New York dispatch. [volume], January 10, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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L 0 v E -
BY THEODORE J. ECZERSON.
Yes, Love is quite humble-mindea—
He sends no heralds before,
With trumpets and waving banners.
To summon us, as in war.
Along quiet lanes in the country,
On lawns beneath moonlit skies,
On the crowded city crossings,
Where the shouts of drivers rise,
In the speeding railway carriage—
He heeds neither rank nor ciass.
But. painfully democratic,
He toys with both lad and lass !
Quick, subtle and fearless is Cupid,
Yet softly and silently comes;
Steals up like the sly young kitten
That watches the table for crumbs.
And we laugh at his countenance pretty,
The face of a merry child.
But his hands, as we take them, grasp us
Like bands of well-tempored steel!
His strength is that of a giant,
His heart has a tyrant’s beat,
He gives us to drink from a chalice
Of mingled bitter and sweet.
And the sweet is often forgotten,
While the taste of the bitter remains.
And we think, with oh, such longing,
Of the time when wo wore no chains !
And we knew not whether to bless him
For the false, which is yet so true,
To weep for the old worid, Jaded,
Or shout for joy at the new ! *
WILDIW’S SUMOSIS.
BY THOMAS ERRINGTON.
“ What ? Tell you a story of my life at the
Diggings ? Well, I don't know that I remember
any stories, and it I did, they’d be rather rough
ones.”
“Ob, never mind they’re being rough, Bertie;
it would make them sound all the better.”
“ Would it, indeed, Miss Kate ? I recollect
something that happened to mo—at least, under
my own eyes—before I got as far as the Dig
gings. You might like that, particularly if you
have belief in the supernatural. It is undenia
bly true, and it is quite appropriate to the day ;
this day, I mean, when we are now sitting to
gether.”
“ Oh, tell it; do tell it, Bertie.”
It was New Year’s day. I and Kate, brotlrer
and sister, and fixtures in the old home, had
welcomed the wanderer, Robert, only two days
before, after his long rovings. It seemed that
we could not make enough of him, or that Kate
would ever cease plying him with questions.
We two brothers were older by several years
than she was. All the uncles and the cousins
and the aunts were coming to dinner in the
evening ; but this was only afternoon, and wo
had gathered round the blazing fire in the dark
January day, after the luncheon tray was re
moved.
“Please tell it, Bertie ! What are you wait
ing for ?”
iSo Bertie began his tale.
“ I was for some time in the pine forests of
Maine, if you remember, sharing in the pleas
ures and pains, the good and bad luck, of a
clearing surveyor’s camp. One aiternoon, it
was the last day of the year, when the labor of
the day was over, darkness came swiftly down
upon us, surrounded as we were with towering
mountains and mighty trees. The fires were
lighted, and we sat beneath the overhanging
roof of the rude hut which formed the nucleus
of the camp. In front of us the great fire of
hemlock logs and branches roared and blazed
and crackled, as its huge tongues of flame
leaped upward toward the leaden sky, and made
the darkness of the forest seem yet more awful
and impenetrable. The ruddy light that shone
upon our faces as we sat motionless illuminated
another and more active group close at hand,
•three or four who were preparing the game
which had been shot, for supper. In front—”
“A dull, dark afternoon, just such another as
this one; and you were sitting round the fire as
we are,” interrupted Kato, who could never be
silent very long together.
“Ob, very much like this,” answered Bertie,
with a queer smile, alter which be went on with
his narrative: “Infront of and below us lay
the river, its swift current chained by the ice,
and its white surface stretching tar out until it
was lost in the gloom beyond. No sound came
to break the stillness of that vast solitude save
our own voices, the sighing of the wind over
head among the pine cones, which announced
that a storm was getting up, the intermittent
howl of the wolf, and now and then the shrill
cry of some distant loon.”
“ Wolves!” cried Kate, in a whisper. “ I
should not have liked that. Why do you stop,
Bertie?”
“ My chief friend in the camp, nay, my only
one, was Wildiu#. He tyid coms from
the old country, no mistaking lb al, &r that he
was an educated man and a gentleman. Often
I wondered what brought him out in a place so
little suited to his refinement; but ho volun
teered no information, and I did not like to ask
questions. Fnglishuian there, was
called Gregory ; the rest were o? various broods,
Yankees. That Gregory had been a ser
‘Vant to Wilding, and, indeed, was so still, in a
degree, we knew ; but in the camp all ranked
pretty weil as equals. Gregory was a hearty,
honest man, much attached te his master.”
“ Was he good-looking?” demanded Kate.
“Who?'’ asked Bertie, when he and I had
had our laugh out, “Gregory?”
“ho, no; James Wilding.”
“ Very good-looking, indeed, sister mine. Fit
for a hero of romance. Am Itogoon ?”
“ Why, you know you are.”
“Yes* Wilding was good-looking; even you
young ladies would have thought him so ; but
he was worn and sad and wasted. The man
had some great care upon him ; I had always
seen that. Sometimes I would catch Gregory's
eyes fixed upon him with a strange yearning.
