New York dispatch. [volume], January 03, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
I remembar, I remember
The Lou<3 where I was born,
The little window where tbe sun
‘Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I o.teu wish the night
Had borne my breath away I
-I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The vioiets, and the lily-cups—
Those flowers made of light I
The lilacs where the robin built.
And where my brother set
The laburnum on h s birth-day—
The tree is living yeti
I remember, I remember
Where I wae us d to swing,
And thought th« air must rush as frosh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then.
That is so heavy now.
And Summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow 1
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees darn and high;
I used to think their slender tops
AVeretclose against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
COCLM’T SAUTO.”
BY FLORENCE MAR R Y AT.
CHAPTER I.
There ie a great virtue in the serious and well
considered utterance of a firm " No.”
It has leaved many a man from ruin ; and
many a girl owes her escape from an unworthy
•uitor to a gentle negative.
A respectful and pelite “ No ’ is better than a
brutal one; but the moat unchristian and em
phatic “ No ” that was ever thundered forth in
the ear of the importunate, ia oftentimes far
superior to the absence of any No at ail.
Mr. Gosling Green was a young gentleman
yrho never in hie lite was able to say “No.”
If a boy at school asked him for his penknife,
or his marbles, he surrendered them with a
cheerful Yea. and smiled at his juvenile Sedan.
Gosling Green, at the age of two and twenty,
was in the office of Messrs. Tare & Trett, stock
and share brokers, in the city of London.
His parents were highly respectable people,
in the country. They possessed wealth, and
they always said they intended to leave it to
Gosling.
He had formed an affection for a young lady
of slightly angular proportions. 111-natured
people would have pronounced her plain, and
declared her forty. Her name waa Bianca Bil
lington. ~ X 1
She persuaded Jhim one night, when he met
her at his reputed employer’s house—Trett, not
Tare—somewhere in rhe suburban wilds of Hol
loway, that he was very dear to her.
He immediately went home and dreamed of
her all night long.
Soon, ah I soon they met again. After this it
was quite a common thing tor them to encounter
one another, quite accidentally, of course, while
promenading.
Then they walked about the streets, terraces
and groves, melodious with the songs [of cats,
between the hours of nine and ten, listening to
the plaintive voices ot the belated potman, and
he who ministered to the wants ot those who
feasted upon such dainties as baked potatoes, ail
hot, at the small price of one halipeuny for each
subterranean
Ah 1 those were happy days. She beamed
upon him. She called him her “ (lossy Dear,”
and he called her his sainted “ Beeny.”
I repeat that those were days ot bliss and
evenings of ecstasy.
It frequently occurred to him, when he got
home to his lodging, and his rapture had
cooled a bit, that Bianca was a little too mature
to be the fond mother of his children—should
he be so blessed.
Perhaps the same thought flitted through her
virgin mind.
Bhe had not known him three weeks before
(Re determined to secure him before he could
decently retreat.
They were sitting on a sofa.
A friend was banging the piano very hard,
without getting much music out of it.
Bianca’s papa and mamma were making
money at whist, out of some neighbors.
It was a domestic establishment run on com
mercial principles.
•' Gossy, dear,” said Bianca, in the killing
tone she had learned at the theatre.
“ My own,” he softly murmured.
“ Do you love me ?”
“ Oh, Beeny I”
“ Well enough to—to make me your own—to
marry me ? Say ! shall Ibe yours ?”
“ Certainly, Beeny,” answered Gosling, as if
it was the most natural tiling in the world.
“You dear, sweet, kind boy,” she said,
triumphantly. “We are all in all to each other
forever. I’ll go and tell ma.”
“1 say, Beeny—hold hard—stop a bit!
I .”
It was too late.
Bianca Billington was off to tell her mother
the glad news, and so lay the foundation for a
breach oi promise.
CHAPTER 11.
The next day Gosling Green’s head ached.
He was not quite sure whether he liked
Bianca or not. Hus mind was ot the fluctuating
order.
While he was at breakfast, his friend Fidler
came in and found him bobbing serenely over a
herring.
Fidler was a funny man, and everybody was
afraid of him. He was such a master of “ chaff
and repartee.”
“ I mustn’t tell Fidler, he’ll chaff me into fits,
till I shall be like Chaucer’s Fairy Queen—
divided into lots of Fyttes ’’—and so he held
histipeace.
“ Gosling, my boy, you have been out late,”
said Fidler, “ and the object of (your affections
has given you your conge. Let s" walk down to
the office.”
“ We will,” said Gosling.
"In one week we have our holidays. Come
U d spend a few days with me,”
" Delighted, but ”
k That’s enough. Great Northern at ten,
thirp,” said Fidler, who had pretty unmarried
sisters, and knew that Gosling Green would in
herit wealth.
Gosling had promised to go with another
friend named Capper, and be said so.
“ Put him off, you’re booked to me first. Go
to him afterward,” exclaimed Fidler.
It was settled.
In a week he found himself at the Grange,
which is in a pretty part of Bedfordshire.
Very nice people and charming society, among
which the memory of Bianca was obliterated.
Miss Christian Fidler, commonly called “CHer
ry,” was a captivating damsel.
Gosling made up to her. He flattered him
self he was a daring, desperate, devil of a fel
low.
One night Fidler asked his sister, Cherry:
“ How do you like yonng Green?”
“ I don’t care about him,” she replied.
“ He's got lots ot money.”
“ Has lie ? What a bother one can’t live with
out money,” sighed pretty Cherry.
“Look here, Cherry, dear,” said Fidler, seri
ously, “Gosling Green will have a thousand
pounds sterling a year. Do you love him well
enough to marry him ? You are the youngest
of six, you know, and girls don’t go off with a
run in these bard times.”
“ I’m not afraid,” said Cherry franklv.
“ Will you have him ? He isn’t such a bad
looking fellow, though he is a little pulpy about
here,” touching bis forehead.
“ A little I” exclaimed Cherry.
“ Well, he’s as soft as a boiled turnip, if you
like, but a clever woman could soon brace him
tip. Will you—have—him 1“
“ He hasn’t asked me,” replied Cherry.
“ What a strange thing it is a woman can’t
answer a plain question in a straightforward
manner. Will you—yes or no ?”
Cherry had some difficulty iu overcoming her
•native modesty, but she succeeded at last and
said, “Yes.”
Jack Fidler looked up at Gosling the next
morning, and said, “Goss, old man, a word
with you.”
“ Yes, Jack, what is it,” asked Gosling pleas
antly and familiarly.
“You love my sister?” said Fidler with a
frown.
“ Which of ’em,” gasped Gosling the unhap
py. He was thinking of Bianca.
“Why, Cherry, of course. Don’t attempt to
plav the tool with me 1”
“But ”
“ Look here; you can talk afterward,” inter
rupted Fidler. “ Are your iuteutious honora
ble ? that’s what I want to know.”
“Of course they are.”
“ Will you marry her?”
“Certainly, with pleasure.”
“ That will do. Give me your fist, dear old
boy. I shake it most cordially, and shall be
proud ot you for a brother-in-law,” said Fid
ler.
“There is one thing, though,” began Gos
ling.”
“ I’ll hear nothing now. You can make it all
right with Cherry when you see her. Poor lit
tle dear, she is awfully fond of you. By Jove '
you’re a luoky fellow.”
“ May I ”
“ No, you mayn’t. Go and smoke your cheer
ful pipe, Baid Fidler. “ I’ll go and speak to
the mum. The old lady likes you, and she’ll
be pleased to hear the news. Ta, ta.”
Gosling Green groaned and muttered. “ I’ve
done a nice thing!”
So he had. Only those who have been en
gaged to two women at once can form any opin
ion of that yodng man’s feelings.
