
was no unmeaning fable. Dick won a kindred
triumph. He was astonished* at the effect of his
music. Around him.was the most attentive au
dience that over listened te-hie fiddling. But
whenever there was- the elightest pause, the
wolves sprang forward and commenced their
howl again. Thus the black was forced to la
bor away, flinging his feet into the air, re
doubling hiswigor and filling the whole clear
ing with this extraordinary harmony. A feel
ing of professional pride gradually stole over
him in spite of his alarm. Now and then a
thought of the wedding, of the warm lights, of
the sweetened whisky, of the whirling dance, of
the homage and admiration of the colored peo
ple, came regretful into>hie mind; but he knew
that he was safe so-long as he continued to
play: so on he went, from. “ Yankee Doodle” to
“ Hail Columbia,” searching his memory for
•very lively strain, to charm away the ferocity of
the strange auditors that crouched around.
The pleasure and pride, as well as patience,
came to an end. It was- a cold night; Dick had
walked far aud fasted long; his arms were
weary of their exercise ; he began to feel be
numbed, hungry, exhausted. Nothing, how
ever, could be done but play on, lor at every
pause those fearful.growls began again. There
was no satisfying that eluggy troop of connois
seurs, fidgeting as they sat with lolling tongues
and perched ears, through several hours of the
wildest night that Dick had ever known. The
moon sank lower- in the west. A deeper shad
ow crept from , under th® arches of the forest.
The stars seemed, paler, the trees barer and
gaunter, and.the troop of wolves to multiply in
stead of diminishing.
At the wedding feast the people became
alarmed. Dick, was the soul of punctuality.
What could have happened ? Their anxiety tor
his safety and desire for his fiddling impelled
them to seekhim.. So, with lanterns and clabs,
they went.out through the plantations to look
for. him, and when, they found him, he was stiff
perched on the roof of the old hut sawing upon
his fiddle, running over all his tunes again, but
ready to drop with weariness and cold. The
wolves were driven off, and they reluctantly
quitted the spot. Their forms might be seen
lingering on the skirts of the woods, and, as the
rescuers passed on with their old friend, a howl,
rising at intervals, and an occasional rustling
among the bushes, showed that the pack was
stiff in. wary and determined, but useless pur
suit.
It was long past midnight when Dick arrayed
with his fiddle. All that could be done was to
go on all next day instead of breaking up in the
morning. The fires blazed high, and theis light
blazed in ruddy streams across the floor. The
corn cakes were hot and the sweet whisky was
abundant, so Dick was cheerful alter hia adven
tures ; and for many, many hours he went on
playing to a happy crowd of revelers those airs
of merriness which, to save his life, he- had been
playing all night to a pack of wolves.
FATHER JARDINE.
Pastor and Vestrymen Appear in the
Church, Armed to the Teeth.
(From the Globe-Democrat.)
A moat extraordinary and dramatic scene was
enacted at St. Mary’s church last Sunday morn
ing. The disgraced rector, despite threats of
violence, boldly donned the sacerdotal robes,
and performed the sacred rites of the Church.
The audience—one of the largest ever in the
church since Jardine came to it—testified their
disapproval by stamping, whistling, and deris
ive shouts of laughter, The crowd began to as
semble long before the hour for service, and
by eleven o’clock the church was filled to its
utmost capacity. The only ladies present were
a halt dozen female members of his flock. Two
or three policemen had been stationed in the
rear of the church at the solicitation of the rec
tor, and the vestry were present in full force,
armed with revolvers, in anticipation of a fray.
Jardine had a brace of revolvers strapped about
his waist underneath hie priestly gown, deter
mined to resist to the last any attempt to remove
him by force. A short time before the service
began he walked through the church as if to
determine the pulse of the audience. He had
scarcely disappeared in the sacristy before a
boy, clad in a white robe, came oiit and burned
incense in front of the altar. The choristers,
headed by a entail boy bearing an immense gilt
cross, appeared at the south door of the church,
and, marching slowly down the middle aisle,
took their places in the chancel. A chant was
then sung, at the conclusion of which Jardine
came out Of the sacristy, clad in priestly vest
ments, and proceeded with the services. The
audience remained perfectly quiet until in re-
peating the decalogue he read the seventh com
mandment, “Thou shalt not commit adultery,”
when he was greeted with a storm of derisive
laughter, stamping of feet, and cries of “Rats !”