This aiternoon of which I am speaking Wilding
-seemed quite buried in gloom, scarcely replied
to remarks, and hardly ate any supper’when we
sat round to it. For a man sharing a camp life
out in those wild and desolate regions to be off
.his food to the extent of refusing supper is a
remarkable fact.”
“ I daresay it was not well cooked,” said Kate.
“You should have had me there ; Id have made
Jhim an omelet.”
“ Without eggs, my dear?”
“Didn’t you get any eggs? Goodness griu
cious 1 Go on, Bertie.”
“ Supper was half through, the rest of us eat
ing like wolves, when I spoke to him:
“ * What’s amiss, Wilding, this evening ? You
■seem to have a fit of the blues upon you.’
“ Wilding did not answer me for a minute.
“‘Yes.’ fie said, with hesitation, ‘it’s true I
feel depressed. The fact is, Erflngtou, I—l—
was a little disturbed to-day. Met with some
thing which startled me.’
“ ‘ What was it?’
“But he did not say. He was leaning his
head upon his hand, gazing outward with a
troubled look, as if he wanted to see through
the dark pine trees. By-and-by, when we hud
finished supper and most of them were stretched
round the largest fire at a little distance, Greg
ory came to the tent for something he wanted.
His master lifted up his head and spoke to
him :
“ ‘ Gregory,’ said he, ‘ when I was down at
that lower clearing to-day, and you were near
me, did you hear anybody speak to me ?’
“ ‘ No, sir,’ said Gregory, in a sharp, quick
tone.
“‘Anyone's voice?’ went on Wilding. ‘Any
voice that—that you knew?’
“I shall never forget the startled look that
crossed Gregory’s countenance. But he an
swered carelessly :
“ ‘There was nobody’s voice near, Mr. Wild
ing, but yours and mine. The rest of ’em were
on the other side of the swamp. I heard noth
ing at all, sir.’
“ ‘ It was just before I fell.’
“‘ I was quite close to you, sir, when you
fell. You first dropped the ax you were hold
ing and than dropped, yourself, right on to the
handle. 1 thought you'd got hurt in some way,
but when I came to pick you up I saw' it was a
faint.’
“‘Yes, a faint,’ assented Wilding, in a low
4one. ‘ You were close to mo, and yet you heard
nothing ?’
“‘Nothing at all out of the way, sir. Just
before, there had been a bird screaming in the
pines.’
“‘lt is strange,’murmured Wilding to hint
self, as the man went away, ‘ very strange. But
I could not have been mistaken.’
“ ‘ What did you think you heard, Wilding?’ 1
asked, after a minute or two. ‘ Any alarming
sound ?’ for my own ideas had flown to the sup
pressed growl of some beast of prey, which
might have tracked onr camp, and be tracking
us.
“‘ Not alarming,’ said Wilding ; ‘ something,
on the contrary, very sweet and gentle.’
“ ‘Sweet and gentle?’
“ ‘ Aye, sweet and gentle.’
“ ‘ And yet you—you fainted at it?’ I went on
with hesitation, not sure of my ground, and
somewhat puzzled.
“‘Yes, 1 fainted at it. I'm not strong, Er
rington, as you must have observed.’
“ ‘ Won’t you explain the mystery to me ?’
“ ‘ You’ve given it its right name—mystery
A mystery never to be solved in this world.’
“He spoke so dreamingly, in so weird a tone,
gazing the while at the sky above us, now black
with the shades of night, that I held my peace.
“.‘ Perhaps I had better tell you the whole
story, Errington,’ he said, after a long pause.
‘ I should like to tell someone before I die ; and
there's no one but you I could tell it to—you, or
Gregory. Failing you, it must have been him ;
he knows something ot it already.’
“ ‘ Tell away, Wilding, I shall like to hear it;
but don’t talk about, dying.*
“‘No,’ said ho,‘the fact will be sufficient,
without talking of it.*
“ ‘ Now, what do you mean by that ?’
“ * Simply that 1 have this day, as I believe
received my death-summons.’
“ ‘ Look here, old man,’ I said, as a creepy
feeling stole over me, ‘we have plenty ot
troubles and difficulties to fight against” out
here; don’t let us add superstitious fears and
fancies to them.’
“‘Listen,’ said he, beginning his narrative
without further comment. ‘ I was just iour
and-twenty years of age when I came out from
the old country to America, to—yes, 1 suppose I
may say it—seek my fortune. I had property
which brought me in lour hundred pounds a
year, but to a young fellow who had expected
that his patrimony when he came into it would
hay* five or six times as much, and who has
moreover, been brought up in accordance with
the expectation, it seems a very small income.
How unjustifiably extravagant my father had
been we knew nothing of until he died, and wo
three sons—l was only the third ot them—re
solved to pay up liabilities and save our good
name. I came to America with my share, all
that remained to me, indulging in golden hopes.
Gregory, the son of our gamekeeper, asked to
come with mo as my servant he wanted to see new
new places. I told ho might come and welcome,
but not as my servant; I was not rich enough to
keep one. We came together; I paid his ex
penses, and he persisted in acting as my ser
vant. All the way on board the ship we kept
calling this country, he and I, the Land of
Golden Hopes,’ added Wilding in a diflerent
tone, breaking off to laugh a little.