His brain was on fire. But worse was to
come.
CHAPTER 111.
It was arranged that the young couple should
correspond regularly and be married in tflree
months.
Oddly enough, this was the arrangement
that had been made between Mr. Gosling Green
and Bianca,.
When he left the Grange, he proceeded to
Rugby, where his friend, Allred Capper lived.
Allred was a man of the world, and had a pet
scheme by moans of which he fondly fancied he ■
couid invariably back the right horse.
lie made beta an 1 lost.
When h:s friend Gosling arrived he was in all
the agonies of an unsuccessful Good wood.
He knew Gosling’s parents wero rich, and
knew, too, he would have no difficulty in getting
his bills discounted.
Taking him out for a drive one morning, ho
said, in a cautions manner :
“ You are ray triend, I believe, Goss ?”
“ I should say so,” replied Gosling.
“Friends will do anything for ono another.”
“ Will they ? ’
“Real friends, I mean?” replied Capper.
“That’s what I mean.”
“You’re a good-hearted fellow—l know you
were,” Capper said, with a gush. “ Now, I’m
in a mess.”
“ What, about women ?” asked Gosling, think
ing of Bianca and Cherry.
“No ; bother women I I’m past that; not such
a fool; no, thank you.”
“ What then ?”
“Money. I’ve been putting the pot on rather
heavily lately, and dropped no end of coin.”
“Dear me, that’s bad I”
“Now, I want you to back a bill. Will you ?
—trilling amount; or, 11l take your acceptance
—will you give me that ? ’
“ Certainly—with pleasure,” replied Gosling.
The wily Capper whipped up the horses,
pulled up at an inn, went into the parlor, called
lor a bottle of Perrier jouet, made Gosling
drink more than was good for him, obtained
pen and ink, produced a bill stamp, tilled it up
ior£ 500, payable three months after date, and
said:
“Write your name there, dear boy, and make
it payable at your father’s banker’s.”
“Certainly—with pleasure,” Gosling answer
ed, as he wrote his patronymic in a ciear, bold
hand.
“Of course, I shall take it up,” said Capper.
“It doesn t matter.”
“You won’t be troubled. I never let a friend
down. Ask any one who knows me if I ever put
a pal in the hole,” said Capper, putting the bill
in his pocket.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t do such a thing,” said
Gosling.
“Not I. Let’s have a game of bitliards.”
“I can’t play much now. I can only knock
the balls about. Suppose we play 10J up lor a
fiver.”
“All right,” replied Gosling, who could not
say no.
In a couple of hours he had lost five-and
twenty pounds, and did not feel happy.
The next day Alfred Capper went to town to
“melt the stuff and collar the chips,” as he
slangly expressed it, and Gosling wearily and
sadly found his way home.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. and Mrs. Green wero fond of their son
Gosling. They had been anxiously expecting
him, and bis lather bad brought him a horse to
ride.
It was a very fine-looking horse high up, but
toward the bottom it looked a little like a Green
wich pensioner—that is to say, it was rather
wooden-legged.
Mrs. Green had set her heart on his marrying
a cousin of his, whom she had invited to meet
• him during the holidays, and she felt sure that
he would like the little maid and comply with
her wishes, as, from a boy, he had never refused
her anything.
Annie Maxwell was a nice, sweet, girl. She
saicLAer prayers and went to chapel, and sub
scrioed toward the alteration of the organ,which
had become somewhat wheezy.
She was very neat and very tidy, and indus
trious with her needle, and could play, and used
on Sundays to sing “Like a Christian Soldier”
till tears came into one’s eyes.
As I said, Annie Maxwell was his cousin.
Gosling did not know the happy surprise that
was in store for him.
His affectionate parents, however, did not
keep him long in suspense.
“ You speak to him, Green,” said his father's
wife.
“ No, my dear, it’s your place,” replied his
mother’s husband.
Mrs. Green sought her Gosling and said :
“ Gossy, dear, do you like your cousin Annie?”
“ Of course I do.”
“ Well, now, your father and I have set our
hearts on your marrying her. You must not
oppose us as you will ”
She paused and Gosling felt a sense of alarm.
“ What mother—will what?”
“ I was merely about to observe that you will
bring our gray hairs with sorrow to the grave,”
she continued.
“Oh ! is that all?” answered Gosling, with a
sense of relief.
“ Irreverent boy I Is this your love for your
parents?” asked Mrs. Green.
“ I indulged in levity, mother,” he answered,
cowering beneath the maternal reproof,” be
cause i knew that no act of mine would ever
cause you a moment’s uneasiness, and, there
fore, your fears were groundless.”
“ Gossy,” said his mother, kissing him, ten
derly, “ you are a grand boy.”
“ Thank you, mamma,” he answered, while
his ingenuous countenance was irradiated with
delight at this first proof of his mother’s confi
dence.
“There remains but one thing to ba done in
order to secure your future happiness.”
“ Name it ’ oh, name it!” he cried, piously
clasping his hands together.
Will you marry Annie Maxwell?”
“ Certainly, with pleasure,” he replied.
He sank upon his knees. His trousers were
white and the road was muddy from recent
rains.
His trousers were tight and he burst two
buttons.
“Rise,” said Mrs. Green, with the air of a
Sid dons. “ I will conduct you to your fate.
Follow me.”
He did so.
The buttons were left behind.
With his usual ligbt-hearteduess he whistled:
“ I am leaving thee in sorrow, Annie,” though
the ballad had not the slighest application to his
present state.
Annie was in the drawing-room.
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Green, “ Gossy
has entrusted me with a secret, which he will
communicate to you.”
She shut the dooT and they were alone to
gether.
Gosling sat on the edge of a chair and looked
unhappy.
“ Nice day,” he observed. As a matter of
fact the contrary was the case, as the sky was
black with clouds.
“Is.it?” said Annie. “By the way, how
bashful you are.”
“ I believe I am so considered,” replied
Gosling. “ How are all at home ?”
Now Annie Maxwell was a good girl, and it is
a fact that good girls generally have an eye to
the main chance.
She had been spoken to in private by
Mrs. Green, and know well what was in Gos
ling’s mind.
Going up to him she said: “ Goosy, dear, we
are cousins,”
“ We are, indeed,” he replied.
“We must be more than that. “ Have you
spoken to your dear mamma ?”
“No, but she’s spoken to me,” said Goslin".
“ And you wish to do it,” said Annie, with a’
pretty blush and a smile.
“Do what ?”’
“Make me your wife. Will you ?”
“ Certainly, with pleasure,” he replied.
She kissed him tenderly.
“ Now you may run away and play,” she
said. “ I wish to be alone.” The emotions of
my heart are too much for me. Go, Gossy, go.
He went.
Annie Maxwell was a good girl.
She sat down, took up her crochet as if noth
ing had happened, hummed a hymn, and felt
that she was provided for for life.
“ I wonder how many more wives I’ve got to
have,” said Gosling to himself, as he stood by
the pond and contemplated it in a suicidal man
ner.
CHAPTER V.
There was great rejoicing in the little town in
which tho Greens resided, when on the fifteenth
of July the'marriage of the esteemed and much
respected Mr. Gosling Green wae solemnized
with Miss Annie Maxwell, a young lady as beau
tiful as she was good, and as virtuous as she
was accomplished.
The frfends of the bride and bridegroom as
sembled m large numbers, and it was an occa
sion of high festivity.
The bride wore a wreath of roses, and the
bridegroom had his hkir cut previous to the
ceremony.
As they drove back to the paternal mansion
where the principal caterers from London had
exerted themselves to the utmost, a straage sur
prise awaited the groom.
When Gosling Green emerged from the tem
porary seclusion of his carriage, he nearly fell
into the arms ot—
“ Bianca, ha!”