His sermon was largely devoted to accusing his
enemies, as he called them, of lying. The great
est confusion prevailed to the close.
In the evening an immense crowd sur
rounded the church, but no violence was at
tempted. The rector and his vestrymen were
all heavily armed. He announced, alter the
service, that this was his last appearance in a
Kansas City pulpit.
As the rector ceased speaking and turned to
kneel at the altar another demonstration was
made by the audience. All through the ser
mon the speaker was constantly interrupted by
stamping and shouting, the exhibitions of dis
approval being the most pronounced where he
denounced those who believed him guilty as ig
norant, prejudiced louts, and when he posed as
a martyr in a good cause. During the sermon
several men and boys had gathered outside the
church and looked in through the open win
dows. At the conclusion of the invective, and
while the rector was blessing the wine, his as
sistant, Wilson, dashed at one of the windows
and closed it with a bang. He then resumed
his seat and the spectators moved to another
window. Jardine then gave communion, Ves
tryman Whettington, Vestryman Lewis, Mrs.
Lewis and a half dozen women and girls re
ceiving it at his hands. The only other inci
dent that occurred was during the recessional.
When the choristers went down the aisle to the
school-room, the erowd kept time to their foot
steps, the boys, however, walking straight
ahead and preserving much dignity. The la
dies of the congregation remained behind after
the services, to console their idol on the indig
nities to which he had been subjected, and the
crowd congregated in front of the church, ex
pecting that he would come out. In this they
were disappointed, for the wily priest locked
himself in the sacristy, and they dispersed after
waiting a few minutes.
letTlOirls help.
BY
(From the Burlington Hawk-Ege.)
“ I never intend that my daughter shall work
as 1 had to when a girl,” I recently overheard a
mother say.
She had been one of the unfortunate ones
whose childhood days had been filled with “ail
work and no play;” and this experience had
driven her to the other extreme. She i» wear
ing out her own life now in the effort to shield
her daughters, and rear them in idleness. This
is a sad mistake, and an injustice to both her
self and daughters. To herself, because it is
wrong to abuse the strength God has given her,
or to commit suicide, even though she be years
in doing it. An injustice to her girls, because
she has no right to rear them in ignorance of
what might be of such practical value to them
in after life.
“But,” says one, “let the girlshave a good
and easy time now while they may. Toil and
care will come soon enough. They will have
enough of these to bear when it is beyond our
power to shield them.”
“ A good and easy time often costs more than
one can afford to pay, and the fact that toil and
care are* so sure to come is a strong argument
in favor of preparing to meet them.
The young woman who takes her place as
mistress of» household, entirely ignorant of its
duties, will find a double burden resting upon
her young, inexperienced shoulders.
Even if she have wealth at her command, and
her hands are shielded from all toil, this is do
reason why sfee should not have some knowl
edge of the work over which she is to have su
pervision. How much better it fits her for
superintending Rework of her household, se
lecting suitable help, and appreciating the dif
ference between work properly done and that
which is passed over in a careless and indiffer
ent manner?
Young girls like to help mamnna about her
work. It is no tash to them. It is rather a
pleasure, and one which should not be denied
them.
True, the inexperienced hands may bother the’
mother, and delay the work rather than advance
1 it. But it keeps them from idleness—perhaps
from mischief. It affords- them pleasure and at
j the same time teaches them something useful;
;ifr gets them interested and gives thenv experi
ence in just what they ought to know, and-with
a little careful training they soon become a 1 real
•help. They can save the weary feet from-many
a ; step,, and the tired hands from many a task;
and l all the time they are benefiting themselves
even- more than they are helping the mother.
And’she is doing them a greas good in training
them-to wait upon themselves and to help about
the various kinds of household work suited j to
their age-and capabilities.
We all wish to- give our daughters a good ed
ucation. Lot us remember that the best educa
tion we can have is that which makes the most
of the faculties God has bestowed upon us, and
which best fits- uo for the sphere in life that we
are to-occupy. It is one of the saddest mistakes
to suppose that a good education means simply
storing the mind with a knowledge of books. It
includes this-and l much more: No education can
be considered perfect that does not embrace a
training of the hand, the head and the heart.