“ ‘ And did it prove so ?’ I asked.
“ * Yes—in a sense. My golden hopes were
realized in the shape of love. Love, Robert
Er ring ton.’
“ ‘ I see.’
“‘Never was there a sweeter woman in this
world than Mary Offrey. She was a native of
-Boston, well reared, refined and gentle. Of
money she possessed about as much as I, and
our love was mutual. We married and were
happy. It is a great thing to be able to say that
in this world.’
“ ‘ True for you, Wilding.’
“‘Mary’s money was invested in one
of the most prosperous banks of the United
States. It brought in a high rate of interest,
and I withdrew mine from the funds at home to
place it in the same El Dorado. We had a love
ly house just outside Boston, and lived in good
stylo. Gregory was still my servant, for he had
never left me.’
“ ‘Any children ?’
“‘One. A girl. A little fairy beauty. Jane
we named her, after my wife’s mother and my
mother at homo, for they both chanced to bear
the same name. Janey was, I’m afraid, our
idol. She was sweat in temper as she was
lovely in form; her hair was golden, her blue
eyes bad heaven’s light in them. All a fond
father's ravings you will call this, Errington, so
we’ll lot it pass. Seven years went on; seven
years of peace and wonderful happiness; and if
one little cloud of thought would now and again
come to mar it, I drove it away. It was on the
score of my wire’s health. She looked at times
suspiciously delicate, and one croaking old
doctor—l called him that-had whispered a
caution that her heart was not strong. Janey
grew to be a bright, intelligent girl, her manners
sweetly simple, her disposition loving—l can’t
help repeating this Errington; servants and all
were utterly devoted to her, and Gregory
would, I believe, have given his life for her.
Nevertheless, simple though in ordinary she
was, the child had strange ways about her.
which I tailed to understand. • She would talk
to herself in a singular manner, and tell us of
queer things that she had dreamed. They
were such dreams as I verily believe, never
disturbed the rest of any child before. Her
mother laughed at them, yet was doubtful.
“ What can possibly be the meaning of it,
James?” she once said to me. “Ohl’ I an
swered gayly, laughing too, “ the child must
have come direct from the fairies.” One day,
it was the last day of the old year Are you
following me, my friend ?’
“ ‘ Indeed I am.’
‘ It was the last day of the old year, just as
this day is the last of the year now passing
from us,’ continued Wilding. ‘ Janey had been
born on New Year’s Day, and some children
were to come the next evening to keep her birth
day; she would be seven years old. After tea
she began talking ot the morrow’s party, skip
ping gayly about, with happy chatter. Present
ly she seemed to tire, sat down on a footstool
and became silent. Suddenly she turned
round and looked at me. Iler mother had left
her seat to search in a cabinet at the end of the
room, and was standing with her back to us.
“ ‘ Papa, why did you say we should be
twelve to-morrow evening ?’
“ ‘ Why, so we shall be, Janey.’
“ ‘ No,* said she, shaking her little head; ‘ it’s
only eleven; I’ve been counting.’
“‘There are to be nine little guests, you
know, my dear; yourself will make ten, and .
your mamma and I twelve.’
“ ‘ But mamma will not be here.’
“ ‘ You quaint little reasoner I Where else will
mamma be ?’
“ ‘1 spoke in a jesting tone; Janey was look
ing at me almost doubtingly, as ii she did not
understand my last question, her blue eyes, a ;
world of serious depth in them, were fixed upon .
mine.
“‘Not mamma,’ she repeated; ‘she won’t
be here. So it will be eleven: you count, f
papa.’
“ ‘ 1 laughed, and let her have her way. Mary
came back with what she had been getting from
the cabinet—it was a picture album, I remem
ber—and I don't think she heard Janey’s logic.
Robert Errington 1 before midday the next day
she was dead.’
“ ‘ Who was ?* I cried, startled. “ The child ?
“ ‘No, no; Mary, my dear wife. She had an
hour’s illness in the morning, and then died,’ he
added in a tremulous whisper.
“ ‘ Good heavens ! What was it ?’ (
“ ‘ That croaker, the old doctor, had the cruelty <
to say we ought to have been looking out for it; t
that he had warned me,’ rejoined Wilding in a j
voice so low I could hardly catch it. ‘lt seemed (
like cruelty to me; I suppose he did not mean it ;
so. She took with her the best part of my life 1
—all that was worth having in it. except Janey.’ t
“ For a few ininutes there was a silence, dense <
as that among the pine-trees when the Wind is
still. Then Wilding went on. {
“ ‘ Telling all this In words, though it’s rarely I
absent from my thoughts, is so painful to me i
that I must end it. Listen yet:
“ ‘ Another birthday of Janey's came round, 1
or rather was coming, whan she would be ton 1
years old. Three years had elapsed since that <
dreadful time. There’s not much to record of <
their passing; the world was half a blank to me, 1
leaving little remembrance behind it. The last f
day of the old year, in the morning, Janey was 1
with me in the study at her lessons. It was a i
fair, sunny day, and when the last lesson book I
was closed I began talking brightly of the little £
treat I had planned for the morrow—for I did t
not inflict my gloom upon the child. We were j
to take a short journey of pleasure, and 1 paint- 1
ed to her in glowing colors the features of the £
trip, saying in this place we should see some f
magnificent scenery, and in that place wc should -
dine—a sumptuous dinner, with jam tarts and i
sweetmeats. Another little girl was to go with <
us. Janey, sitting close to me, had bent from t
her chair sideways to lay her head upon my f
arm while she her pretty golden curls •'
falling Over it. il Anu we three,” I wound up i
with.’Lotty and Janey and I, will be happier
than all the fairies.” ’ t
“‘But, papa,’ she suddenly said, lifting her <
head to face me, ‘ I shall not be there.’
