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the Land of us-and-so.
BY JAMES WiIiTCOMB BILEY. “How would W ; ’iko to go To the land cl i ■.< nd-so ! Everything is p< per there; All the children r.umh their hair Smoother than :n * .ur of cats, Or the nap of hi,. > silk bats; Every face is ciea and white As a lily washed in ipjht; Never vaguest sod -r speck Found on forehead, throat or neck; Every little crilupiod ear, In and out, as pnr * and clear As the cherry b;o«s >m's blow In the Mud of Thus-anu-So. . "Little boys that never fall Down the stairs, or cry at all, Doing nothing to repent, Watchful and obedient; Never hungry nor in badj, Tidy shoestrings ai wajs laced; Never button rudely torn From its fellows, all unworn; Knickerbeckurs always new, liibbon tie ana collar, too; Little watches, worn like men, ‘Only always hall-past ten - Just precisely right, you know, For the land of Ihus-and-So I "And the little babies there •Give no one the slightest care; Nurse has not a thing to do , JtJutSjo happy, and say ‘Boo 1 While mamma just nods, and knows Nothing but to doze and doze; Never litter round the grate; Never luuch or dinner late; Never any housebol l din Peals without or rin.-s within. Baby ooos nor laughing calls On the stairs or through the baas; Just great Bushes, to and iro, Pace the land of Thus-and-So I "Oh, the land of Thus-autl-So ! Isn't It delightful, though ? ‘Yes.’ lisped Willie answering me— Somewhat slow and doubtfully— ‘Must be awful nice, but L Bat Let- watt till by ami by 'i'ore I go there; maybe when lie dead I’ll go there then; But—" the troubled little faco Closer pressed in my embrace — ‘Le s don’t nevr. r* ver go To the land of Lhus-aud-So I ROM J». BY F. A. Byway of gratifying a long-cherished whim of mine, I determined to spend my summer holi day, if possible, in a typical oid-'ashioned house situated far awav from the busy men, where”! could enjoy genuine peace and recrea tion at the same time that I rode my antiquar ian hobby as much as I liked. torn longtime such a desideratum was not in the market; there were country-apartments and Queen Anne houses and rectories and farm-houses by the dozen in every paper, but nothing that ap proached my real re juirement. At length, after some weeks’ minute study of the papers, and dancing attendance on house-agents, I battered myself that I had got “ the very thing,” and read over to my wife, with almost the lingering de light of a gourmet— . , ‘“A fine old Tudor mans on to be let for three months from July, replete with every modern convenience, but not at the expense of its antique character, walled kitchon-garden, flower gardens, lawns, shrubberies, about four acres of meadow-land, and stabling, if required Apply Mr. X.,’ et-catera. Couldn’t read bet ter 1 T said. “Stunning!’’ exclaimed Bobby, home from school. “ Sure to be a ghost, and trap-doors, and secret dungeons, and all those things we read about in Ainsworth.” “Delicious!” said the eontimontal Helen, aged sixteen. “I’ve long wanted to read Astro* phe' and Arcadia in a suitable place.” “Yes; but we cannot be too careful about these old houses,” I said, as a sort of check upon too exuberant anticipation and imagina tion. “ I shall not conclude -any arrangement until I have seen the house.” So I went down, and was received at the little country-station by the “X.” of the advertisement, contented-looking Kentish farmer, in whose family the estate had been for centu ries, and whose wife had been ordered change of air,land who, being a farmer,grumbled at the bad times,and had resolved to let the old house, during his absence, to a respectable tenant. The house came quite up to my expectations as formed from the wording of the advertise ment. “I can leave an old family man-servant,’ said the farmer, “if you like. He is a queer fellow, but, being an old retainer who was born on the estate, you must not mind his little pe culiarities. I must warn you however of one weakness he has—that of satisfying his craving for animal and liquid food at all risks and haz ards.” “By which I suppose you mean,” I said, “ that his ideas of iniw and ieum as regards bodily sustenance are a little lax?” “Precisely,” answered the farmer. “But, mind, if you catch him in the act, or have rea sonjto inspect him, pack him off to his friends in the village without any delay. He is under a last warning from me, but it is more likely than not that your being a new hand will cause him to break out again. But here ho is—you can take stock of him without his seeing us.” So we slipped behind a laurel-bush, and the subject of our conversation came in view. He was a jovial-looking fellow, standing considera bly over six feet, with a ruddy face and nose, and a huge development of the lower part of hie trunk which sufficiently proclaimed long and intimate acquaintance with the good things of this life. As he rolled along almost with an air of proprietorship, he trolled forth in a rich voice the words of an old Kentish love-song: " ■ Ich havo land and house in Kent, And, if you love mo, love me now; Twopence-h all penny is my rent, Ich cannot come every day to woo.' ” “ His real name is Robin Haydon,” said the farmer; “ but because of his size and corpu lence he is universally known as Round Robin. He’s off to the ‘ Plough ’ now, and, if he cannot keep them alive there, no one else can.” We inspected the house and grounds, trans acted the necessary formalities, and 1 went home thoroughly satisfied that I had found what I wanted. It did not take us long to settle down; and Round Robin was invaluable as a cicerone, advising us as to the best bed-rooms, and pointing out with great pride tho kitchen and larder arrangements, patronising tho servants whom I bad brought, and immediately install ing himself in their good graces. 1 was delighted so far with the result of my experiment, for the house was a genuine relic, with scores of rooms, fine old staircases, oak panelling, and a gallery of old family-portraits, witbinj doors; while, although the scenery ot the neighborhood was charming, I was not to be tempted away from tho quaint formal old gardens, with their terraces and prim grass plots, their shady walks and dark shrubberies. My wife was delighted, or tho kitchen arrange ments wore admirable, especially the larder, which was big enough to hold provisions for a regiment of soldiers, as likely enough it had in tho old days, and which, judging from its bight and its groined roof, seomod to havo boon ?con structed for another purpose. The children were delighted, for the house, with its galleries and broad landings, was a splendid playground in wet weather, while the four acres of meadow gave them a capital place lor cricket in fine weather; further, thoro was the attraction of tho fruit garden, which was a veritable Eden for productiveness. For a week or two I think my wife must havo been too generally ecstatic to notice that the consumption of food and drink by our house hold was too great to be satisfactorily accounted for as tho mere result of change from town to country, but when, in tho course of ten days, it was found necessary to order a new cask of beer (our servants were all teetotallers), and when tho butcher’s and baker s books camo to be examined, her suspicions wore aroused. Then, and not till then, did I recall what the farmer had said about Hound Robin; so 1 called him into the room which every country gentleman, although the title may bo but tem porary, feels bound to call his study. “Robin,” I said, “it is very disagreeable for mo to be obliged to find fault at such an early stage of our acquaintance, but my wife tolls me that things disappear from the larder in alarm ing quantities.” “Dear mo, air,” Baid the giant, without mov ing a muscle of his sotting-eun-like face, “ that’s exactly what my master never did find fault With. ‘ Robin,’ ho used to say to me, ‘ I can’t for the life of me make out how you sustain that bigtbody o! yours upon such moderate eating and drinking. Why,’ he would say, sir, ‘lm not halt your size, Robin, and yet I eat more at a meal than you do in a day I’ ” “ Well/’1 returned, amused at tho serious impudence of the fellow, “it’s incomprehensi ble ; but there’s the .'act— tho meat goes, the boor goes, tho broad goes, the puddings and pies go.” “ Excuse me, sir,” said Robin, “ but have you asked your servants, sir ? Town servants re quire a powerful deal of feeding—-so mv bro ther, who’s a Lunnon policeman, says.” “ My<eervants,” I answered, “have lived in my family for years, and my wife knows almost to an ounce what they eat, and as to beer, they never touch it.” “ Well, sir,” said Robin, with the light of a discovm y on his lace, • 1 toil you what it is ! It’s an old house, sir, ain't it? And rats and mice is uncommon fond ot old houses, sir. De pend on it, it’s the rats and mice I” “ But’’” I objected, “ rats and mice don’t drink boor !” “ No, air; that’s very true,” said Robin, not in tho least disconcerted by what I flattered my self was a clincher. “ ..o, sir; but if you’d boon born au.d bred in the country, as I havo you’d know that, if there’s eno thing rats and mice like better than another, if s the moist wood of a beer-cask, and they bores