Aghast, he retreated,when he was almost pre
cipitated into the embrace of—
“ Cherry !” he gasped.
Making a forward movement, he encountered
a gentleman with a piece of blue paper.
“ A writ.” he moaned.
“ Overdue acceptance, £500,” the holder ex
plained.
On one side was Bianca’s papa, with a stout
stick and a bulldog.
On another was Dick Fidler, with loaded pis
tols and a toothpick.
A premature announcement of the marriage
published by a wag in a morning paper, had
brought them down upon him.
“ Ha 1 ha 1” cried Gosling, “ this is too much:
my mind is going.”
Meanwhile, Annie Maxwell arrived, and was
an amused spectator of the events of the mo
ment
Mr. Green was a man of the world.
He sent a carriage to the bank and told the i
manager to bring untold gold in sacks.
The man did so.
Bianca was weeping.
Herr Gosling’s mind seemed to give way.
“ Young lady.” said Mr. Green, “ I under- i
stand you have an action for breach of promise <
of marriage against my only son, who was this «
day united in the bonds of holy wedlock to one ‘
whom he esteems dearer than his life. How <
much do you want?”
“ A hundred and fifty will enable me to open <
in the Berlin wool line on a small scale.” she ’
answered. ' (
“ Take this bag. It contains the exact sum.
Bless you, my child.” ’ j
Going to Cherry, he said: “lam informed, 1
miss, that my fascinating son has done you Ihe (
honor to hint at a possible union between him
self and you. As this is now out of the cues- ]
lion, what will you toko ?” x ;
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 3 1886.
“Thank you,” replied Cherry, “a glass of
1 sherry and a biscuit.”
“ 1h that a legal consideration ?”
I “It’s very nice.”
; He then went to the bill-holder and bought it
up at cost price, so that Gosling was, by his
3 lather s poisevering and untiring energy, free
from those embarrassments which youthful in
discretion had involved him in.
Everything being comfortably settled, an in
vitation was given to, and accepted by the un
expected visitors.
Cherry— pretty little Cherry—and her broth
er; Bianca, stern but compromising, and her
i father, and the holder of the bill, all graced the
i table with their presence.
Late iu the day, the bride and bridegroom
- drove off in a carriage and pair to the cele
brated Royal Bath Hotel Bournemouth, to en
i joy their honeymoon in the delightful seclusion
ot that charming spot.
During tho journey, Annie Maxwell, whose
little head was resting on her husband’s, said:
“ I think I shall leave you at the hotel, Gos
sy, and go to my father, who is laid up with the
’ gout.”
> “ No, you will do nothing of the sort, Annie,”
ho replied. “ I say—No I”
“ Indeed ! When did you learn to say No ?”
, she remarked, with a start.
I “To day, when my folly camo homo to me. I
; am a husband, and will assert my authority.”
I “ You ought to surrender that to me, my
» dear,” replied Annie, “ but as I like character
o: your own, I will not go to my father’s, and
you shall enjoy the advantage which a judi-
) cions ‘No’ con ers upon you.”
He kissed her. She kissed him.
It was all kisses* »and kissing and being
I kissed, and such is one of tho delights oi hon
eymooning.
> a happOctFieib.
1 BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.
“If you please, mum, it’s the butcher’s boy.
He wishes you a happy Now Year.”
Mrs,. Fitz Audrey irowned. Bbo was picking
: out the few round, fair oranges that were to be
1 found in a basket of damaged fruit that she had
bought cheap (Mrs. Fitz Audloy had a weakness
lor bargains) and she did not care to bo dis
turbed iu the avocation.
“Mar a,” said she, tartly, “I should think
you would know better than to come here with
‘ such a ridiculous message. Tell the butcher’s
’ boy to go about his business and then rub up
L the silver as quick as you can, for it’s past 10
and Miss Theolina will want you presently to do
her hair.’’
And accordingly Maria went back and blighted
the hopes of the butcher’s boy, who had dreamed
L of a nickel, or at the very least a sugar cake, in
r return for his good wishes.
; “ Misses ain’t one of the generous kind, she
ain’t,’ said Maria, with a sardonic smile.
“ Make haste, Maria,” screamed r Mrs. Fitz
' Audley over the basement stairs. “ The parlor
’ mirror wants polishing off and tho doorsteps
are to be scrubbed and the covers must be
taken off the furniture and the umbrella stand
cleaned. And, Maria I”
' “ Ma’am!”
“ Has the cako come from Signor Sal Erato’s ? ’
“ Yessum.”
“ And the pickled oysters ?”
“ They’re down stairs, mum, on the kitchen
table, in a tin pail.”
“ Be sure you’re very careful ijot to lot the
cat get near them, Maria. And the wine, Maria
—is it properly iced ?”
“ Mr. Fitz Audley, mum, he saw to that,”
i grumbled Maria, beginning to lose patience.
“ Very well,” said the lady. ‘Til come down
and cut the cake directly. * And t iere are the
. bonbons and the nuts and raisins to arrange
yet, and the coffee to make. Oh dear ! I wish
. Theoline would be a little more prompt in
dressing. We’re getting all behindhand.”
But at ono o’clock Miss Theoline Fitz Audley
made her appearance, in all tho glories ot a
rose-colored silk gown, with low neck and
short sleeves, kid gloves wrinkled up above tho
elbows, a fan as big as a tea tray, and long,
> loose, yellow curls floating down over her
shoulders.
. “How do I look, ma?” said Aud
. ley, pausing before the mirror with a languish
ing air.
“ Like an angel, love !” said her mother, who
had just succeeded iu buttoning herself into an
uncomfortably tight black velvet dress, and
» whoso Rhine-stone diamonds sparkled with
lack-lustre beams.
“I don’t think you’ve got flowers enough on
the table, ma,” said Theoline, with a critical
glance toward the back parlor, where the hos
pitable arrangements of the day were now com
plete.
“ i know, dear,” said the perturbed matron,
’ “but flowers are so shockingly dear on N-pw
Year’s Day. Tea-roses, twenty cents each; smi
lax, half a dollar a yard, and violets, four dol
lars a hundred—and your father perpetually
preaching economy!”
! “Oh, i wouldn’t pay any attention to pa’s
. nonsense,” said the dutiful Theoline. “You
‘ might have hired a few camelias and lemon
trees and things to fill up the ugly angles of the
room, for What’s this on the floor ?”
“It’s your Aunt Keronhappuch’s letter,” said
r Mrs. Fitz Audloy. “ I must have dropped it
out of my pocket.”
“Tiresome old thing!” said Theoline, prac
ticing tho effects of various graceful attitudes
on the sofa. “ The idea of her wanting to come
, hero and pass New Year’s Day with us ! But it
“ was a capital idea of yours, ma, to write bacß
that pa was sick, and the house would be closed
to callers this year.”
“ Something bad to be done,” said Mrs. Fitz
1 Audley, arranging tho draperies ot the window
a little more to her taste. “We couldn’t have
such an old antediluvian as that in our parlors,
if Why, good gracious ! there she comes
now I”
Theoline ran to the window with a little
1 shriek.
1 Sure enough, there was a cheap cab stopping
at the door,with a moth-eaten hair-trunk, stud
ded with brass nails, on tho top, and a stout old
lady in a poke bonnet and a mangey squirrel
skin cloak issuing from its depths.
“ Put out the gas, ma 1” screamed Theoline.
“ Lock the drawing-room doors ! Tell Maria to
say we’re not receiving! Where’s my vinai
grette? Ido think I shall faint away !”
Mr. Fitz Audley, who, in a brand-new suit, a
silk hat, as yet unpaid for, and straw-colored
kid gloves, was just about issuing forth to make
calls, was hustled back upstairs, and bidden by
the flustered Maria “ not to stir out until
missus had spoke to him.”