“‘A cold shiver passed through me. Just <
the words she had said of her mother three £
years before. <
“ * What do mean, my child ?’ i
“ ‘ Why, papa, I shall not bo with vou on that a
New Year’s journey. It will be only you and f
Lotty.’ I
“‘Janey, why do you say this? Who told J
you you would not ?’ I
“ ‘ Mamma,’ she promptly answered. ‘ Mam- A
ma came to my room in the night and said I was f
going to be with her to-morrow. She woke mo ii
up, I think, for I opened my eyes all in a min- 0
ute, and she was standing by the bed, and then '
she said it.” o
“ ‘ The child repeated this as calmly as she L
would repeat a story out of a book, without the 11
slightest appearance of discomfort. A wild ter- c
ror filled my heart; I could not control it, and 1 r a
caught her to me and stroked her golden hair. I
“ ‘Janey—Janey I Don’t you know what you t
are saying ? If you go to be with your mother,
you would leave me all alone. All alone I’ °
“ ‘ Janey burst into sobs. But yet she did not
seem to realize the situation. I swallowed my v
own emotion; I soothed her with loving words a
—which brought to my soul none of the comfort A
they were meant to bring to hers. Alas, alas 1’ ?
“ ‘ And the result?’ I breathed, hardly daring A*
to put the question. A
“ UVeed you ask it?’ returned Wilding with a a
bitter smile. ‘That same morning, close upon v
the conversation in the study, Janey was seized -
with a dangerous disorder which was going I
about Boston, and died the next day—her birth- G
day.’ a
“ ‘ I’m going to mamma in the strange €
she strove to say to me m dying. ‘ I know she v
will be there to meet me. Don’t cry, papa. Yes, r
yes, mamma, I’m coming,’ she ad*ded a minute !
afterward, striving to rifle from the pillow and A:
stretching out her hands apparently to some- a
body in the distance, and then fell back lifeless a
upon the pillow.”
“Wilding bent his face on his hands, tears c
trickling through his fingers. Thus there was c
a long silence. t
“‘And that's my past story, Errington,’ he
said, looking up. a
“ ‘ How long is it since ?’
“‘Two years ago Janey left me. I’ve not A
much to tell of them. The wealthy bank broke A
and swallowed up all my money and Mary’s in a
its ruins. But that I had inherited a slender G
income from my Uncle James, in England, 1 '
should have had nothing left—and I don t know r
that I should have cared. While knocking about, J
aimless, with Gregory, who would cling to me, fc
I fell in with this surveyor’s clearing company, fc
and we joined it. That’s all, Errington. It a
brings us down to this day.’ g
“ ‘To this day, yes; but have you not some
thing to tell of that?’ A
“James Wilding nodded. ‘This afternoon, 1
when I was at work at the lower clearing, busy
enough, and thinking of nothing but my duties, r
I heard a soft voice close to me. “Papa,” it a
said, “papa.” It was the voice of my child, if a
I ever heard it. I heard it as clearly *and dis- 4
tinctly as you hear mine now, Turning quickly c
round, thinking I must have been mistaken in v
the sound, £ saw no one was near me but Greg- J
ory, and 1 waited in a sort of startled surprise. 1
“ ‘ “Papa, you are coming to ue; we want a
you,” said the voice again, and J remember no ‘
more. Why I should have fainted I know not; J
certainly not from terror—l suppose it is all a 1
part and portion of that which cannot be under
stood in this world. When I woke up Gregory a
was supporting my head. “ Did you stumble J
and hurt yourself, sir?” he asked, and I let him 1
think it. That was my summons, Errington,
and to-morrow will be New Year’s Day.’ *
“It sounded mysterious and solemn. ‘Lot A
us hope that you may be in some way mistaken,
Wilding,’ I said, with lame words.
“ ‘How can I be—remembering the past?’ he a
rejoined. ‘1 am not a superstitious man, never '
was that; yet I believe I shall not see the set
ting of to-morrow’s sun. Possibly I may see it
in a more glorious form in the other land. But
that my brief hie of sadness and sorrow it at its
close, I am as sure of as mortal man can be.’
“‘ A brief life indeed—if this be the ending, c
How old are you ?’ t
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JANUARY 10. 1886.
i “‘Thirty-seven,’he answ red. ‘I should be
. thirty-eight if I lived ti 1 next February ’
1 “1 was some years under thirty, but it seem-
3 ed too young to die.
“ Wilding rose.
1 ‘“I think I shall turn into my blankets,” ho
1 said. ‘l’m tired somehow; done over.’