and bores, and tho beer escapes.” Ho seemed to think that I was satisfied, be cause, despite all my efforts, I could not keep my seriousness up to the proper pitch; so I said: “ Well, J. shall look up the larder for the future, and my wife shall keep the key.” “ Do, sir 1” ho said earnestly. “ I’ve never been suspected afore, ii you have reason to suspect me again, send nue out of the house and I’ll go like an innocent lamb.” And ho waddled out of the room. When the door closed behind him, I was Obliged to give vent to my feoliuga in a hearty laugh, but, ail the same, I was convinced that ; he was at the bottom of the pillaging system. ! Baited traps were put in tho larder, o: which the door was kept constantly locked. Still the viands and beer disappeared. Cold fowls went —and there was not a eat in the house; cheeses appeared at tables with systematic wedges cut oui o. them; the beer had to be renewed ns ire quently as before. Then ono or two strange . cir innstances occurred. j The children, who were of course all over the j house at all hours, were constantly finding out ; now nooks and corners, and one day they hit | upon a new playground among the gables and j chimneys on the roof, which they insisted I j should see. So I went up with them to tho top of the house But, when we arrived among tho garrets, f was at a loss to perceive bow wo were to proceed farther. I he children pointed out a small trap-door m tho ceiling, which could be reached only by standing on an old oaken press. It was so . small that I, although not a big man, could with difficulty s ueeze mvself through it, but, when 1 had, and found myself upon the broad stretch o.f leads, I was as delighted as were tho chil dren, for before mo was mapped out a lovely panorama stretching from the dim Bell Harry Tower of Canterbury, on the one hand, to the distant glitter of the* Channel near Sandwich, on the other, while far below lay the estate, with its gardens and greenery, and tho little brown-roofed village nestling at tho lodge gates- , . . T I. walked about admiring the view, when 1 saw the broken fragments of a tobacco-pipe, an empty match-box, and a piece of newspaper. This was curious, for 1 had never been here before, and Robin could not have squeezed him self through that trap-door to save his lie. I looked about in v. in for another means of ap proach to the leads, but there was none ap parent. Jhe children then insisted upon my playing with them at “ castles,” as they called it, a square leaden place in the middle serving as a “keep,” whiah I was to defend. The “ keep ” was not a very solid affair, for, when I struck it with my loot, it sounded hollow. I examined it, but it was tightly enough fastened down. Then it occurred to me that, as old houses are constantly being reparied, the work men last engaged might have left the relics I had found, but, alas, the newspaper was dated within the past fortnight! The whole affair was very mysterious, and for some reason or other I did not feel comiortable. Tho next occurrence took place one evening. I was in my “study,” when tho children came hurrying in one after another with fright depicted on their faces. “ Oh, papa !” they began in chorus, and then stopped to take breath. “ Well, well,” I said, not very pleased at being interrupted in the midst of a most telling sentence I was writing, “ now what is it?” “ There are ghosts hero >” was the reply. “Nonsense! Ghosts in these days? You’re old enough to know' better,” I said. “I thought you had something important to tell me 1” “ Well, papa, wo wore playing in the long gal lery,” said Bobby, “and we heard footsteps over head quite distinctly—all of us did, didn’t we?” “ Yes,” was the corroborative chorus, “ and there’s nothing above the long gallery but tho leads. “ Rats, children—that’s what it is. Now run away and play,” I said. But, all the same, J. was not at all as assured as I seemed, and there are few things more un pleasant than to bo convinced that there is a way of getting into your house about which you know nothing. The next day my wife said that really some thing must bo done, or we should find that tho cost of our living at this out-of-the:way rustic spot would be considerably more than wo were accustomed to spend in town : the victuals went as fast as before, although, since the tap of the boor-cask had been removed for safe custody, tho rats had not indulged in moist wood, as they had hitherto done. So I was resolved that Round Robin should bo got rid of, for it was very evident that be, and no ono else, was responsible for these mys terious proceedings. I called him into the “ study.” “Robin,” I said, “I gave you fair warning last time, and I did not think you would con tinue your depredations.” “My what, sir?” said the injured innocent, “my dilapidations ? I haven’t broken a single thing, sir 1” “ No, no; I mean your . Well, to put it in plain language, your larcenies,” I said impa tiently. “My largeness, sir ? I can’t help it, sir ; if 1 don’t carry my largeness, sir, I don’t know who would,” he answered, with the utmost sim plicity. “ Well, I think you had better live with your friends in tho village,” I said ; “ my servants are quite sufficient for our wants.” “ Very well, sir,” he said, “ you’ll find that things will go on ’xactly the same when I’m gone, and then you’ll say,‘Poor old Robin, 1 treated him uncommon bad, and I’ll ax his pardon? Howsomedever, sir, I’m oft;” and, with a profound salute, he left the room. Robin had been gone a week, yet the disap pearance of viands continued. Evidently I had been unjust to him, and I sent to the village to find him out; but nobody had seen him. We hold a council of war; the servants were called, and said unaimously that nobody could get to the larder without their being aware of it. The larder itself was examined, and the only possible means of ingress for the leanest of cats—supposing it could have climbed a per pendicular wall some twelve ieet high—was by a small grated window near the roof. The vil lage locksmith examined the bolts and locks of the entire establishment, strengthened some, and put in new ones. In fact, we did all, so we thought, that could humanly be done to ren der the house impregnable. One night there was a violent storm of wind and rain. My “ study” abutted on the long gallery, and in my meditative moods I used often to stroll up and down amid the pictures. At about eleven o’clock when the storm was at its hight, I was startled by a tremendous crash. I took my reading-lamp to see the cause, and found that one of the largo pictures, hung but a few inches above the floor, had fallen faco downward. I placed the lamp on the floor, and stooped to raise the picture, when I felt a piercingly cold draught of air. Bringing the lamp to the panelling, I examined it, and saw what was evidently the crevice ot a door imme diately behind where the picture had hung. Examining it further, I saw a very small iron knob, scarcely noticeable among the ornamenta tion of the wood-work. Pressing this, the door flew inward, a rush ol cold air came in, and, appearing before me, I behold a flight of steps leading up and down into utter darkness. I began the descent, and, to my horror, I had hardly taken three steps when the door by which I had loti the gallery closed gently be hind me, and to all appearance I was literally walled up. However, I thought the steps must lead somewhere, so I continued my descent. I went straight down for a long time, and then camo a sharp turn to the 16ft. “Evidently leads out into the gardens,” I thought. Sud denly I was face to face with a blank wall. I was about to return, when my eyes caught a small bolt. I mov.ed it, and discovered that half the «tono slipped back, making a tiny aper ture. Up to this I brought my lamp, and bv its light I looked directly into the larder. Notwith standing my position, I almost shouted at the discovery. This was evidently Mr. Robin’s watch-hole. Now how did he get in ? And, al though I searched every inch of the wall, I could find no appearance ot an entrance. 1 retraced my steps past tho gallery door, which was fast closed, and ascended, The stairs made a turn to tho right; I was walking on planks, and guessed that I was over the gal lery, and that, alter all, there was reason in what the children had said about hearing footsteps ffbove their heads. Then I came tj a small wooden door ajar. I pushed it noiselessly, and my astonishment may be imagined when I found myself in a fair-sized room, in which were a bed and, snugly snoring in it, Mr. Robin! On the floor at the foot ot the bed were the re mains ot a cold leg of mutton and an empty beer-bottle—my mutton and my beer-bottle of course! A ladder in a corner led up to ths roof, and by the sound of tho wind and the rain I guessed that thereby was access to be gained to the leads, so that the appearance of tho smokin <y adjuncts thereon was suificiently explained. ° Now what was to be done? 1 must awaken Round Robin, or else make up my mind to be immured lor the night, very much to my own discomiort and inconvenience and, what was more, to the alarm of my wile. Suppose, when I awakened him, he should grasp my situation at once, turn ferocious, and Well, at any rate, I put away the knife lying beside the mut ton. 1 touched Round Robin on the shoulder. Ho murmured that it wasn’t his turn to sing a song, as Mike Hedges hadn’t sung—his dreams were of the parlor ol the “ I’loug’h.” I touched him again; this time ho started with a snort and sat up. Gradually, as his returning senses mastered '.he fact' that there was a man standing over him with a shaded lamp, tho expression on his face changed from irritated boredoaa at having boon disturbed to the most genuine astonishment 1 .have ever scon on human features before or since. At length ho exclaimed; “Why, Mr. ' No, hang it, it can’t be! I’m dreamin’ ’ Hallo, though, it is ’ Why, how in tho name ot all that’s wonderful did you find your way hero? There’s not a soul livin’ as knows this but me—no, not even the farmer. I say, when you’ve got a good thing, stick to it ch ?” 