Theoline remained perdu in tho darkened
drawing-room. Mrs. Fitz Audley, with a serge
wrapper thrown over the splendors of the
black-velvet gown, advanced to meet Aunt
Kerenhappuch Johnson, from Owl Creek, who
had thus inopportunely arrived.
“ My dear aunt!” she cried, “ what a very
unexpected pleasure this is !”
“ Thought I’d surprise you !” chuckled the
old woman. “ And if George is sick, there
can’t be no better nurse than I be. I’ve fetched
along some o’ them yarbs I gathered and dried
myself, and a bottle ot Widow Crupman’s cough
syrup, and he ain’t no wiise, is ho? P’r aps I’d
better go to him at once.” e
“ Dear Aunt Kerenhappuch, let me take you
to your room,” stammered Mrs. Fitz Audley.
“ When you have removed your things and had
a cup of tea .”
“ I smell coffee,” said the old lady, elevating
her fine Homan nose. “ I alius was dreadful
partial to coffee, Niece Eliza. Yes, I’ll jest set
here and sip a drop or so while jmu go and
prepare George to see me. I’ve "oiled up a
new remedy of witch-hazel buds and yarrow
that .”
Mrs. Fitz Audley hurried away, leaving Aunt
Kerenhappuch Johnson in the midst of a long
account of the miraculous cures that had been
wrought by the famous combination of witch
hazel buds and yarrow.
“ George,” she cried, breathlessly, to her hus
band, “ you can’t go out to-day I”
“Can’t go out to-day ? And why the deuce
can’t I go out to-day ?” shouted Mr. Fitz Aud
ley, who, being of an eminently social disposi-..
tion, enjoyed the festive celebration of New'*
Year’s Day.
“ That old hag has come 1” cried Mrs. Fitz
Audley. “ Your Aunt Kerenhappuch !”
“The dickens she has !” roared Fitz Audley.
“ You know she wrote two weeks ago, to say
that she was coming,” explained his wife. “So
I wrote to her that you were very sick, and we
shouldn’t receive calls this year.”
“Just like you 1” growled the ungrateful
Fitz Audley. “You’re always telling lies of
that sort. I knew you’d get caught in ’em some
day. Hang Aunt Kerenhappuch ! Shut her up
somewhere! Get rid oi her till night, any
how !”
“ George, hush !” sibillated bis wife. “You
must put on your dressing-gown and slippers,
and pretend to be ill for a little while ! ’
“ I’ll be hanged if I do, then !” viciously re
torted her husband. “ I don’t propose to have
my New Year’s day spoiled by any cantanker
ous old woman alive ! You’ve lied yourself into
this scrape, and now you must lie yourself out
of it I”
“ Don’t do that. Niece Eliza—don’t do that!”
uttered a persuasive voice. “ There ain’t no
sort of necessity for imperilin’ your soul just to
get rid of an ‘ old hag’ like me. Glad to see you
so chirk, Nephew George, but I don’t want i
nyther to be hanged nor shet up until night.
’Pears to me I’ve happened in sort of inconve
nience. But, anyhow, I don’t calc’late to stay .
where I ain’t welcome.”
It was Aunt Kerenhappuch Johnson herself.
Tired of waiting, she had started to go down
stairs to heat the decoction of herbs, and miss- ]
ing the way into the kitchen, had been attracted •
toward Mr. Fitz Audley’s room by the sound of ]
voices. 1
“ Dear Aunt Kerenhappuch,” began poor Mr/ i
Fitz Audley, with a lively remembrance of the ]
old lady’s bank account, broad acres and fat ]
packets oi Government bonds.
But Aunt Kerenhappuch, highly offended ]
bustled away down the stairs and acrocs the !
hall, blundering directly into the brilliant draw- j
ing-rooms, where Theoline was at that moment
curtseying a smiling welcome to a bevy of got- <
goously attired young gentlemen. ° (
“Law sakes alive ! I hope I don’t intrude !” i
said Aunt Kerenhappuch, stumbling over a t
smilax-wreathed statuette of Lady Godiva and f
contriving to upset the urn of steaming coffee <
which Maria had temporarily placed near the f
door.
How she got out she never knew, but present- i
ly a passing cab was chartered, her hair trunk -
hoisted on the outside, and herself wedged in t
the inside, all safe and snug.
“They cut their kerridges after sich a scant i
pattern nowadays,” said poor Aunt Kerenhap- <
pujh, as she counted her parcels. t
f And so she went back to Owl Creek in deep
dudgeon, and that New Year’s Day was a season
oi lamentation to the Fitz Audley family.
“Aunt Kerenhappuch must be conciliated at
t all hazards,” said Mrs. Fitz Audloy. “If it
i hadn’t been for calculating on her money, we
3 never should have gone so deeply into debt.”
“The old girl will have to ho brought round
somehow,’ acknowledged Mr. Fitz Audley,
- whose after Now Year’s frame of mind was de-
- cidedly different from that of the festal day.
“Send Theoline out to the wilderness. Thoo-
- line is the only one to go.”
r Unwillingly enough, Theoline- packed up her (
) trunk and went to Owl Creek, prepared to use
e very propitiatory effort to regain the o-ld lady’s
l favor.
“It’s you, is it, grandniece*Theoline ?” said-
- Aunt Kerenhappuch. “ Como in and sit down.
i You look as blue as indigo. Dreadful cold spelL
o’ weather, ain’t it ? 1 can’t ask you to
) your tilings off and stay, because I ain’t got
but one spare room, and that ain’t to spare no
• longer. I’ve adopted my second cousin Elna
) than Wheeler’s daughter, Ruth Ann, to live with
mo and be my own. They ain’t eity’gentry, but
’ I guess they sot jest as much store by me as if
they was. And yon can go back, grandniece
’ Thoo’ine, and toll your folks never to expect
nothing more of me I”
[ There was an end of the “ great expectations”
which the Fitz Audleys had built up around
r Aunt Korenhuppnch’s fortune.
r Meek little Ruth Ann Wheeler had totally
1 superseded them.
Mr. Fitz Audley said it was all his wife’s fault.
Mrs. Fitz Audloy said it nover would have hap
pened if George had boon guided by her. Miss
; Theoline took a “ situation,” and the creditors
- gnashed their teeth. „
And the whole family mutually agreed that it
was anything but'a happy New Year.
a jeTseFSectre.
The Wanderings of a “ Ghost”—Only-
Women Daring to Brave It.
{Fi'orn the Philadelphia News.)
I There is a miniature reign of terror iu the
I quiet borough of Moorestown, N. J. A strange
j being, of human form, with a demon’s face and
. the mysterious movements of a spirit, has set.
the Quaker town into a perpetual quake. The <
t chief occupation ot this visitor is to
i scare unprotected women and children into
j spasms and give the braggarts of men lively
( midnight chases. Whatever may be the ape
) ciea, sex or purpose of the demoniacal thing, it
) is referred to in Moorestown as “The Ghost.
During the past ten days it has appeared so
[ frequently that social, religious and commercial
I matters ot the borough are much disturbed.
t The good people do not say their prayers at
church in the evening, and the bad folks move
» around after dark iu groups. Lovers—and
they are numerous in this place—do their
r courting before sundown. Merchants put up
. the shutters early, for customers are few after
j supper. No community has ever been more
, impressed with the tact that they have a demon
[ among them than the inhabitants of pretty
Moorestown.
A lew evenings ago Abraham Strouck, a young
• man employed by Plumber Wo.rrel, on return
ing on the “owl’ train from Philadelphia, en
countered the “ ghost ” just as he reached Airs.
t Kcporn’s cottage below the station. It came upon
him noiselessly, as if it moved over the ground
, without the use of its feet. It walked aside of
t him for a few feet before he discovered it; he
was too much frightened to cry out and was
’ fixed to the spot/ The creature was over six
feet high, dressed in a black dress, with a hide
t ous face, it probably being an animal mask.