. “ ‘ Why have you not lighted your pipe ?’
) “ He shook bis head.
r “‘I shall never light that again, Errington.’
, “He disappeared within the hut. 1 began
> walking about in mental discomfort. Gregory
- came up to mo and spoke.
“ What is it that is worrying him, Mr. Erring
; ton? What was it that ho heard to-day by the
f lower clearing? Has he been telling you ?’
t “ ‘ He has been telling me a good deal of his
past life, Gregory. And—yes—he spoke of to
day.’
» “ ‘ Did he hear a voice that’s dead ?’
; “‘ He thought so. His child’s voice; si e said
ho was coming to them.’
“ ‘ Ay, I feared it,’ said the man, in a tone of
1 despair. ‘To see him faint like that, a thing no
never did before, and to hear him question me
■ as to what I had heard, told it me. The child
foretold her mother’s death, Mr. Errington, and
, foretold her own.’
“ ‘ You knew that much ?’
“ ‘ Oh, yes. She was an angel, that little one,
if ever there was an angel upon earth, and I’ve
often fancied that the angels must have whis
werod the secret to her. And now it is his
turn I God bless him ! God reward him for
the good man and master he has been I
“ When the rest of us turned in, the lurid sky
with the rapid rising of the wind seemed to give
near warning of the coming storm, but we heap
ed high the logs on the fires outside, and drew
the blankets close about us beneath the snug
roof of the sleeping-huts, defying the blasts and
rain. And so we got to sleep, though the storm
was soon upon the forest in*all its iury. About
an hour alter midnight a terrific crash dis
turbed us; in an instant every man was upon
his feet, rushing out to see the cause. A mighty
pine tree had been burled by the gale to the
earth. It fell right athwart the largest of the
fires, and as we went forward a torrent of
sparks swirled upward and swept away out in
to the forest. Some of us uttered an ‘exclama
tion of thankfulness that the tree had failed to
touch the sleeping huts, but Gregory, who was
the first to advance, gave a cry of horror. There
lay Wilding by the fire, with the huge trunk
across his breast. Unable to sleep, he had
risen and stolen out to alt by the fire. Thus
fate had overtaken him.
“Gregory knelt down, distressing tears fall
ing from his face, llis master, who had not
lost consciousness, looked up at him with a
faint, happy smile.
“ ‘ It is all as it should be, Gregory,’ he pant
ed; ‘1 am going to them in the better land.’
“I spoke to him, but he did not seem to hear
me. He was gazing upward at the orange skv,
which almost seemed aflame; his eyes had a a’r
away look, as if seeing beyond it. Thus he lay
for some minutes, his hands joined in the atti
tude of one who prays, his lips silently moving.
Then a change passed over his face.
“ ‘ Yes, yes; I see them,’ he whispered in a
sort ol joyous eagerness; * a goodly company—
all angels of brightness. My dear ones lam
coming.’
“ Very gradually his eyes closed. There was
a long-drawn sigh, and ail was over.
“ And so,through the vast and unknown gate
of death he passed into that ot Paradise. The
storm spent its iury, and the dawn came, gray
and gloomy, with a dreary mist and driving
rain, which shrouded forest and river and 1
mountain from our view, blotting from our !
vision the fair lace of nature. But James Wild
ing had awakened amid the splendors of et tr
nal morning, there to enter into the New Year
in sweet communion with those he loved; the
New Year of Immortality.”
Kate drew a deep breath.
“ Uh, Bertie, what a solemn story. Can it be
true ?” i
. “.U ndeniably true, Kate, so far as my portion *
in it is concerned. And I think I can answer 1
for the part of it which I did not witness.”
“ Well, it is very strange; very solemn 1” j
‘Now, Tom, don’t begin to lecture me. Ber
tie, what became of Gregory ? I like that Greg
ory.”
“Solemn enough, Kate, to have kept you a 1
silent listener, I put in. (
“ What became of him immediately after- !
ward, 1 don’t know, for I left the camp.* Three {
or four years later, when I was at the Diggings J
in Cali.ornia, I came across Gregory, honest
and kindly as evar. He was keeping a store, 1
Kate, and growing rich.”
“ V\ ell, Bertie, it is a beautiful though sad
story, and 1 thank you for it; just the story to (
be told on New Year’s Day.” I
CURIOUS MARRIAGES. !
NOT /xCCORDING TO THE NOVEL !
STANDARD.
(/rom Chambers’s Journal.) <
According to some of the novels of the pres
ent day, it is only the lovely nymphs of seven- *
teen or eighteen, and the fascinating swains of
three or four and twenty, who ha>e any busi- t
neas to think of matrimony. The poor plain r
ones, or those who have passed the meridian or ?
life, are looked upon as completely shelved; the 1
hymeneal torch is not to be lit for them, and
the little god of loye passes them over with c
But is this realiy the fact? c
On the contrary, there were never more ex- F
traordinary contradictious than we find in the 1
history of marriages; we see women marrying 1
mon young enough to be their grandsons; crab- F
bed age and youth often live together in per fect
harmony; and May and December are constant- ‘
ly united, wth the happiest results. Almost 1
every marriage is a uiue-days’ wonder, and a
creates much astonishment, speculation, and r
lifting up o! bands. Quite recently, a Dorset- 1
shire clergyman ot eighty years of ago electrified i:
his congregation by publishing his own banns r
in the parish church. It is always necessary to
be prepared lor these surprises. The blind, a
dea \ halt and maimed, are not exempt from v
the contagion of matrimony: and eo far from v
youth and loveliness being the only victims o r
Hymen, we find some of the loveliest, women *
consigned to single blessedness, while their less «
favored sisters are happy wives and mothers. 0
The particulars of many curious marriages are
not revealed to the public, but during the last 1
century, less reticence was observed in the
matter; the ages of the respective parties were 1
frequently put down without reserve, and the a
fortunes of the ladies were mentioned with .
much unction and gusto.