1 was somewhat relieved that tho sleeping lion ; should have changed into a lamb; so I said : “Now look here, Robin; I want to got out. i You didn’t think I should bowl you out did you?” I He looked at mo quletiy and said : “ More you haven’t, sir, yet. You want.to get out. Well, get out if you can without me ! No, ! sir—we’re quits; so we d better keep so. You've found out my secret- I’ve got you in my power. Very well, sir. If you promise, as a gentleman, not to say a word to tho farmer about this, I’ll let you out.” What could I do but promise ? As Robin was putting some clothes on, ho said : “You see, sir, in tho old days, when this house was built, in Henry’s reign, it was a rough time for the Papists; so they contrived this ero convenience. Your larder was their private chapel, and this stairs led to it, and, when they air and exercise, they could go up yon ladder to the roof, where they could see everything and not be seen. That's where I has my evening ’bacea.” I followed him down to the larder wall, and he showed me a ring in tho floor, by raising which a stop was seen loading down to a square hole NEW YORK DISPATCH, NOVEMBER 29. 1885. from which another trap opened up in tho mid dle of the larder. We retraced our steps to the gallery door. . i “ And now. sir, you have seen ail,” said Rob in, touching a spring, whereupon the door flow inward. “ Hallo i The door’s precious easy to-night!” he exclaimed. “ Well, in course, if tho wind hadn’t blown Sir Geoffrey down you’d ; have never found me out, sir.” I To cut a long story short, Bound Robin made ] no more depredations upon our larder, but turned out an honest good fellow, so that it was with genuine regret that, at tho end of three months we packed up to return homo and said good-by to him. We occupied tho old house for three years in succession in the same way. When we arrived tho third year, Round Robin was missing. Wo asked where he was. “Poor fellow,” said the farmer, “ho mot with a sad fate—ell down a secret staircase near the long gallery and broke his ne ‘.k !” “I discovered th t secret staircase three years ago,” I said to tho farmer, “ and it loads —whore do you think ? Into your larder I” “And that’s how all the things used to dis appear !” exclaimed tho farmer, astonished. “ Well he paid dearly for it, did poor old Round Robin!” POOfWWMBi!. A STORY OF THE HEART. Picture to yourself a neat little figure, habited in a rustling brown silk gown, point-laco cap and collar, and black mittens; a small elderly lady with mild wander.ng blue eyes, and a tremulous mouth, whoso uncertain glance and shrinking manner spoke of some terrible shock sustained by the nervous system in days gone by. Such was MissMoonshee when I first made her acquaintance. I was the daughter ot a Melbourne merchant, and born and brought up in that city, but al the date of my story (1872), we had removed to Richmond, a suburb of the Victorian capital. A strong active girl ot seventeen, I was daily in the habit ot walking u 1 - to town to attend classes at a school in — street. During my walk to and from Melbourne, I was more than once struck by the appearance of one ot tho cottages which I passed.* It was a neat little place, painted white, with green veranda posts. The windows which faced tho road were full of rare geraniums and ferns and the trimly kept garden-plot was planted with all manner of fragrant old-fashioned flowers and herbs. It was the lady of the cottage, however, who even more than her pleasant surrounding, interested me. When the sun shone, she was always to be seen, dressed in the fashion I have already de scribed, seated under tho veranda in alow chair busily engaged in netting. Like Penelope's web, her task seemed endless, and sho seldom raised her eyes from her work, which engrossed all hor attention. An old Irishwoman, who was continually hovering about, either weeding or watering the garden, appeared to be her only domestic, but I was soon to become bettor ac quainted with both lady and servant. One hot January afternoon I was plodding slowly homeward, my mind lull of a certain stiff German exercise required by Herr ll—— on tho morrow. In my preoccupation, I was in the act of passing tho white cottage with the green veranda posts without looking, as I usually did, to see it the old lady was in her accustomed place, when a cry of unmistakable anguish from tho interior arrested my steps, to unlatch the garden-gate and hurry up to the front door was the work of a moment. There, however, I paused, undecided whether to knock and offer my services, or retrace my steps. While I hesitated, the door was opened from within, and the old Irishwoman presented her self, beckoning me to enter. Silently I fol lowed her into a prettily furnished sitting-room, bright with pictures, books, and flowers. This much I took in at the first glance; my second rested on the evident cause of the old Irishwoman’s distress—the pale inanimate form of her mistress, which lay’ stretched on a couch near the window. The poor lady was in a dead faint, a phase of indisposition sufficiently alarming to her faithful domestic, who, in an agony of tears, asked if it was any use to send lor the doctor. Now, I had had considerable experience in the treatment of fainting-fits, my mother being, un happily, subject to frequent lapses into uncon sciousness, from which, acting under the doc tor’s orders, I had generally been successful in recovering her. I therefore spoke reassuringly to old Maliy—sho had -told me her name—and at once set about applying the restoratives to the invalid that I had found so useful on former occasions. In a short time we had the satisfac tion of seeing the poor lady open her eyes and fix a bewildered look on her maid, who was on her knees by tho couch. Her glance then rest ed on me with a puzzled expression. “ You have been ill,” I explained gently, “and Maliy and I have been trying to make you bet ter.” “ It is very good of you to take so much trou ble with a foolish old woman, my dear,” she replied in a weak voice, and the ghost of a smile flitted over her pallid face. “Ould and foolish I” indignantly repeated Maliy, furtively drying her eyes on her apron, and turning a beaming face toward her mis tress. “ Sure, it’s joking you are, Miss Kath leen. And what would Masther Shane say, did be hear you miscalling his sweet Kerry rose ?” The old Irishwoman’s words had a wonderful effect on the invalid. A faint pink flush suf fused her cheeks, her eyes shone, so that for the moment she looked almost pretty. The change, however, was but fleeting. The color quickly faded, her eyes resumed their usual expression, and murmuring something to the effect that one is always fair to those who love one, she closed her eyes, as if to shut out some disagreeable recollection. Presently she said, in a low, entreating voice: “Oh, Shane, darling, why do you linger? Old age*Ls creeping on, and I am weary of waiting— oh, so weary 1” And as she spoke, the tears trickled slowly down hor thin cheeks. 