» It disappeared without uttering a word.
The evening previous Mrs. Wilkins, who re-
L sides at Second and Mill streets, was accosted
by tho unnatural thing while returning from a
store, and her description is the same as Mr.
Strouck’s. She is, however, of the opinion
b that it is a man dressed in female attire. Mrs.
[ Esta Moore and Mrs. Mary Evans, who live in
j the section of the town known as West Moores
town, have also received visits from it. The
I children of Mrs. Fortner will believe in spooks
until their dying day, for their experience with
. this thing of mystery almost proved fata). /V
series of spasms is said to have followed the
shock they received a few evenings ago, when
> returning from a visit to a schoolmate.
L Apart from noiselessly gliding up to unpro
[ tooted females, the “ghost” has displayed con
t siderablo agility in jumping back fences and
peering through windows at women and chil
b dren while gathered around the evening lamp.
I Mrs. Jones heard a quiet tapping on the win
dow a few nights ago, and quickly glancing
around, she remarked : “There is a black cat. ’
The noise continuing, she looked again and
caught a full view of the monster’s face. It re-
J mained long enough that all might see its ugli
. ness, and vanished. A few minutes later Mr.
Jones was gunning lor it with a revolutionary
r carbine.
Both Mrs. King and Mrs. Barclow have been
j favored by the spook with shocks, and, until
t assured that the thing is captured, will do their
j odd errands while the sun is shining,
j John feoland, the shoemaker, employed by W.
E. Thompson, on the main street, feels rather
[ uncomfortable because ho is obliged to peg
s away every night until near midnight. To a
reporter he as he lifted a huge Colt’s navy
revolver from under his bench : “ Be it a ghost
} or be it a man, I only want one shot at it. Peo
) pie are afraid to go out at night; in fact, you
■ can hardly get anybody to open their doors
■ after dark for fear the ghost will be standing
I there grinning at them, I don’t believe in
ghosts, but so many people down our way have
; actually seen it that I carry this revolver in
case of any/ surprise. My wife keeps things
( pretty tight at home after dark.”
Some of the hard-m:nded people in the town
j declare it is somebody bent on mischief. The
figure being tall, some suspicious folks have
> hinted that it is Aaron Burr, the Constable and
detective, because he is the tallest man in the
? place, but, tp settle such a damaging report.
’ the well-known catcher of horse thieves has
[ offered a reward from his own purse for anyone
solving the mystery. He further declares that
he spent many nights prowling around the town
in search of the devilish creature. He admits
, he has several times encountered it, but it flit
ted away before he could get his hip pocket ar
senal to bear upon it. A number of scouting
parties have been organized by the unterrified
of tho town, but the ghost flitted in and out
among them before they recovered their senses.
In fact, the ghostly visitant has given several of
the bullies such a terrible fright and chase that
it now prowls around unmolested.
The only two people in the town that have
braved the dreadful thing are women. When
it slipped up to Mrs. Maggie Robinson the other
evening, she struck out from the shoulder and
exclaimed : “You brute, you cannot scare me.”
Mrs. Moore, when she was accosted and was
treated to a demoniacal smile, took tho compli
ment coolly, and said: “You had better go
home, fori know you.”
Its principal tramping-gronnd at the present
time is West Moorestown, but previous to this
the ghost had its rendezvous in a clump of trees
above the East Moorestown canneries. It is
claimed by some that the ghost is frequently in
visible to men when it is to the horses. On cer
tain parts of the road leading from the Moores
town Fair Ground, those who have driven the
horses belonging to Farmer Comfort and Yea
mans Gillingham have had difficulty in getting
them past certain points, and it is "a generally
expressed be.ief that the animals saw the ghost
in some new masquerade.
“Jim,” the nondescript colored man em
ployed by Frank Hollinshead on a farm near
Hartford, cannot be persuaded to cross the
threshold of his master’s home after dark. A
few weeks ago he came up the road with so
much momentum that he flew through the pan
els of the bolted kitchen door and made a dent
in the opposite wall, declaring on his bended
knees “that he seed it wid his own eyes.”
theTF™TFsolujion.
THE DEATH OF KIND OLD BIJAH.
His Honor was there in his accustomed place
and the clerk eat at the same desk, but when
men looked lor Bijah they found a stranger officer
exercising his functions. They marveled much
at this, and they whispered together, but it was
only when his Honor rose up with tears in his
eyes that the truth was known.
Bijah was dead I
Our Bijah—your Bijah-tha good old janitor
whose name was a household word in every
land where the English language is spoken
We who knew him in the flesh forgot that he
was growing old—that tho years had slipped
past until the burden was a heavy one to bear.
We sometimes remembered that he was wilo
less—that his few surviving relatives were
scattered—that he was a man without a home
but he did not grow old to us. The frosts ot
old ago touched his scant locks, and wrinkles
came to testily that he was descending the path 1
of lite, but we would not have it that he had be
come an old man. ]
Verily, a diamond In the rough. As a child i
he sat in the shadows of poverty; as a youth he 1
had no advantages of education; ae a man he i
must solve the problem of Hie with brawn and i
muscle. And so he came to the public a dia- 1
mond in the rough, but he brought with him I
such a big heart, such good nature, and such a >
fund of sympathy for the erring and unfor
tunate, that the men and women and children
of America forgot his rough points and became
his friends and defenders. i
And he is dead ! f
A thousand lost children have been taken j
kindly in Iris arms, their tears of fright wined i
away with fatherly hand, and his soothing voice ]
has said to them: " I will soon take you home i
to mother.” Women whose lives have been a '
struggle with poverty and despair have come to <
him lor kind words and for bread, and not one t
has ever been refused. Men who had been un
fortunate have found in him an honest sym- i
pathizer and a kind adviser. In his goings t
and comings his cheerful voice and big heart 1
made the world better. ,
And to-day he lies in his last resting place— I
old, poor in purse, with no grand procession of i
carriages—but with more hearts sorrowing than I
we can number. There will be no monument
to mark his grave, but it will be remembered f
for ail that. When tho world owes a debt of r
gratitude it does not repay it in cold and un- 1
feeling marble. c
How often this old man, lying dead—this man i
with such a heart as the world seldom hears of r
—has pleaded with Justice to give the young f
and unfortunate, the old and despairing one s
more opportunity to retrieve themselves, we c
who have seen h>m daily know best. How many I
owe to him as much as themselves the fact that e
they arc living in the sunshine of honest life to- i
d I day we will not say. It is a grand eulogy on the
i dead to say of him : “He wronged no one—all
were his friends.”
t And that big heart has stopped its beating,
t and that gruff voice, of which children even
3 were not afraid, will be heard no more on earth.
If he did not profess Christianity—if not found
I upon his knees among praying men—if his voice
, did not sing the hymns of salvation—ho had in
- his heart charity, sympathy, forgiveness. That
. was tb;i record he took with him into the valley
■ of the shu low—across the dark river, to the
bright'r shore. By it he will be judged, and a
thousand hearts will plead: “May he find
f peace.”
i NEW DEFINITIONS.
i # FROM THE LATESTDICTIONARY.
t (From the Chicago Times.)
> Anger—The reaction of others’ faults upon
- ourselves.
i Army—A body of men kept one thousand
t days to bo used on one.
f Bachelor—A wild goose that tame geese envy,
j Benevolence—A service that the receiver
t should remember and the bestowor forget.
Child—The future in the present.
’ Co piette—A mirror that receives all images,
I but preserves none.
Consistency—A church without a mortgage
j on it.