Among these announcements, a few of the
more remarkiule ai : e selecting. Here is
one from an old magazine for June I??**. 1 J
lew days ago, was married at St. Bridget’s
Church, in Chester, Mr. George Harding, aged v
one hundred and seven, to Mrs. Catherine 1
Woodward, aged eighty-three. So singular a 11
union could not fail of exciting the admiration 1
and surprise of a numerous congregation, be- c
fore whom the ceremony was performed. The G
bridegroom served in' the army thirty-nine i
years, during the reigns of Queen Anne, George
1., and part of George 11. He is now particu- A'
Aarly hearty, in great spirits, and retains all his 1
faculties to an extraordinary perfection. This 1
is his fifth wife ; the last one he married in his E
one hundred and fifth year ; and Le is Mrs.
Woodward’s fourth husband. It is also worthy 11
ot observation that the above old man’s diet has
been for the last thirty years past chiefly butter
milk boiled with a litt e flour, and bread and ,
cheese. As a pendant to this, we come a ross
another announcement a few years later : “ Mr. /
Thomas Dawson, of Northallerton, aged ninety,
to Miss Goligbtly, a bouncing damsel ot sixty
four. The anxious bridegroom had been a wid
ower almost six weeks.”
As instances of youth and age going together,
we may give the case of “ Mrs. Horn, an agree
able widow with agenteel fortune, aged seven
ty-nine, who married Mr. William Steptoe, aged b
about thirty.” We are again startled by the fol- a
lowing announcement in the month of January u
1805 : “At Tynemouth Church, a young man fl
about twenty-three to a woman aged eighty-six, c
who had been the mother of seventeen children.
Notwithstanding the banns had been but twice fl
published, the experienced lady repaired to the
church, where she was soon joined by her lover,
and declared she would not leave it without her y
errand. She waited till the forenoon service
was over, during which time she was frequently
requested to leave the vestry, but all to no ef
fect. She complained bitterly at her negligence r
in having forgotten to bring her pocket bottle
and tobacco-pipe with her. The bridegroom
apologised for not being acquainted with the ti
forms ot the church, as he had never been in j £
one since he was christened ; and if appearan
ces could be believed, water did not seem to y
have been upon his face since that period.”
We find another curious marriage, which is
announced in the following term-;:
“Lately, at Newcastle, Mr. Silvertop to Mrs. v
Pearson. This is the third time that the lady has
been before the altar in the character of a bride, v
and there has been something remarkable in p
each of her three connubial engagements. Hor
first husband was a Quaker ; her second, a Ro
man Catholic ; and her third is a Protestant of
the established church. Each husband was
twice her age. At sixteen, she married a gen- v
tieman of thirty-two ; at thirty, she took one of fj
sixty ; and now, at forty-two, she is united to a n
gentleman of eighty-four.”
A great sensation was created in the year 1778
by the marriage of the then celebrated female 0
historian, Mrs. Catherine Macaulay, who was o
far advanced in years, with a surgeon’s mate,
under age, of the n.ime of Graham. Mrs. Mac- a
aulay was quite a literary lioness, and Dr. Wil
son, an elderly and learned admirer of her
talents, had actually built a house for her,
called Albert House ; this he presented to her
with furniture and a valuable library. He even
went so far as to have a medal struck in her
honor. Great, therefore, was the amazement 0
among the literary and fashionable world of c
Bath.when Mrs. Macaulay, who had always been
considered a rock ol sense by her friends, made g
this extraordinary match. 0
In Mr. Cudworth’s interesting book, “ Round j
about Bradford,” he mentions the law status of
the colliers of VVibsey in the year 1851, and says f (
that the humiliating spectacle of the wedding
of “ Johnny and Betty” is not yet forgotten, nor r
the collection of oddities and absurdities that r
passed through the streets of Bradford in that J.
year, on the way to the parish church. On a
couble of yards of painted calico, the secret of t
all this rejoicing was told in the following
words: y
“ At John’s nnd Petty’s wedding, t
We will merry be,
For Johnny s sixty-five,
And Betty’s seveaty-three !”
Mr. Cud worth also relates that the incumbent v
of Wilsden, Mr. Barber, was once called unon j
to periorm a “marriage in trust.” There was
ea person living at Haworth parish known by
the name of “ Moses o’ Luk s.” Moses having
i- persuaded a woman to take him “for Letter,
for worse,’ they appeared at the Wilsden Church
to be married; but when the knot was tied, the
> happy couple had no money to pay the fees '
Moses promised to pay the reverend gentleman
in Gi'sohis, and honestly kept his word. This
reminds us of a couple who, not having the
wherewithal to buy a wedding-ring, the large
i key of the church door had to be tomporarily
f used for the purpose.