1 was glad when the entrance of the maid with the tea-things roused her. Desiring Maliy to place the tray on a small table beside her, the little lady sat up and insisted on pouring out a cup of tea for me, apologizing, while handing me the bread and butter, lor what she called her rudeness—“ I was overcome with old memories, my dear, so I hope you will excuse me.” The tea was strong, and under its stimulat ing influence my hostess became quite talka tive. She told me her name was Kathleen Moonshee; that she was by birth a native of County Kerry, Ireland, but had been for more than thirty years resident in Victoria. “But 1 have never quite liked the colony, my dear,” she said, in her gentle way, “ and Maliy and I would have left it long ago,* but for a rea son ot our own. There is a friend—a very dear friend—who has promised to join ub some day soon—it may be to day,” and her eyes bright ened. “1 cannot tell for certain, however. But when he does come, we shall all go home to gether to the cool, green Kerry meadows and beautiful lakes. You have heard, I dare say, of the Lakes of Killarney ?” I admitted I had read of them, but begged her to describe them, which she did in a rather rambling fashion, stopping frequently to in quire if she were wearying me. At*last the clock warned mo that it was getting late, and I rose to go. “Am I to have the pleasure of seeing you again?” asked Miss Moonshee, as she took my proffered hand. “ Maliy and I are not very en tertaining, but wo should be delighted to see you, if you care to come.” “I shall be very pleased to come,” I replied, and shaking her hand heartily, took my leave, being followed to the gate by the old Irish woman, calling down blessings on my head. When I told the story of my adventure at home, at the same time declaring my intention of paying Miss Moonshee an early visit, my father laughed and patted me on the cheek. “ Please yourself, Polly,” he said, “ but I am inclined to think your new friend is neither more nor less than a harmless lunatic.” My father s opinion of Miss Moonshee did not greatly astonish me. There was decidedly something peculiar about her, but, argued I, that is no reason why I should not fulfil my promise. So it came about that two days later I again found myself in the little lady’s parlor. This visit proved the forerunner of many more, until, from an occasional caller at the white cot tage with the green veranda posts, I became tho daily visitor and intimate friend of its mis tress. I had learned tc love poor little Miss Moon shoe with a protecting loudness, such as the young and strong sometimes entertain kir the old and weak. Moreover, to me she seemed the embodiment ot that old-world refinement, that, assertive young colonial as I was, I could thoroughly appreciate. And she clung to me, this gentle Irish lady, looking eagerly for my coming, and following me with wistful glances when I took my leave. She spoke but seldom of her past, and al though adverting at times to her long-expected friend, seemed, on the whole, to prefer drawing me on io talk of my school friends and studies? Then, on a Saturday afternoon, she would war ble plaintive Irish ballads to her harp, in a wonderfully clear, true voice, the sound of which always drew old Maliy from the kitchen. 1 was accustomed on those occasions to sing “The Wearnr o’ the Green” to a piano accom paniment, and when Maliy’s national enthusi asm was sufficiently stirred by its irresistible passion and pathos, to dash into a jig, thereby setting the old woman capering like a true daughter of Erin. Maliy invariably apologized to her mistress for “shaking her foot,” as she termed the an tics she indulged in; then, bestowing an admir ing glance on me, usually added, insinuatingly; “ Sure, miss, nobody as hadn’t a drop of the real ould blood could lilt the tunc as you do.” “ iou think she has Kerry blood in her veins, Maliy?” Miss Moonshee would say, with a smile. “ Sorra a doubt of it: and if Masther Shane heard her play ‘The liocky Roads to Dublin’ he’d say the same.” The little lady’s face always reddened at the mention of the foregoing name, and I noticed that immediately afterward she became rest less, making frequent excursions to the win dow, from which she returned sighing heavily. I had long ago identified “ Masther Shane,” with the dear friend whose advent she antici pated. “ Some old lover.” I said to mvself, “ knocking about the world, but still confident ly expected by the faithful heart, that believed in vows long since forgotten by tho wanderer. ’ ,Vas this how matters stood, or was the much talked-of-lriend a phantom of poor little Miss Moonshee’s weak brain ? I put the question rather abruptly to old Malfy one day when engaged in interviewing her parrot in the kitchen: “ Who is Mr. Shane ? And do you really expect him ?” The old Irishwoman's face wont as white as j the taifie n ipkin sho was ironing. “ What put ! it into your pretty head to ask ?” she inquired ■ coaxing!.?, but with a suspicions glance. “ Well, Maliy 1 have thought mure than once ! that, as the Scotch say, he is lang in cornin’. ’ “ You may well say long’ miss,” returned old Maliy tonrl'nlly. “ ’Taint in this world Miss Kathleen will over sot eyes on him.” “ You don’t moan to say he is dead 1” I ex claimed. The old woman nodded mournfully; then asked in a whisper i! I were quite auro her m s tress was asleep. Yes; 1 was quite sure; she had dozed off while I was playing ono of my lullabies, and when I stole from the room had fallen into a profound slumber. “ The saints send her dreams of Masther Shane !” piously o aculated Maliy, who, likelier mistress, belonged to tho ould religion;” “ for ’tis the only comfort she has, poor darling.” “But Mr. Shane, who was he?” I put in eagerly. “Ono of the ould O’Connells, of course. Kings they were before the Conquest, miss, and from first; to last an open-handed race. And b} r reason of that same generosity, Masther Shane, when he camo of age found, that saving the ould Hall and two hundred acres ot bog, sorra a loot of the great estates of his ancestors be longed to him. And now, miss, 111 tell you the whole story, for it's you desarves to be treated like a friend of the family, so kind you've been to my poor lady.” There was a solemn look on her wrinkled face as she made the promise: and without further preamble, old Maliy related her tnle, somewhat as follows: “ Miss Kathleen aud Masther Shane were cousins, and reared together at tho Hall by Miss O’Connell, their aunt, for they were orphans. Fine childer they were; and they grew up among the kindly Kerry folks, who loved them for their own sakes, as well as for the good blood that showed itself so plainly in both. For hadn't Miss Kathleen the bloom of tho rose, tho eye of the dove, and the sweetest temper in Ireland? And wasn’t Masthor Shane tall and handsome, with curly black hair, tho eye of the hawk, and the bould bearing of the O’Connells? Sure, they were made for each other, every body said; and so they seemed to think, the young masther being barely ono-and-twenty, and his cousin but eighteen when they were betrothed. Wirra! but sorrow was at hand. Miss O’Connell, the aunt, died; and hor income, that had kept them all comfortable, died with hor ; so, as I said before, except the ould Hall, a bit or wot bog, and a tride of money in tho bank, Masther Shane was left penniless. As for Miss Kathleen, her sweet faco was her fortune. “ Well, miss, the poor young masther was nigh desperate ; he couldn’t tear himself away from his cousin; and if he married her, there was little but starvation before them. ’Twas mighty hard on the young creatures ; but the darker things looked, the closer they clung to one another ; and however despondent he might be, the masther had always a smile for Miss Kath leen ; while sho, God bless her, loved tho very ground he walked on. I had nursed them l oth, so it was quite natural they should confide in ould Maliy. “Och, but it was a black day when Masther Shane made up his mind to seek his fortune in Australia. ’Twas young Edward Doyle put it into his head to emigrate. He was tho second son of Squire Doyle of Killobog Castle; and having a bit of money, he thought would make it (more bysheep-farming in Victoria. Miss Ellen, his sister, the toast of the county, and a great friend of Miss Kathleen’s, was wild to go with him; and tho long and short of it was, Masther i Shane, Miss Kathleen, and tho two young Doyles made np tho:r jminda to try their luck together in the far-away land. “Sure, ’twas hard to leave Kerry, where I’d been born and reared ; but ’twould have been harder to bid good-bye to my darlings : so I up and said I would go with them, if they would but take me. “Of course we’ll take you, Maliy,” says Masther ShaneJn his joking way. “ We ’re four giddy young creatures ; and it’s a quiet decent body like yourself we need to keep us in order.” “So it was settled, and before three months had elapsed, we had left ould Ireland and sailed for Melbourne in a big emigrant ship. Ah, weary me ! but there was sweethearting galore abroad. All the gentlemen were head and ears in love with my young ladies. But Miss Kath leen had no eyes save for her cousin; and Miss Ellen flouted them all to their faces, all but a young English officer, who had a smile now and again from her—just to keep up his heart, she said. “ We took close on five months to make the voyage; and pleased all on board were when the anchor was dropped in Hobson’s Bay. Melbourne was a small place in the year we landed, more like a village than the great city of to-day. But the young folks were in high spirits, ready to make the best of everything, even the dirty inn they were forced to put up at the first night ashore. Next day, the gentle men hired a small four-roomed cabin, into which we moved, and whore the young things were as happy as the day was long. It bad been arranged that Miss Kathleen’s wedding was not to take place until Masther Shane and young Doyle h*ad built their house on the land allotted to them somewhere in the Western District; the ladies remaining in Melbourne under ould Mal iy’s charge during their absence. “The night before they left, I was cooking the supper in the kitchen, when Masther Shane called me into the parlor. The young Doyles were out, and he and Miss Kathleen were sitting together on the sofa* Her head was hid den on his shoulder, and she was crying bitter ly, while he, poor boy, a troubled look on his handsome face, was trying to comfort her; but ’twasn’t a bit of use. “ ‘ Shane/ sho sobbed, ‘ ’tis the first time we’ve been parted, and my heart tells me we shall never meet again.’ “‘Maliy/ says the masther despairingly, ‘what can I say to comtort her?’ Then a sud den thought striking him, he turned to his cous in with a smile, and, ‘ Mavourneen/ says ho, “ you haven’t forgotten the ould story we read long ago of the bravo Sir Roland, who soui>ded his horn in the Pass of Roncesvalles in the Pyrenees, when he was sore beset by the Moors, and how Charlemagne, the great emperor, heard the sound where he was hunting, more than a hundred miles away?’ She said she remem bered the tale. ‘ Well,’ says he, ‘am not I your own true knight, asthore? And although I haven't a horn like the gallant Sir Roland, I have something just as good -a stout stockman’s whip. So, if 'danger befall, I’ll just fetch a sounding smack with the lash, and hero in this cabin you'll hear the noise.’ “He was smiling all the time he was speak ing, but Miss Kathleen took it seriously. “/You won’t forget/ says she. ‘Sure and I won’t/ says he, ‘ if you'll promise not to fret till you hear the sound of tho lash.’ ‘ I promise/ says she, and with that Miss Ellen and her brother camo in at tho front door, and I went back to the kitchen. “Well, miss, Master Shane and his friend started next day with half-a-dozen men and four wagons. ‘ You’ll take care of Miss Kath leen,” said the poor boy wistfully when bidding me good-by, ‘and should anything happen to me, you’ll never desort her. will you, Maliy ?” ‘“Can you doubt it?’ said I. ‘But what should happen to ono as is prayed for by a pure saint like my young lady ?’ “‘What, indeed/ muttered he, and then he wrung my hand, and hurried off to take his last kiss from the sweet lips he loved so well, little thinking ’twas the very last on this side of the grave. “ So we wore left alone, the two young ladies and myself, in the little cabin in Melbourne. Miss Kathleen kept her word, and didn’t fret, though many a time her heart was full. She just wont quietly about the house, thinking of her cousin and naught else. ’Twould have been a dull time but lor Miss Ellen Doyle. She was the one to sbe always singing, joking, or laughing, and the days sped rapidly until the ninth alter the young gentlemen had set out on their journey. ’Twas a Friday night — I remember it well, for sorra a bit offish could I get for the dinner that day, and Miss Ellen laughed when I came back empty-handed, and says she: “ ‘ We shan’t dine to-day, Maliy; we’ll just wait till tea-time.’ And so they did. Passing nine o’clock, they went to the parlor. ‘For, Maliy/ says Miss Ellen, we want you to tell us one of your capital stories. Let* it be about Kerry.’ We were sitting around the table, our knit ting in our hands. I was between the young ladies, and had just opened my mouth to say that the story 1 meant to give them was called the Banshoe of Gobkillin, when, without a bit of warning, my darling Miss Kathleen gave a sudden start. “‘The stock whip!’ she cried—‘ I heard it distinctly !’ “Miss Kathleen trembled like an aspen leaf and calling to mind Masther Shane's words, my heart sank within me. She lay back in her chair without a sign of life, her fair young face con vulsed with such a look of terror as I never saw before or since. “ We got her into bed, and then Miss Ellen ran out for a doctor, and chancing to meet Mr. Webb, the surgeon of the ship that carried us to Melbourne, brought him back with hor. ll© was both kind and skillful, and did bis best for my stricken darling; but he told us plump and plain that her case was a mortal bad one. ’Twas brain fever she had, and for weeks she lay ’twixt life and death, raving ever and always of her cousin and the danger he was in. “The fever was at its hight when, late one night, young Edward Doyle knocked at the door. Ochone ! but he had the bad news to tell. Mas ther Shane, the last and best of his race, was dead—murthered by the blood-thirsty blacks. It was on the ninth evening after they had loft Melbourne that the savages set upon them,taking them at unawares as they sat round their camp fire. But a volley from the white men’s pistols sent the blacks back into the bush howling like fiends. Then it was that the masther. vo’wing vengeance on the savagea, plunged into the wood in hot pursuit o-f them. The others followed, but in the darkness lost sight of him; nor did they find the poor boy till daybreak. He was lying under a treesquite dead, the blood slowly oozing from a deep wound in his side. Ho had Hung away his empty pistol, but his right hand still gripped tho heavy whip with which he had seemingly defended himself against his ene mies. They buried him where he fell, under tho shade of a.blue-gum tree, with only a rude cross at his head, to mark where the last of the O’Connvlls lay. “ Sue;: was'the sad tale young Doyle told us, the tours running down his face the while, for he loved Masther Shane like a brother, and his heart ached for Miss Kathleen. The doctor shook his head when ho heard the story ’T would be a merciful thing, he said, provided | h s p itient did recover, that all recollection of the past should have faded from her mind. “■•ho did recover, poor darling, but very slowly. At first we thought her memory was entirely gone. By degrees, however, she began to remember, and by-and-by asked for her cousin. To please her, wo said ho had gone on a long journey up-country, and when wo found she believed it, Mr. Webb told us to keep up the delusion. “ Well, miss, there isn’t much more to tell. Miss Klien Doyle married the English officer who was so sweet on her during the voyage out, and wont with him to Tasmania. About the same time, Squire Doyle’s eldest sou having been killed in the hunting-field, M'isther Edward was written for by his father. But before he went, ho had this cottage built and furnished lor Miss Kathleen, and ho and Mrs. Major Gayworthy— Miss Klien Doyle that was- settled a small pension on my mistress, that keeps her in comfort. Here we’ve lived for over thirty years, and except for the longing she has to see her cousin, it hasn’t been altogether an unhappy time for my poor lady. I used to worry myself, thinking how lonesome she’d feel if I wore taken first. But since she’s come to know and love you, miss, I’ve been quite easy ; for should anything happen to ould Maliy, I know you’ll never see her at a loss.” The old Irishwoman had told her tale with emotion. Nor con'd I for the moment help crediting the supernatural element in the story. But at this moment Miss Moonshee’s voice was heard calling me by name, and I hurried to the sitting-room. Never had I seen her more ani mated. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks crimson, and she smiled gayly as I entered. “My dear,” she cried, “I have had such a sweet dream, all about the dear friend you have often heard mo mention- my cousin Shane. But I must show you his likeness.” And with fingers that trembled sadly, the poor lady opened a locket she always wore, disclosing the miniature of a line-looking youth, with a pleasant expres sion on his frank open countenance. “ Is he not handsome ?” she inquired, gazing fondly on the smiling face. “ He is indeed,” I returned, feeling the tears gathering in my eyes. “ Dear Shane what a deal he must have gone through I But he is really coming to-night, ah I yes. and then how happy we shall be. I may not tell you my dream to-day,”-she added with a little laughbut to-morrow, you will look in to-morrow before you go to church ? Then, my dear, you shall know all.” I gave the desired promise, and shortly af ter bent my steps homeward, meditating on poor little Miss Moonshee’s sad history and harmless delusion. The morrow found me an hour before church-time at her door. It was opened by Maliy. “ Miss Kathleen has over slept herself/’ she said ; “ but I’ll just tap and ask if she won’t see you in bed.” Repeated knocks at her mistress’s door elicit ing no response, the old Irishwoman turned the handle and peeped in. “She’s sound asleep, poor darling,” she whispered. “ Just cast your eyes on her, miss, and sea how pleased she looks.” I did bo. The expression on her face was in deed a happy one; but there was that about it which caused me to step quickly forward and lay my hand lightly on the brow of the sleeper. It was icy cold ? Yes; he had come for her at last, the’ long-expected lover. For, gazing on the placid countenance of the dead, who could doubt but a vision of the beloved one had glad dened the soul of the sleeper, and left its im press on her smiling face, ere death had claimed its prey I “ ,Twould boa sin to wish her back, so happy she looks,” wailed poor Maliy. “But oh, Miss Kathleen, darling, why didn’t you take me with you I” The separation was but of brief duration. The faithful old Irishwoman soon followed poor little Miss Moonshee to the grave, and a white marble cross in a corner of the Melbourne Com etary marks the spot where mistress and maid sleep their last sleep. A THRILLING TALE. A Society Belle Locked in a Boom with an Escaped Lunatic. (From, the Globe-Democrat.) Some little time since your correspondent was one of a hunting party of five in the mountains in West Virginia. A