Conversation—The idle man’s business and
the business man’s recreation.
Crying—A woman’s weakness and a child’s
a strength.
3 Death—The dealer that sweeps in the bone
chips.
t Debt—The example set by a government to
its people.
Family—Matrimony doing penance.
Fashion—A decree that enhances beauty, but
makes homeliness the more conspicuous.
Gratitude—The heart’s remembrance.
T Heart—The abyss of reason.
Heiress—A capital wire.
Hope—The bridge between our longings and
fruition, beneath which flow the waters of dis
a appointment.
3 Inconsistency—A woman’s prerogative ; for
I which wo never blamo her unless we are its
t. victims.
) i Ink -The black sea upon which thought rides
> at anchor.
> Jealousy—The homage paid by inferiority to
t merit.
Justice—Truth in action.
b Law—A trap baited with promise of profit or
revenge.
> Lawyers—The heir of intestates.
1 Love—A frozen deep; before you venture aee
. if it will bear.
t Lovers—The miss-guided.
> Luxury—The labor of the wealthy.
I Marriage—The only lottery not put down.
: Mirror—A shrine, before which the functions
of worshipper, priest and divinity are all enact-
• ed by the same party.
> Miser—One who makes bricks that his heirs
i may build houses.
r Money—To the wise a convenience, to the fool
a necessity.
f Old Maid—A woman who has missed the op-
• portunity of making a man happy.
Pawnbroker—The man who holds your coat
while you fight.
i Poet—One who may bestow immortality upon
I others, yet finds it difficult himself to live,
f Poetry—Thought in blossom.
> Prison—An oven into which society puts
J newly-made crime to harden.
: Revenge— The only debt which it is wrong to
■ pay.
. river—A moving road, at once the highway
and the conveyance.
Space—The statue of divinity.
I Spoon—A hand without fingers,
t Stars—Jeweled beads in the rosaries oi
. heaven.
i Success—A veneering that can hide all base-
• ness.
i Taxes—Periodical bleeding as prescribed by
• government.
> Temptation—The test of soul.
’ Tenderness—Passion in repose.
i Theatre—Nature in the “house of correc-
i tion.”
J Time—To the aged an atom ;to the yonng a
> world.
Tongue—The boneless that can break bones.
Ugliness—The privilege in man, the unpar
j donable in woman.
A REMARKABLE STORY.
: A ROMANCE FROM THE FIFTH
! CONTINENT.
A Btrangely-romantiotale comes from Sydney.
’ A short time ago, according to the Sydney (Aus-
• tralia) Mail, there sailed for England a young
' man whoso career would furnish materials
enough to construct a romance out of. His
} father was a younger eon oi good family, and
_ related collaterally to a baronet of old descent,
r living on a valuable estate in one of the Mid
land counties. He was somewhat wild in his
• youth, and a clover amateur actor. A junior
f clerkship was procured for. him in the Treas-
> ury, and he used to spend as many of his even
‘ ings as he could lu one or other of the theatres,
’ where he fell in love with and married a pretty
1 ballet-girl, whose father was the stage door
' keeper, and whoso mother was the wardrobo
-1 woman in the theatre from which hor husband
1 took her.
i “ The union gave groat offense to his friends,
1 who found very httle difficulty in prevailing
1 upon him to quit England and go out to Aus
-1 tralia, accompanied by his wife, and were fur
! nished with the sum of £SOO over and above their
passage money. During the voyage a sou was
1 born them, and a serious disaster befell the
1 child’s father. He accidentally fell down the
’ hold, and injured his spine so severely that he
1 was bedridden from that time lorth. He lin
’ gored for a twelvemonth after his landing, and
■ then died. His protracted illness had exhaust
-1 ed his resources, and his young widow found
’ herself worse than penniless—somewhat in
‘ debt after paying the funeral expenses.
1 “But she was a brave little woman, and soon
1 obtained an engagement at the Theatre Royal,
under her maiden name, and was enabled to
\ maintain and give a tolerable education to her
: boy. She died of cancer before he was seven
teen, and his life since then—which was about
' five years ago—has been one of vicissitude.
Latterly he has been acting as waiter in one
of our restaurants, where a certain inherited
' elegance of manner and refinement of accent on
his part have often caused me to speculate as to
his history. By chance I had the opportunity
of rendering him a trifling service, which en
couraged his confidence, and he told me his per
sonal history.
A few months ago, glancing down the adver
tising columns of the Times, I noticed one in
quiring for a missing heir, and the particulars
given seemed totally with those of his own nar
rative. I called his attention to it, and the re
sult was the opening up of a correspondence
with a firm of solicitors in Loneoln’s-in-fields,
followed, in due time, by a remittance from
them, and the information that he had suc
ceeded to a baronetcy and £12,000 a year.
No less than three lives had stood between
him and it when the old possessor of the title
died, but these had been all removed by acci
dent in the short space of eighteen months.
One had been drowned while bathing near
Mount Agneii, in Jersey, a second had slipped
into a crevasse upon the Alps, and a third had
broken his neck while riding to hounds in his
own country.”
IN THE HOUsFqFLORDS.
A Glimpse of the Upper Branch of the
British Parliament.
(From the English Illustrated Magazine.)
The House of Lords commences public busi
ness at a quarter past four, an innovation of re
cent date. A few years ago public business
was approached an hour later, and the change
was made at the instance of a younger section
of peers, who complained that they were prac
tically shut out from debate. They hoped that
by meeting an hour earlier they would get
some chance of speaking. The result has not
justified their ardent expectation. Matters are
now very much as they were heretofore, except
that the House on the average adjourns earlier
The first principle of debate in the House of
Lords is that, except under direst pressure
discussion shall be concluded in time to dress
for eight o’clock dinner.
There is no such thing in the Lords as debate
m the sense that it exists in the House of Com
mons. There are some half dozen members
whose opinion is looked for, and this given
there remains only to vote, The peers have no 1
constituents and are freed from the necessity of
periodically putting themselves en evidence.
Undoubtedly the foremost man in the House <
of Lords is the Marquis of Salisbury. A de
bater of great power, an orator of singular fe- <
licity, he has in unbounded measure that
strong individuality which fascinates an assem
bly or a nation. He is always personally inter- 1
esting, in the sense that Lord Beaconsfield was 1
and that Lord Randolph Churchill is, a pecu
liar quality lacking alike in Mr. Gladstone and
Earl Granville. When either of these states
men rise, people know, within certain bounds 1
iretty much what they will say or do. When 1
, -ord Salisbury presents himself at the table of J
the House of Lords there is nothing certain !
about him except that he will say something in J
a very striking manner. He scorns oratorical i
graces, and rarely makes long speeches. Hav- c
mg something to say, he says it in the fewest t
possible words, and resumes his seat with alac- <
rity. When addressing the House ho has a c
way of lounging over the table and chatting in a c
conversational tone, as if deprecating the idea I
that he was making a speech.
Life is too short for indulgence in set orations '
and if we have anything to sav, let us say it in t
the fewest words and get to action. Lord Salis- £
bury does not make use of copious notes, even
when delivering his most important speeches; 1
but the barbed phrases that drop carelessly 6
from his lips are evidently well studied and la
boriously prepared.
In Lord Granville the Marquis often finds a 1
foeman worthy of his steel. Lord Granville’s t
manner is the direct opposite to that of his po- 1
litical adversary. Lord Salisbury is scornfully
overbearing, sometimes truculent, in bis man- s
ner. Lord Granville is polite, deprecating, al
most apologetic, yet he sometimes,with smiling ’
face and softly inflected voice, manages to say 4
some things which, for bitterness, cannot be ex- s
celled by the Marquis of Salisbury. There are
possibly to-day few intellectual treats of a high- C
er character than to bo present at a controlersv <•
ia the House of Lords between the two leaders, a
1 A DOG ON THE TRAIN.
Why a Demure Little Miss Wasn’t Con
] corned About It.