Ireland was not behind hand in the oddity of
- its marriages ; we come across whole clusters
3 of them in Walker's Hibernian Magazine.
Among them are the following :
J ‘ i v r ' Johu H °garfy, ot Ballymanduff, County
- Dublin, aged twenty, io Mrs. Flood, of same
place, aged eighty-six.” “ The Rev. Athanasius
Hunng, aged eighty-two, to Miss Carr, aged
I twenty-two, an agreeable young lady, with a
fortune ot £15,000.” “Mr. Richards, gardener,
to Miss Mary Roper. The bridegroom is in the
> sixty-second year of his age, and five feet four
j inches high ; the bride aged twenty-one, and
[ only two ieet eleven inches in hight.”
I A match in high life between a certain Dowa
ger Duchess and a handsome Irishman, Mr.
Hussey, created a great deal of heart-burning
and envy. Hanbury Williams, one of the re
jected suitors, composed some very spiteful
versos on the occasion.
The problem how to unmarry a couple was at
tempted by a clergyman in the West Riding, of
Yorkshire, in the year 1805. He found out, on
inquiry, that he had married a young man and
woman who were brother and sister by mar
riage (probably a deceased wife’s sister). The
clergyman, afraid that he might be punished
for uniting this couple, attempted to unmarry
them by taking the bride's bonnet from her
head and placing the church bible thereon; but
the charm wa£ not successful, and the loving
pair firmly resisted this innovation of undoing
the hymeneal knot.
Some very curious changes of names have
taken place in marriage, in Derbyshire there
now lives a woman who has been married three
times. Her maiden name was Wildgoose—
quite a common one in that
changed it first for that of Fox, then for that of
Goodlad, and finally settled down as Mrs. Der
byshire. A Mr. Bacon was once married to a
Miss Beans, and a Miss Pane married a Mr.
Glass. Abundant instances of the same sort
might be multiplied, but enough have been
given to show how strangely things sometimes
work out iu the important matter of matrimony.
tiieThosFurlll.
An Old Sergeant Tells a Strange Story
s of Governor’s Island.
(Ft'om the Minneapolis Tribune.)
“The strangest experience I ever had,” said
the old Sergeant, “ was at old Fort William, on
Governor’s Island, in New York harbor, over
twenty years ago. 1 was a Sergeant at the time,
married, and, with my young wife, had been
Jiving in a small house on the lower end of the
island, but the commanding officer concluded
to tear it down, and I was told to select the best
rooms of the non-commissioned officers’ quar
ters in the then unoccupied fort. What with
my usual military duties and the fatigue of mov
ing and placing things to rights, I was pretty
well tired out when night came, and slept like a
log. My wife was worn out, too, but did not
sleep so sound as not to be disturbed, every
night by what she called ‘the funniest noises,
that; sounded just like thunder,’ but I paid but
little attention to her, thinking that it was only
the noise of passing steamboats or the wash of
the water on the shore. It mg it have been
two weeks after I had settled auwn that one
night I awoke suddenly from a sound sleep
with that peculiar feeling of dread or uneasi
ness upon me which arises from an unknown
cause and has been experienced by nearly all ol
us.
“ ‘John, do you hear it now ?’ asked my wife,
when she discovered 1 was awake. ‘lt sounds
like some persons at work below.’
“ Listening for a short time, I recognized fa
miliar sounds, and had I not been positive that
the doors were locked, with the keys hanging ,
on a nail in my room, I would have sworn that
the batteries were manned by experienced
gunners. The quick tread of the men, as they
dragged the guns in, the ring of the rammer,
the handling of the shot that lay piled in readi
ness for use, the return of the iron wheels over
the rails, as it was run out of the port, were
periect in every detail, only lacking the words 1
ot command and the report of the piece to com
plete the illusion. <
“As I listened, the uproar increased in vol- i
unae, until it was impossible for us to hear each
other’s voices without raising them to a high i
pitch. The guns were serve I with what seemed
in redible rapidity, and the very walls, massive i
as they were, trembled under the heavy artil- <
levy in continual motion, while the balls were
rolling from one end of the casements to the i
other, striking the sides with heavy thuds. '
“ Unable to stand this state of affairs any
longer, I arose, and, lighting my lantern, took
the keys, along with a loaded revolver, and, i
descending the stairs as lightly as possible, ]
reached the doors. The noise at this point (
was, il anything, more deafening than when 1
left my room.
“ Cautiously inserting the key into the lock, I i
cocked my six-shooter, and throwing the door
open suddenly, with raised lantern and weapon t
presented, entered the nearest casement to find I
it unoccupied, save by the grim old gun and c
the shot stacked in their usual places. It was j
the same in every battery I entered. Not a c
footprint disturbed the thick dust upon the i
floor, nor was there a finger mark upon either t
the gun or shot. The tompions were in place,
and no carriage had traveled over the rusty rails.