And a great beauty lies in the fact that one can
advance farther with each, when cultivating
them altogether, than crowding forward the
training of either to-She neglect of others.
A proper amount of exercise keeps the body
more healthful and the brain more active. It
has its influence also-in keeping the heart true.
Do not let the girls feel that anything akin to
disgrace lies in any kind of honest work.
Idleness leads to sin.
Let the girls help..
Give them a chance to learn while they have
the time and inclination. And whatever they
do, train them to do tceZZ.
A LAUGHING JACKASS.
DESCRIBED BY FRANK BUCK
LAND, THE NATURALIST.
Among the birds -of Australia I know none
more extraordinary than the “Laughing Jack
ass.” He is a true kingfisher, alike in his per-*
son al appearance, his structure and his habits.
One’s idea, however; of a kingfisher is generally
associated with a watardoving bird: but this
Australian kingfisher is-not a water-bird, but a
land-bird, and preys not upon fish, but rather
upon grubs, worms, onakes, frogs, mice, etc.:
he is, in fact, a scavenger, in the true sense of
the word.
For the last few days 1 have had a “ Laughing
Jackass ” in my posse□siom—as fine a jackass as
could be found within a hundred miles of St.
Paul’s. In fact, I had only one fault to find
with him, and that ■ was that he would never
laugh. The cause of this defect in his educa
tion possibly may have been that I never gave
him anything to 1 aught-about; this, however,was
not my fault, for I gave.him plenty of good and
wholesome food in the shape of raw meat, etc.,
which he took with a dignity becoming this most
distinguished of strangers. Wishing, morever,
to try his destructive powers, I showed him one
day a mouse; in a moment all his feathers bris
tled np. and he appeared to be (like an enraged
tom-cat)twice his natural size. I held the mouse
to his cage, and in an instant he seized the ani
mal with his tremendous beak, and gulped him
down with apparently the greatest satisfaction.
He then began a slight titter, which I trusted he
would increase gradually to a laugh, but I sup
pose he thought it an occasion hardly worth
laughing about, bo he shut up his feathers again
and composed himself to sleep. In this atti
tude I fancy 1 detected a sly expression about
his eye, as much as to say, “ I know you want
me io laugh; I can laugh if I.like, but I will not
laugh.”
My bird was .about the size of a large magpie,
•very like an English kingfisher in general shape,
though his color was brown, still he was a very
pretty bird—so beautiful, indeed, was he that a
lady borrowed him for a day or so to exhibit
him. at a bazaar in the Hanover Square Rooms.
Here, I understand, Ira was much admired by
the fair visitors, though, from all.l could haar,
he did not appreciate the compliment as much
as he ought.’ In due-time he was brought back
home. 1 gave him his. breakfast, and pus him
out in the sun, which lie much enjoyed after bis
sojourn in a hot, crowded room. I turned my
back lox a moment, and on looking around again
was perfectly horrified at what I saw.
Alas’ alas! jackass had found a bar of the
cage which had been brokea at the bazaar, and
tested it with his beak, and finding that it yield
ed, had pulled it one side and flown away. De
lighted with his cleverness, and possibly also re-,
joining at the discomfitiare of his owner, away
ho flew into Regent’s Park. One parting fare-,
well only he gave me; the rascal actually stop
ped in his flight, and for the first and last time
I heard his hearty laugh. The poor bird had at
I last found out something to laugh about, name
ly, that he had made his escape most cleverly,
and that, though he had been denominated a
jackass, his actions and the clever manner in
which he got out of the cage proved most effect
ually that he was really no jackass at all.
TAXED FOR IIIS TURTLE.
HOW A MEAN FARMER MADE MON
EY OUT OF A POOR TRAMP.
{From the Wilmington, DeL, Every Evening,)
About three weeks ago a farmer living within
a tew miles of Middletown hired, at a very low
figure, a tramp as laborer on his farm. Some
days after the tramp began work he captured a
large turtle, and not having time to hunt up a
purchaser for the same, and intending to leave
the farm on the coming Saturday, he dropped
his game in the farmer’s swill barrel as a place
of safety.