; The train waa just about to leave the station,
when the guard observed a small white dog,
j with a busby tail and bright black eves, sitting
. cozily on the seat beside a young lady so hand
r some that it made his heart roll over like a lop
-9 sided pumpkin. Butjduty is duty, and he re
b marked, in his most deprecatory manner:
I “ I’m verry sorry, madam, but it’s against
the rules to have dogs in the passenger car
riages.”
“ Oh, is it ?” and she turned up two lovely
brown eyes at him beseechingly. “ What in the
world shall I do ? I can t throw him away; he’s
. a birthday present from my aunt.”
“By no means, miss. We’ll put him in the
dog-box. and he’ll be just as happy as a robin
a in Springtime.”
“ What, put my dog in a dog-box ?”
1 “I’m very sorry, miss, I do assure you, but
the rules of this company are as inflexible as
the laws of the Medes and them other follows,
t * you know. He shall have my overcoat to lie on,
and he shall have plenty of food and water
every time he opens Lis mouth.”
“ I think it’s very cruel, that I do; and I
’ know somebody will steal it,” and she showed
0 a half notion to cry that nearly broke the
guard’s heart, but he was firm, and sang out to
I a porter, who was poking a fire close by:
“ Here, Andy, tako this dog over into the
a dog-box, and tell Dudley to take the best possi
ble care of him.”
Q The young lady pouted, but the man reached
over and picked the dog up as tenderly as
n though it was a two-weeks-old baby, but as he
fid so a strange expreseion cam a over his face,
nd he said hastily to the guard, “ Here, you
t just hold him a miuute, till I put this poker
away,” and he trotted out at the door and held
on to the handle, shaking like a man with the
ague.
The guard had no sooner had his hands on
j the dog than he looked around for a hole to fall
through.
“ Wh-wh-wby, that is a worsted dog I”
r “ Yes, sir,” said the little miss, demurely.
a “ Did you not know that ?*’
“ No, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t know
8 that,” and he laid the dog down in the owner’s
lap and walked out on the platform, where he
j stood half an hour in the cold trying to think of
a tune to suit the moat sold man wo ever aaw
on that railway.
r • . V « <r
MARRIED AV HEN BLIND.
5 A CHARMING LITTLE STORY.
(From the Cincinnati Sun.)
Several years ago a resident of one of the sub
} urbs had the misfortune to become totally blind,
a cataract forming over his eyes. While in this
condition hia wife died. A young German girl,
j whom the unfortunate man had never seen,was
very attentive to the wife in her last illness, and,
j after her death, did what she could to make the
grief-stricken husband and his two little chil
dren as comfortable as possible.
Such devotion did not go unrewarded. The
j. blind man proposed and was accepted. He
married the faithful girl. Two children were
the result of this union. During his years of
blindness the sightless man never lost hopes
that some day he might again look upon the
_ beauties of nature and the loved ones around
him.
A physician was finally consulted, who agreed
to attempt the removal of the cataract. The
r operation was successful, and he from whom
the light had been shut out so many years, saw
again. Ho was almost beside himself with joy.
A friend, who was at once recognized, came
« leading a lady by the hand.
“Do you know who this is ?” he said to the
happy fellow.
“ No, I do not.”
“ That is your wife,” and then the pair, one of
' whom had never seen the other, fell into each
other’s arms, and a domestic scene of pathetic
beauty ensued.
The two little children were also brought in
to their father. He clasped them to his beating
heart, and all the miseries of the past were tor
a gotten in the pleasure of that moment. This is
a true story. The actors in this life panorama,
covering a period of ten years, are all alive.
The husband sees as well as he ever did, and
now in business in this city.
nagflhazviw jhihmuiWßEMW
Our old friend “Archibald Head” has turned
'• up again, and ha makes some joy over
r THE SKELETON “NEW YEAR'S CALLER.”
} Old Stuyvesant Holmes was a poor dead corpse
S In the “ Cadaver Burying Ground,”
J You could hunt all day for a deader stiff,
But a deader could not be found.
’ From the moss-covered label upon his slab
And the date of the “ hiergolyphs,”
® You’d quickly distinguish his age—B. C.,
And name him the king of stiffs.
'Twas a nice, inviting old bone-yard,
It s host was a jolly old dog,
! For he tacked tin signs on his boarders doors
When skated in there from the Morgue.
On Stuyvesant‘B grave was “ Old Pigs Stye,”
And the epitaph " Holmes, Sweet Home,”
Yet he was no sweeter than other old stiffs
In the catacombs out in Rome,
, Well, Holmes’ day off occurred this week,
’ His first in a thousand years,
So bursting his box, he crawled on earth,
And dusted the mud from his ears.
r He looked around with a mirthful grin
3 And his jaw wagged up and down,
3 Says he, “ I will get me a bucket of paint,
a And I’ll redden the whole damned town.”
3 Then he kicked his sign toward the sky
" And he howled with fiendish glee,
‘ “ I will fight any corpse of my weight—for fun
Or a hundred a side ’’—said he.
I Then tying bis coffin around his neck
1 And his tombstone under his arm,
Quoth ho, ‘‘l’ll meander to Kosmak’s awhile
t And ring up the fire alarm.”
> 'Twas New Years morn when he strolled forth,
) “Just one I” by the church-yard bell,
i’ When Holmes tripped gaily over the bridge
With his baggage checked from—Sbeoi.
t Up-ed nor down-ed he look-ed not.
The breeze through his whiskers roared
. Ana the pale moon gleamed on his coffin plate
j As lap after hq>—was scored.
He struck New York at one-fifteen,
> And paused at Kosmak’s door
r But box and slab had chafed his bones
And made them stiff and sore.
His “ props” were lifted from off his back
By kind friends at the bar.
And he asKed for a gallon of whisky hot
Abd a chlora de-lima cigar.
i Convivial friends from th6 pfass called in
And cordially passed the cup,
And even the Coroner—floor above—
Professionally “ asked him up.”
Carboy John, with Cy. Field’s gifts,
McCoomb from the Daily News,
Young Joo was there, likewise was Dick,
And Merrily jugged the “ booze.”
The wassail was passed a score of times.
And many a toast was sung.
And Stuyvesant told of his early days
And the crimes for which he hung.
Just then at a time when all was joy,
Some knave within did bawl,
•* A Happy New Year s to ye, Sty !
Unto ye, one and all!”
"Chestnutsl” said Sty. with a painful look.
“That gag is old and stale,
I heard it first when Ciesar fell
And it then from ago was frail.
If that is the latest here on earth
I’ll hurry and get below, ,
For-there’s more enjoyment feeding the worms
Than above, where the world s so slow.” ’
Thon he grabbed his box and shouldered his slab,
And crashed through Kosmak’s door,
While the sparks flew out of his heels in showers
As he sped along the floor.
He reached his grave at 2 A. M.,
And vowed he’d no more leave
A tempting home for a chestnut world
Where the injudicious grieve.
Archibald Head.
Mr. Kean wit about hit the truth when speak
ing of
his fashionable wife.
Mr. Keenwit was the husband of a very fashion
able and dressy wife, and on one occasion he was talk
ing with an acquaintance at a swell reception about
the women’s clothes.
“Plenty of elegant-looking women here to-night ”
ventured the stranger.
“Yes,” said Mr. K., blandly.
“Married?” queried the stranger.
“Yes; my wife’s here to-night.”
“I’m married, too, but my wife seldom goes out
She doesn’t care much for dress. Does yours ?”