wind and rain-storm com pelled a halt for the night at the hospitable resi dence of Col. , a Virginian of the old school. At night there was a country dance, in,which the hunters took part. While the guests were treading a measure to the old-fashioned music of a cotton-headed negro, a strange-looking female glided noise lessly into the parlors and took a seat near the writer. She was somewhat above medium bight, with a preternaturally thin figure, clad in an old silk dress. Her face was thin and haggard, but wore such an intense expression of hopeless apathy and settled melancholy as at once to attract the stranger’s attention. The abundant hair which fell in luxuriant masses on her shoulders was perfectly white, and taken in conjunction with her sad countenance, made an infinitely touching picture. The lady sat with her hands crossed upon her lap with her head bowed, and was doubtless oblivious to the gay ety circling around her. One of t’ho granddaughters of the host, who was a niece of the strange lady, noticing your correspondent’s curiosity as to the meaning of this strange figure in a ball-room, briefly stated that the gray-haired lady was insane, and had been so since her eighteenth year, and told the following story of the episode which blighted her young life. sShe was invited to spend the Christmas holi days with an aunt living a short distance from Harper’s Ferry. She accepted, th? Jnyitatjon, and in due time a rrlV63 ftv ner destination, §ll9 was warmly welcomed. Several other guests had arrived a week previous to my aunt, so that the house was literally packed, leaving no accommodations for another visitor. On the lawn, a short distance from the man sion, had been built a one-room cabin. It had been comfortably furnished, by the hostess, in anticipation of an emergency of the present character. The hostess stated to her niece that she would bo obliged to place her temporarily in this cabin unless she objected to the arrange ment. My aunt was naturally of a bold, ad venturous disposition, and lacked the natural timidity of most girls, so that she quietly agreed to the plan. Tired out with her trip, she told her aunt that she would like to retire early, so a tiro was built on the cabin hearth and every thing mado comfortable for the night. My aunt was accompanied by her hostess to the cabin before she retired, and sat with her for some time talking over family affairs. As she started to leave she discovered that the bolt had been broken off the door, necessitating her locking the door on the outside to keep every thing secure. This she did after bidding her niece an affectionate good-night. Aunt Bess, after sitting by the fire for some time, became uneasy and nervous, an apparent premonition of what was about to occur disturbing her. She finally disrobed, and after replenishing the fire retired. She tossed about uneasily lor awhile, and then fell into a fitful, restless slum ber. She awoke several hours 1? ter with a violent start, the same uncanny instinct warn ing her of her close proximity of some dread object. The lire was burning low on the hearth, and as th a night was intensely cold the cabin was slowly getting chillier. Ft was nearly daylight, she judged from the crowing of the cocks, but she still felt that weird, horrible dread, as of approaching calamity. She listened breathlessly for a lifetime, it seemed to her, when she heard something move, once or twice under the bed. She nearly fainted from fright, but having reassured herself into the belief it was merely a dog, turned over to go to sleep. Suddenly she felt the bod move, ac companied by the yawning of some huge mon ster. She was nearly overcome as she forcibly realized that the strange inmate was not, as she had imagined, a dog, but must be a man. She lay in constant and growing dread for several minutes, not daring to stir for fear of betraying her presence, but finally decided to make a sud den dash and gain the door and liberty. She was on the point of putting her desperate re solve into execution, when she suddenly re remembered that the door w-.a locked on the outside, and that she was practically a prisoner and at the mercy of the unknown intruder. She laid quietly in bed, moving neither hand nor foot, the horror of the situation steadily increas ing, till she feared she would lose her reason. The seconds and minutes dragged their agon izing length along, till the first streak oi day light appeared. The monster several times during these awful hours raised the bed, caus ing its occupant to experience untold agony of apprehension. Finally, the object crawled out from under the bed, a chain clanking dismally in the intense stillness. It proved to be am m clothed in tat ters, with the fragments of heavy iron shackels hanging to his wrists and ankles. The hair and ebard of the strange visitor were tangled and unkempt, the former hanging below his shoul ders. The bruto stretched his full length out by the fire, and giving a grunt of satisfaction, fell into a deep sleep. The occupant of the bed, realizing that at day light she would inevitably be discovered, cast her eyes wildly around for a hiding-place. The heavily-curtained recess in one of the windows caught her eye, and ehe instantly resolved to mike an effort to reach it. Raising herself quietly on her bands, she crept noiselessly from the bed, and reached the window in safety. From this point of vantage she looked with agonizing dread on the sleeping brute. Over come with fatigue and fear, she was almost in the act of sinking to the floor, when she sud denly became aware of the baying of hounds, and the rapid hoof-beats of galloping horses. They approached nearer and nearer, till she could distinguish the excited voices of the riders. She realized suddenly that they were on the track of the strange intruder, and silently prayed for immediate succor. The voices died away in the distance, grow louder, and then sank fainter, the alternate conflict of hope and despair nearly rendering her frantic. They again approached closer till they seemed to be just outside the cabin door. While listening she had unconsciously dropped the curtain ; folds from her face, and suddenly glancing in ' the direction of the fugitive, she saw that he | also had been awakened by the confusion, and, j having risen to his feet, was glaring in her face ; with an expression that left no doubt as to his i madness. For a moment she gazed fixedly into i his eyes, and then made an involuntary move- i ment toward the door. The spell which held the maniac was broken, ; and he sprang toward her with a wild snarl. ; The unfortunate lady gave a scream of despa r, ; and sank senseless to the floor. As her eves ! closed to unconsciousness she became dim> aware of a bursting crash and terrific struggle around about her. When she again camo to she was lying in bed in her*aunt’a residence, sur rounded by weeping relatives. The terrible shock incident to the night of horror resulted in an aggravated attack of brain fever, the ef fect of which was such as to unsettle her rea son. The strangest part of the story is, that during her illness, her hair, which was of a boautitul chestnut tinge, began to change in color, and ultimately became white as you see it now. This, too, in the period of a few weeks, i She is at long intervals apparently conscious of our preseneo, but has been pronounced hope lessly incurable by eminent physicians. The maniac was the Eon of a neighbor, and had been ; mad from birth. He was considered so dan- j gerous as to cause his being chained to the j wail of an outbuilding. The night my aunt ar rived at her destination ho had broken his chains and made his escape. His friends who made tho discovery, shortly after it happened, secured a blood hound and started on his trail. They traced him to the cabin and had sent a ser vant for tho key when my aunt’s scream told its own story, and caused them to break the door down and overpower tho madman, who fought like a tiger. The hostess never got over the terri ble shock even to the day of her death, and could never hear it mentioned without her eyes tilling with tears. SOUTH AMERICAN COWBOY. A Howling Savage Who Puts the Texas Bull-whacker to Shame. Theguacho (pronounced gou-cho) is the cow boy of Argentine and Uruguay, a reckless, dare devil, regardless alike of God and man, peace able when sober, but a howling savage when drunk. As brave as a lion, as active as a pan ther, with endurance equal to any test, faithful to his friends, but as implacable as fate to his enemies, living the year round with no roof but the azure sky, no bod but the ground, no pillow but the saddle, and no shelter but the poncho. Ho loves nothing but his horse, and the word fear is not in his vocab ulary. His speech is a mixture ot Spanish and the Gaurian, or native Indian dialect; his cos tume is a poncho, a pair of buckshin breeches, high boots" and silver spurs that weigh a pound or two each. His saddle, bis bridle and his breeches are loaded with silver, representing the accumulated earnings of his life, and when ho wants to buy a horse, or a sombrero he pulls off a button or two, for among the race silver ornaments are legal tender. Half savage, half