Saturday came, and the farmer called the
wanderer in to settle. Alter stating how much
had been advanced, he gave the man a balance.
The tramp counted and said:
“ Mr. , vou owe me fifty cents yet.
“Oh, no,” said the farmer, “I gave you all
due you.” x .
“ But, sir,” said the tramp, “I worked ten
days for fifty cents a day, which amounts to
five dollars; you gave me a few days ago one
dollar, which leaves four dollars, and here you
have given me only three dollars and rifty
cents !”
“ Ha, ha, my good fellow,” laughed the mean
and wealthy farmer, “ you forget that I had to
board your turtle four days. 1 only charge you
fifty cents, but, really, I ought to have charged
you twenty-five cents per day.”
The tramp was compelled to submit.
The meanness of the farmer is unsurpassed,
and has but one e jUal- another farmer, who
1 charged one ol his farm-hands board lor a cat.
“0 W, HIT ’IM AGAIN!”
In the early days O f Methodism in Scotland, a
certain congregat on, where there was but one
rich man, desired to build a new chapel. A
church meeting was held. The rich old Scotch
man rose and said: “Brethren, we dinna need
a now chapel; I’ll give £5 for repairs ”
. Ju ®‘ V l6n a bit of plaster falling from the ceil
mg hit him on the head.
up and seein & 11OW bad it was, bo
said: Brethren, it’s worse than I thoucht- I’ll
make it 50 pun’.” ’
“Oh, Lord,” exclaimed a devoted brother on
a back seat, “ hit ’im again !”
There are many human tabernacles which are
in sore need of radical building over, but we
putter and fuss and repair in spots without sat
isfactory results. It is only when we are per
sonally alarmed at the real danger that we act
independently, and do the right thing. Then it
is that we most keenly regret because we did
not sooner use our judgment, follow the advice
born of the experience of others and jump awav
from our perils.
Thousands of persons who will read this
paragraph are in abject misery to-day when
they might be in a satisfactory condition. They
are weak, lifeless, full ot odd aches and pains,
and every year they know they are getting
worse, even though the best doctors are patch
ing them in spots. The origin of these aches
and pains is the kidneys and liver, and if they
would build these all over now with Warner’s
safe cure, as millions have done, and cease in
vesting their money in miserably unsuccessful
patchwork, they will be well and happy and
would bless the day when the Lord “ hit ’em ”
and indicated the common sense course for
them to pursue.— London Press.
SHE LIKE!) BARKING.
CURS AS A CURE FOR A CHRONIC
CASE OF INSOMNIA.
(From the San Francisco News-Letter.)
“ I waht & dog,” said a lady of uncertain aga
recently to our respected poundmaeter, “ that
will bark all night without stopping. I don’t
care whether he is brindled, yellow, or black
and-tan, so long as his bark is shrill and high.”
“You’d like his bark to he on the C,” sug
gested the official, “ and not bars o’ tone, I
suppose?”
b>h, you Government officials are always so
Witty,” retorted the spinster, “but I really do
want a dog of the kind I have described. Hava
you got one ?”
“ 1 have about sixty-seven, madam, who yelp
all night.” < J t
“ Oh, how delicious I” murmured the lady.
" How I wish I could afford to buy them all and
feed the poor things !”
“Perhaps you’ve got a grudge against your
neighbors, ’ insinuated the cur catoher.
“ Well, that’s how it began. You see, they
are always saying unkind things of me because
I live alone and am unwedded—ahem I—and
the gentleman next door said one day in his
back yard that he wondered how old I was, and
his wife guessed somewhere between twenty
and eighty—that is, there or thereabouts. So I
bought a dog with the awlnlleet bark you ever
heard. At first he kept me awake, but I got 00
used to him that, now they have poisoned him,
I can’t sleep a wink without him. Do you
know .that hearing all your dogs barking so
beautifully together is making me sleepy now ?
Have you got a chair ?”
“For Heaven’s sake, madam, don’t go to
sleep here 1” yelled the now thoroughly scared
janitor of the canine county jail. “I’ll give
you two dogs, madam, Shat will never let up
barking, for nothing, if you’ll only go right
away with them.”