“Well,” said Mr. K., with some hesitation “I
don’t really know whether ahe cares much for
dress, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t care for much
dress. There she comes now.”
Mrs. K, swept by, and the stranger changed the
conversation.
It was cruel for the traveler to humbug the
pompous merchant, but notwithstanding that,
the relation of the incident ia
VERY AMUSING.
Scene—Deck of the P. and O. steamship “ Sala
mander, outward bound, in the Bay of Bengal
Time—Early morning. The ship’s course has been
reversed, in order that an observation may be
taken and any alteration in the compass noted.
Suave and experienced traveler is pacing the deck
Pompous but verdant British merchant comes up
from below. Pompous but verdant British mer
chant observes with amazement that the sun is on
the wrong side. Floating and hazy reminiscences
of a story in Herodotus, to the effect that some an
cient mariners, sailing round Africa, found the sun
on the north, haunt his brain. Perhaps here, be
ing in the Antipodes, it rises; but no—that cannot
be. Suave and experienced traveler notices his be
wilderment, and draws near.
Merchant—“ Good morning, sir. Have you no
ticed the extraordinary position of the sun this
morning?”
Traveler, smiling—“Oh, yes! Quite natural. Wo
have reversed our course, and are sailing west, in
stead of east.”
Merchant—" What! Back to England ?”
Traveler—“ln that direction, but only for a few
minutes. V’e shall be on our way again directly.”
Merchant —“Indeed ! And can you tell rue, sir
the reason of this deviation ?”
Traveler—“Oh, the barnacles !”
Merchant—“ The barnacles? I hardly under
stand.”
Traveler—" Well, sir, you may have heard that, J
when a ship has been at sea for some time, her bot- 5
tom becomes covered with barnacles—a species oi ti
shell-fish—and it is nectssary to get rid of them.” ii
Merchant —“bo I have heard; but I fail to see the
connection—the ” U
Traveler—“ Well, it is a curious fact that barna- f: 1
cles always sleep— is some other annuals occasion b
ally do —with tiiuir mouths open.” JE
Merchant—“ Still I hardly ”
Traveler—“ Allow me to explain. Of course they
turn their heads away from the direction in which
- the ship is going. In the early morning, before the
barnacles are awake, the ship’s course is reversed.
The consequence is. of course, that the rush of
( water, coming in the contrary direction, enters their
mouths and chokes them.”
’ Merchant—“ And then ?”
’ Traveler—“ They drop off immediately, and are
" drowned.” ]
Merchant—“ How very interesting! Well, it is
- only another instance of the triumph of the intel
lect of man over that of the—of the—th-e crusta-
t cean ! Very much obliged to you, lam aure.”
Traveler—" Not at all.”
We feel assured that this incident occurred
9 in Boston. It is not unusual in that city of high
a culture and rapid progress for
9 WOMEN TO RUN THE SHANTY.
j “ There are some queer couples in this world,”
said a real estate agent. The other day a man and
a woman called to see about renting a flat. The
woman did all the talking and turned to the man
E for confirmation and corroboration. He always
8 agreed with her and he did it very meekly.
, “ ‘ Well,’ says the woman finally, ‘I will give you
, $25 for that flat, won't we, John ?’
“ « Yes’m,’ replied the man.
“ * And I'll pay the rent promptly, too, won’t wo,
j- John ?’
I “ * Yes’m.’
a " • And I ll take good care of the house, won’t
9 John?’
3 “ * Yes’m.’
“ But,” I inquired, as is usual in suoh oases, “are
3 you man and wile ?”
“ ‘Man and wife!’ exclaimed the woman, sharply,
‘ indeed we are not, are we, John ?'
1 “ ’ No’m.’
d “ What I” says I, “ not man and wife ?”
‘‘‘Not much. I'd have you know that in this
family wo are wife and man, ain’t we, John ?’
» “ ‘ Yes’m.’ ”
1
• The ancient “masher” in this instance
1 DIDN’T MAKE MUCH B¥ HIS GALLANTRY.
A certain duchess, happening to pass through th®
Burlington Arcade, in London, stopped for an in
staut before a bonnet shop. Au elderly individual
1 came up and, in winning tones, inquired if she ad
mired the bonnets. Slightly surprised, she answer
ed that she thought them very pretty.
“Then,” said he, “would you like me to buy you
one ?”
F Thoroughly appreciating the joke, she immediate
a ly said that nothing would please iier more. After
3 having carefully examined every bonnet, she finally
- chose one, for which her ancient admirer promptly
1 paid.
? “What address shall 1 send it to, madame ?” asked
the assistant.
The answer came in a clear, steady voice:
“To the Duchess of , No. street."
When she turned round she found that her friend
had vanished.
SCINTILLATIONS.
“Ever kneeling at thy feet”—The boot
black.
People we must put up with—Hotel
’ keepers.
t The sea has swallowed up a Faroe Isl
-3 and. The sea will play poker next.
» There is music in the ocean,/
In its surges wild and grand,
But we prefer in Winter
The notes of a street band.
} The Alta mentions a California young
3 woman who said plaintively: “I really have no
n choice. I haven’t education enough to teaclh school,
and there is really nothing for me to turn to beside
* literature.
1 An extraordinary accident occurred in
Yonkers last week. A young gentleman just in fun
j pointed and snapped an unloaded revolver at his
fiancee, and the weapon did not go off. This is ths
1 first time this has occurred since the war.
f Judging from the pictures we have
, seen of him in the newspapers, we should aay that
3 abo.ut a score of William H. Vanderbilts have jusfc
died. It is quite remarkable that so many gentle
men bearing the same name should rosamble each
other so slightly.
l r oung Rickling—“Let me get you
f some champagne.” Mdss Dhumme—“.No, thanks.”
j Young Richling—“Do you not like it, Miss Dhum
, me?” Miss Dhumme—“ Oh, yas I But it has suoh
an effect on me.” Young; Richling, struggling to
say something pleasant Ah—makes you—ah—»
bright!”
. “Pa,” sais Eddie McDonald ear-
3 ly one storm signal is up.” “Is it,
, my yek. Ma says she a tooth
i. P\Sx In the front door-lock this morning and your
3 shoes on top of the bureau, and she says it’s going
1 to be a cold day.” Mr. McDonald went down town
without wa’ting for breakfast.
A medical journal says there is noth
ing so potent as morphine to loosen the teeth. Th®
tramp Should always have in his possession a quan
tity of the drug. It would be mighty handy to hav®
j about when the farmer’s dog grabs him by the leg.
J At no other period in his life does he yearn with
such yearnfu! yearningness to have teeth loosened.
White Man—“ What’s the trouble
lhero ?” First Negro—" Sitmbo kicked ma in d.
mouf.” Second Negro—“lt war all a mistake, sah.
Sambo wuz lyin’ on de floah wif his mouf wid®
open, sab; I wuz sartin dat hit was my boot, eah,
an’ I neber know de diffrence till I kotch him by the
yeahs, sah, an’ den I knowed my rubber boots neb
bah had sich mon’sus yeahs as dem, sah.”
Douglas Jerrold was seriously disap
pointed with a certain book written by one of hi®
friends. Hearing that the wit had expressed hi®
disappointment, the author, on meeting him, re
marked—“ I hear you say that book of mine was th®
worst I ever wrote,” “No, I didn’t,” was th®
reply.” “Isaid it was the worst book anybody ove<
wrote.”
j Preacher— * 4 Young men should never
4 go Any place Where they would not take thoir sis
ters, Is there a Christian young man in the audi
ence who thinks he may safely break this wise
rule?” Young man under the gallery stands up.
Preacher—“ And what is that place, my young
friend, which you think yourself justified in visit
ing and yet to which you would not think of taking
your sister ? ' Young man—“ The barber shop, sir.**
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7