courtier, he is as polite as ho is cruel, and will make a bow like a dancing master or kill a fellow-being with as little con science as he would kill a wolf. He recognizes no code but the unwritten codo of the cattle range, and all violations are punishable by ban ishment or death. Whoever offends him must fight or fly, and as tho statute of limitation is not recognized by him, he kills on sight ene mies he has not seen for a quarter of a cen tury. Ho never shoots, orjstrlkes with his fist, but uses a lasso at long range and a wicked knife that is always in his belt or in;his hand. A fight between gauchos always means mur der, and it is the duty of him who kills to see that his victim is decently buried and the wid ow and orphans cared for. The widow, if she pleases him, becomes his wife or his mistress, and the children grow up to be gauchos under his tutelage. He is as superstitious as a Hindoo, and when ho is not asleep or in the saddle ho is gamb ling, having quaint games of chance that are known to no other race in the world. The cowboys of the United States or the herd ers of Mexico would grow green with envy at the horsemanship of the gaucho and his skill with th*? lasso. A child among them is put in the saddle as soon as civilized boys are put in pants, and when he is ten or twelve years old he will ride a tornado. A gaucho who is thrown from horseback is as much disgraced as if he had stolen a sheep, and nothing he can do will restore his standing in society. The animals they ride are splendid native horses, larger than the Arab or the broncho of the United States, and equally fleet and tough. Fifty or sixty miles a day is considered an easy ride; an ordinary pampa horse will make it as easily as an American horse will make ten miles.. Dur ing the recent raid on the Patagonian Indians, a gaucho courier is said to have made six hun dred miles in forty-eight hours, with nine re lays of horses, including stops for food, and rides of three hundred and four hundred miles are of common occurrence. A gaucho thinks no more of such a gallop as this than an ordinary traveler does of a trip from New York to Bos ton. The skill with which the gaucho uses the lasso passes credulity. At full gallop he can throw a noose oErawhide with as.great accuracy as an export rifleman will crack a glass ball. He will eaten a sheep or a hog or a horse by the leg as easily as a steer by the horns, Fights with lassoes are of frequent occurrence. The,duel ists standing on horseback, within range, firing slip nooses at each other’s heads, sparring and dodging like pugilists, until one or the other is dragged out of the saddle. It is a sure enough duel; the man who is caught is often dragged with a noose around his neck behind a galloping horse until life is choked and pounded out of his body. Travelers on the pampas in the olden times were frequently treated to scenes of this sort, with crowds of gauchos standing by to see fair play ; but of late the gauchos are becoming more civilized. Emigrants are crowding out upon the pampas and are leavening the lump. The word gaucho is becoming a word of re proach, and. except upon the frontier, is BPW applied oply to worthless characters, who live by stealing cattle, and correspond to the genus “Tastier ” of Texas and the Western Terri lo ries of the United States. On the frontier, tho gaucho is still seen in his pristine glory, moving further and further out upon the pampas, trying to escape from the restraints of civilization, and resent ing the inroads upon his ancient domain. Few of them acquire land, but keep their cattle upon Government territory, looking with contempt on ranchmen who build houses to live in and introduce foreign breeds of stock. His domain is growing smaller annually, and a few yeafs hence he must become domesticated or disap pear. Civilization seems to sap his vitality and quench the fire of his life. A domesticated gau cho is as forlorn as an imprisoned eagle. He loses his sense of honor with his energy, and becomes a drunkard, a gambler and a thief. IIE SMUGGLED? BY THS DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND. i( What a good chance yon would have to smuggle,” was observed tho other day to a gen tleman who resides in Detroit but does busi ness in Windsor and crosses the border three or four times a day. “ Ah 1” was his dry and non-committal excla mation. “ Aren’t you sometimes tempted ?” “ No, sir 1 At least, not now.” “ Then you were once ?” “ See hero I I’ll tell you a story to get rid of you. Years ago I did smuggle ten yards of silk across. My wile wanted a shade we couldn’t find in Detroit, and I consented to smuggle it over. When I got ready to start for Detroit the silk was under my suspenders, with vest and coat buttoned oyer it. X knew all the custom officers well, and there wasn’t one chance in a million of my being detected.” “ And you weren't afraid then?*’ Not until I reached the ferry wharf. The officials on the other side had nothing to do with the matter, of course, but my guilty con science was on the alert. One of them called to me, and detained me ten minutes while he re lated the particulars of a man being trapped for smuggling a shawl. I felt myself turned all sorts of colors, and I declare that my knees seemed to give right out.” “ Yes—l’ve been there.” “On the boat I saw a stranger watching me very closely, and I made up my kind he was a spotter. I’d have thrown the silk away then, but there was no opportunity. When I reached tho American side I felt like a prisoner about to be sentenced. I didn’t know whether to land an onco and hurry off, or to take my time and affect a coolness X was mighty far jfrom feel ing.” “ Exactly. I felt the same way.” “ Well, two women were arrested right in front ot me for smuggling straw-braid, and the second officer camo up and slapped me on the back and called out: “ ‘ Hallo I Jim; got anything on you that ought to pay duty?’ “He was in fun, of course, but my heart jumped into my mouth and choked mo, and I came near I managed to fish up a cigar and hand it over with a forced laugh, but I’d have given SIO,OOO to have been a mile away.” “ ‘ What’s the matter, old boy ?” he asked, as ho saw how perturbed I was. “ r N—nothing I’ “ Come, now, you don’t feel well.” “Ob, y-yes, I d-do, except that I’m a little sea—-s-sick I” “Come with me !” he ordered, and be put one hand on my back, exactly over that silk, and led me off that boat. I had no other idea but I was caught. Visions of courts, fines, newspaper articles and a weeping wife rose up before me, and I was about to throw myself on his mercy and offer to pay any sum he might name, when he steered me into a saloon and called out: “ Here—give Jim a brandy sling to brace his stdmach “ With that he went out, and I just sank down on the first handy chair and came very near fainting away. When I had put half a mile be tween me and the wharf I came to a halt and said to myself: “ ‘Jim, you are a confounded idiot.’ “ ‘ You bet I’ Jim replied. “ ‘ Don’t you try that again.’ “ ‘ I never will—never I’ “ ‘ You’d better pay $3 per yard for silk in Detroit than to pay seventy-five cents on the other side.’ “ ‘You’re shouting, old boy.’ “ ‘ Take thia silk home and tell your wife that you sent to Chicago for it, and never iet any ■' body know what a fool you’ve made of your ; self.” ) “I’ll do it!’ “And I did it, rnd it I had tho safest oppor- I tunity in the world to make a hundred dollars ' a day by smuggling I’d never bring over a sin i gio brass pin.” ! Husband (trying to read) —“ What’s ; I that baby yelling about now ?” Wife—" Poor little i thing ! She sees the moon through the window, i i and ia crying for it." Hu. bind— • Weil, for I Jleaveu's eako iet her have it; any to stop that 1 If the ways of business in Arkansas ar© poon. liar, they certainly have the novelty of original ity, if this is A FAIR SPECIMEN. "Judge," he said, as he stood up in the prisoners' box of an Arkansas court, "I don’t go for to say I’m innocent, but there are extenuating circum stances." " Name them.” "Jim and me was pardners in the licker bizness, Jim was a-drawin’ more’n his share. If I gobbled the partnership money and ran away I'd have to live and die in Mexico or Canada; if I said anything to Jim, he'd draw out h s sheer and leave me flat; if I asked for a receiver he’d beat us both. When I cum to look it all over, Judye, I concluded that the best way was ” " To murder your partner ?” "To do him up gently, Judge, and to offer his widder a third interest in case she would marry me. Don’t be too hard on a feller during such a business depression as this." It was the logic of Fenderson that KNOCKED OUT DEACON GOODE. Fenderson -" 1 was talking with Deacon Goode, to-day. I told him that it was impossible for any sensible man to believe in a future life. Just at that moment I esp.od farmer Jones’s donkey look ing over the stone walk Says I, 'Now, you needn’t tell me, deacon, that there’s any sense in believing that brute dies aud that’s the last of him. while a man starts out on a new existence when he finishes this. Talk about reason and blind instinct! What's the difference, pray, between the mind of the animal over there and my own mind ?’ ” Fogg—" And what did he say to that ?” Fenderson— •* Oh, I had him ! He hadn’t a word to say lor himself, but was forced to admit that I’d staggered him. Says he, ‘lf you put it in that way, Fenderson, 1 must acknowledge that your logic is too much for me.' Those were his very words." The Big Horn Sentinel tolls the following in cident of AN ENGLISH TRAVELER AND A COWBOY : A nobby and snobbish milord of British extrac tion traveled from Big Horn with us aud Abo Idle man on the stage coach this week. Milord was ex cessively exclusive. He wouldn’t be sociable, and spoke to no one except the two " John Henry " ser vants he had with him. and was altogether as un pleasant as his snobbishness could make him. At a dinner station there was a lot ol jolly cowboys on a lark, and one of them, treating everybody, asked the Englishman to drink. Of course milord haughtily refused. Tho cowboy displayed a dangerous-looking six shooter and very impressively insisted on .his drinking. "But I cawn’t, you know: I don’t drink, you know, ’ was ru lord’s reply. Mr. Cowboy brought the muzzle in dangerous proximity to the knot in which milord’s brains were supposed to lie hidden somewhere, and then he said he’d drink—he'd take soda water, you know. " Soda water nuthin’,” said ?Jr. Cowboy. "You’ll take straight whisky." " But, aw,‘ this American whisky, 1 cawn’t swal low it, you know." "Well," said the cowboy, "I’ll make a hole in the side of your head, so that wo can pour it in," and he began to draw on milord, aud milord said: "Aw, that’ll do—l’ll drink it," Then the cowboy invited milord’s servants to drink, which horrified him. "They don’t drink, you know,” hs said. "Weil, we'll see whether they do or not,” said Mr. Cowboy. “ The chances are you don’t give ’em a ‘hopportuiiity.’ Come up bore, you fellows, and guzzle." And tho two John Ilonrys, with a show of reluc tance, but really glad to got a drink, came up, and the cowboy passed a tumblerful *of torchlight pro cessiou whisky for milord, and the servants poured for themselves. Thon the cowboy mado the John Henrys clink glasses with milord, and all drank, and there was great fun. Milord tried after that to be very jolly, and the stimulant assisted him decidedly. But in the coach ho fell back into his exclusiveness, and retained it throughout, and has probably got it yet. It is a good thing to have an easy disposition. Tom was one of that sort, and he gave an excel lent reason WHY HE WASN’T AFRAID OF WATER. " What’s the matter, Tom ?” " Matter enough. Smith’s dog bit me a minute ago." "Smith’s dog bit you? Good gracious man I that dog is mad !" " The deuce you say ! He ain’t any madder than I am. I’m the one to be mad. If I had bitten the dog he might have had a good excuse to get mad.” " But the dog has the hydrophobia.” "What's hydrophobia?" " It means, literally, in fear of water.” " Well, what do you care how much that dog ia afraid of water?” I wish he was afraid of me.” "Oh 1 you don’t understand. You are liable to catch it from the dog." •• No, I’m not, but he’s liable to catch it from me as soon as I can borrow a gun." " Oh, pshaw ! This fear of water—you are liable to have it." " No, I’m a cold-water Baptist.” SCINTILLATIONS. In Siam the cats have their tails banged. In this country the entire cat is bauged. And now Chicago claims that pork ia a brain food, being a product of thousands of West ern pens. Girls, a delicate way of giving a young man a hint that he is acting too fresh is to treat him to pretzels. “ O, where are the girls of the past ?” asks a poet. If you mean the far away, dim and distant past, some of them are in the ballet corps. Visitor (to English writer) —You seem to bo very busy. Writer—Yes, sir. Visitor—What are you doing now ? Writer—Grinding out another Story by " Hugh Conway.” Queer, isn’t it ? A man who will swal lovr any kind of a dish with an imposing French name will be scared to death if he catches a cold with a Greek or Latin title. “Ephlum, what makes so many cat tails grow in die heah pon’ ?” " Well, I would say I Doan you know ? Why day grows up from kittens dat people hez drownded in the pon’ of course. Pea’s like you wimmen folks, doan know nuffin 'bout agliciiltshah,” 'U. Brown-t'Good morning, White. What’s the matter with your hat ? It seems too large for you." White —"An oversight, old fol. Out last night, you know, and put on the old man’s hat this morn ing. Never noticeif the difference till my head be gan to shrink about noon."— The Rambler. “ Mr. Dusenberry, what are these automatic couplers which are being introduced ?” "Don’t interrupt me, my dear. See—l’ll have to go over th',s whole column of pgain," "But What are they, Mr. Duseuburv ? y “ What are whatt my dear?” " Automatic couplers.” "Oh! Yes, I know. We’ve one of them in the hor.se, and I’ve always regretted getting it." “ Where is it ? ’ "la Hie Bible, Our marriage certificate, my dear." , For stealing seven ten-eeni plugs of tobacco, a Kansas criminal was sentenced to five , years’ imprisonment. The justice, in his charge, ( said: " Nobody is expected to pay out good money for terbacker, but that offers no excuse fer steal in’ of it. This is a free country, and everybody has a 1 right ter borry terbacker ez often ez ho kin. Ya prter fiave borrered that lerbaeker. Gimme a chaw, prisoner, aud I’ll make it light.” Sometimes evep the most yvide awaka . and accurate reporter is liable to err, as is shown by the correction in the Schuyler rindicalor : "In. stead of being arrested yesterday, as we stated, for kicking his wife down a flight of stairs and hurling i a lighted kerosene lamp after her, Rev. James Well man died unmarried, four years ago." It is to bs hoped that Rev. Mr. Wellman accepts this hearty correction in the same generous spirit in which it is tendered. A good one is told upon a country man who attended a fair. While in the city he thought it his duty to attend the opera. Securing a seat, ho was intently viewing tho stage, when some one at his side, thinking from the squint of his eyes that he was near-sighted, kindly handed him an opera-glass. The old fellow was profuse in thahks, and hiding the-glass behind his hat, turned it up to his lips for a moment, and then handed it back with the remark that " the blamed thing is dry.” B 3 URED.—NewTruss. Can ki’■£ a d U’.i' o'N Sra hold any case. Perfect comfort; also Elastic Stockings or Varicose Veins. Sup porters for fat people, Female Supporters for weakness, Shoulder Braces, etc. PEET & CO., No. 501 Sixth avenue, cor. 30th street, N. Y. “best trusTever used k ’ mpro ved Elastic Truss. Worn night T I C£s S?e S <I lFipt^ it Senl ss * ve ofroulars to tho '0 NEW YORK ELASTIC .TRUSS CO., j 74.4 Broadway, N. V, reNNYIWM ■ “CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH” TJio Origsnnl asid Only Genuine. Safe and always reliable. Bewnre of Worthless Imitations. “Cliieljee.tcr’ft English** are the best made. Indispensable TO LADIES. Inclose4c. (stamps) for particulars, testi monials, etc., in letter sent you bv re- S 3 in C 3 turn mid). NAME PAPER. MSN B 8? S Chlelicßter Chemlcnl C’u., J SSlßMadisonSaMPhSlads,Pa.u Ll n n OA’IiAT) A s ' r <’ l e:il.-.r-es, and do-:3 bebility Pills, sl. In-4 Invigorating Pill, All post-paid. Address M New England Medical Institute, - 24 Iremontßow, Boston, Mass. k| . . /J CURE VOURSELFT Dr. Bohannan’s "Vegetable L'nr.Jive” is warranted to permanently cure all forms of Spermatorrhea or Semi nal Weakness, Impatcncy, etc , and restores ‘‘Lost Power,” and brings back the "Youthful Vigor” orthose who have destroyed it by sexual excesses or evilprac tices, in from two to seven weeks’ time. It has been used by Dr. Bohaunan in i is private practice for over thirty years, was never known to fail in curing even tho V/GItST CABE3. It gives vitality and imparts energy with wonderful effect to those middle aged men who feel a weakness beyond their years. Young men suffer ing from the consequences of that dreadfully destructive habit of Self-Abuse can use this medicine with the tfa euranceofa speedy and PERMANENT cure. The in gredients are simple productions of nature—barks, roots, herbs, etc., and are a specific for the above diseases. Gar-Price Five Dollars, sent with full directions, etc., to any address. For sale only by Dr. C. A. Bohannan, N. E. corner of Sixth and Biddle streets, St. Louis, Mo. Established in 1837. TQ-j-Dr. B ’s "Treatise on Special Diseases," which gives a clear delineation of the nature, symptoms, means of cure, etc., of SYPHILIS, SEMINAL WEAKNESS, Etc., Sent Free to any address upon receipt of o-.e stamp. Diseases of Men Only ; Blood Poison, skin diseases inflammation; obstructions bladder, kid neys and other organs; weakness, nervous.and general ; cebililv; mental, physical prostration, Ac., succs-sfuily i treated and radically cured;- remarkable cures perfected ' in old cases which have been neglected or unsk ill fully treated: no experiments or failures, it being self-evident that a physician who coniines himself exclusively to the : siudv of certain classes of diseases, and who treats thou sand's everv rear, must acquire greater skill in those branches than one in general practice. Dr. (JRINDLIt 1 iKu 174 We 44 @u ( temea au untl 7U-> avenue 7