Bnt he was too late. Tie lady had sank on a
beach, and was snoring placidly. It was five
hours before they could wake her up,, and as
she sailed down town, leading a one-eyed bull
dog and a yellow mongrel;, the poundkeeper
wiped his clammy brow and whispered hoarse
ly :
"Me go and take tea with Iter and hear her
sing‘My love is true to mo’? Not for a whois
year’s dog fees 1”
A RIBBON..
HOW SMALL A THING GAN GIVB
GREAT PLE ASURE.
(From the Youth’s Companion.)
I» one of the London hospitals, about a year
ago, an assistant surgeon became interested in*
one of the patients, a poor child of
from hap disease. She lay day after day in her
little white cot, with nothing to occupy her
thoughts but her pain. ’The young surgeon l
saw her one day trying to make a doll of her
finger, playing with it, and at last, giving it up
with a weary sigh, turning to watch the sun
light creeping over her bed, as she had done*
for months. That afternoon the doctor, pass--
ing a shop, bought a long, soft ribbon, ot an ex
quisite rose color, and gave it to little Katie.
She was breathless with pleasure, smoothed it
out, held it up, soft and shining in the sun, and
looked at her friend speechless with tears of
ecstacy. From that time she was rich. The
nurse told the doctor, a week later; that the-'
child played with the ribbon all day—twisted it
about her head, playing that she was a bride,
a princess,, a-fairy; held it in her hand while*
she slept, and laid it, folded in paper, under
her pillow at night-..
It was found necessary, after two mouths, to
perform a capital operation on the child—-one
which, if unsuocesslul, is fatal. It was done by
two of the foremost surgeons in London. When
the poor little sufferer was laid upon the table,
she cried for Dr. S..
“ He is all the friend 1 have,” she sobbed.
“Bend for him,” said the surgeon, and the
young assistant, blushing furiously, was brought
in.
He-held one of Katie’s hands; the other was
clenched tightly over a pink roll, which dropped
from her grasp during the operation. When
the effect of the ether passed, she opened her
©yes and looked at Dr.. 8.
“ My ribbon/’ she whispered.
He gave it to her, while the surgeons and
nurses stood gravely silent. The operation
had been unsuccessful. But little Katie smiled
happily into the-face-ot her friend, and hugging
the faded bit of silk, fell asleep forever. It was
but a triding gift, yet it bad brightened the
child’s last days with thoughts of beauty and
pleasure and loving, kindness.
A
THE HOODLUMS DROVE HIM
_ AWAY.
(From the Philadelphia News.)
Despite; the orders of Mayor Smith concerning
fireworks, , one small boy managed to get his
work in very, effectively this morning at Chest
nut street wharf.
A tall dude, wearing a two-story collar, stood
near; the river,, abstractedly sucking the head
of a small sapling fashioned like a walking
stick. His eyes-were bent on vacancy, and his
thin legs were spread wide apart. The duds
wan-thinking.
A bootblack crept up behind him, carefully
placed a giant fine-cracker under the motionless
figure, and retired to the shadow of a saloon
doorway.
There was a sizzing sound as the fuse burned ■
rapidly down to the bead of the cracker.
“Bang'”
A wild, shriek,, a half somersault, a pair ot
legs waving in the air, and the dude was on hia
back., A sympathetic-little bootblack came from,
the saloon door way and helped the poor crea
ture to arise..
“Mercy!” he gasped. “I thought I was
dead.. What in the-world is the matter? How
awfully wicked! It has shocked me all
through.!”
“Durned shame,” said the hoodlum, as ha
adjusted! a lighted cracker to the dude’s-coat
tail. “You’d better git away from here. Thereto
a tough gang, o’ kids around this yere wharf.”
Before the victim had time to reply, the sec
ond cracker exploded. Another shriek, and.
the tongue-like-legs struck up Front street, and.
in. a lew minutes were lost to sight.
“No use them air guys monkeying around,
this, camp/’ said the hoodlum, and he lit a cigar
stump, aud sat down on the wharf to anjoy it.
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TO WAVE HEALTH THE LIVER MUST BE INORDEg
iIMK) *
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by a deranped or torpid condition of the Liver, as Dvs
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