Confounded even still more than I was beiore, t
I returned to my room, and was disturbed no j
more that night. The racket, however, com- <
menced again the follwing night, and was kept
up, with slight intermission, for a month. My ]
account of this singular d sturbance was met «
with jests and laughter from my fellow soldiers, t
which they modified, it is true, when I cor- f
roborated it by my wife, but then only eo far as t
to declare that it was a scheme on our part to (
get removed from uncomfortable quarters to (
one of the new quarters then about completed. I
“Nettledat their taunts, I vowed that if ever 1
the noises commenced again, I would have
other witnesses to them, and I did not have (
long to wait, for about one month after I was t
awakened by the phantom gunners. This <
time I passed out over the drawbridge, and, go- <
ing to the men’s quarters, awakened a sergeant 1
by the name of Smith and, much against his <
will, made him accompany me to the scene.
standip»r listening to the racket until ♦
oniith’s was Afl White a sheet aiid he <
was trembling from head to loot, I threw open I
the door. Smith always declared that for a mo- j
meut he saw the ghostly crew at their places, t
but could detect nothing*, nor could I ever dis
cover any cause for the disturbance, although I t
often was awakened by the nightly drill of my 1
invisible arti.lerymen. (
“Some months after leaving the island I
learned that during the Mexican war an artil- (
lery company drilled with these guns some time t
beiore they left for Mexico, and that they were )
nearly all killed in battle. I suppose if must £
have been a freak of theirs to have their re- }
unions in those casements and practice with t
their old friends, the guns.”
MONKEYED WITHThFcOURT ■
and stern-eyed justice soon ’
OVERTOOK THEM. j
(From, the Cincinnati Weekly Times.) 1
“ Ladies, allow me to quote a line from Pope: I
“ ‘ Vice is a monster of so frightful mien ,
That to be hated needs but to be seen,’ ”
benevolently remarked his Honor, as Annie Ad- ]
ams and Winnie Forest walked to the bar ofj ns- <
lice to answer to the charge of being found 1
drunk in the corporate limits of the city of Cin- i
cinnati. t
“ What’s that got to do with me ?” demanded 1
the fair Annie. t
Me, too ?” chirped Winnie.
“ Allow me, ladies, if you please, to remind
you that intemperance is but an evil in man, but
tearful in woman !” cooed his Honor as he fon
dled his pledge book.
“Got ’stnuch right to get full as any man!”
replied Annie.
“ So’ve 11” said Winnie. i
“The character of woman—her very disposi- i
tion should preclude such a habit; nay, it
is ” J
“ Wonder what he means?” asked Annie of
Winnie. I
That worthy replied:
“ Blast me if I know I”
“ Ah, my female friends, this is an affliction !
What is Cincinnati coming to ? I feel that yon, ,
like others, at first hated liquor, but gradually I
vou ‘pitied, then endured, then embraced’—
Pope. Is it not so?”
“ Ao, ’taint; I alius liked my beer, and I ain’t
ashamed to speak it out,” was Annie’s response.
“ Same here!” chimed Winnie. y
“ Could I induce you to—that is—could I get c
you—l mean, will you sign—sign—the pledge?” t
inquired his Honor, as he held up the book ot i
pledges. f
“ Ko. sir-ree, you can t!” howled back both.
A look oi stern cruelty swept over his Hon- 1
or’s features as rapidly as a cookroach runs j
over a pie in a bakery.
The prisoners held a consultation, and Annie ‘
asked: ’ 1
“ ’Tain t too late to take it back ?”
“ What is it, madam ?”
“We’ve occluded to sign it.”
“ Sign what ?”
“ The pledge,” j
Hie Honor thought for a minute, when a look
of absolute fiendishness took the place of the t
cruelty already marked on his features.
“Ab, Pm glad to see you come to vour i
senses, ladies. Come up here and affix your
eignatures. There I Low step down on the f
dock again.” t
The ladies did so, and looked for what was to t
follow.
“ j adies, you have trifled with justice, and c
retribution has overtaken you. Fall back and c
ponder on the foolishness of monkeying with a I
court.”
Annie and Winnie lost breath for a minute or t
two and then recovered.
“Say, yon made us sign the pledge, didn’t (
you?” demanded the first named. “Yon fooled t
ns by making us think we were going to get 03, t
didn’t you ? ’
“ I did my duty, ladies.” 1
“ We’ll take our three months like ladies, but ‘
when we get out we’ll—we’ll—break it to '
pieces i” i
And they walked indignantly down stairs.
7 , THE CHRISTMAS TREE.
’ A GERMAN LEGEND.
| Perhaps every one has not heard or read the
• story that is told to little German children re-
J spooling the origin ot the Christmas tree. The
J story is called “The Little Stranger,” and
3 runs as follows:
' In a small cottage on the borders of a forest
lived a poor laborer, who gained a scanty living
by cutting wood. Re had a wife and two
children who helped him in his work. The
boy’s name was Valentine and the girl was
• called Mary. They were obedient, good chil
r 4 r . en » a great comfort to their parents. One
Winter evening this happy little family were
sitting quietly round the hearth, the snow and
wind raging outside, while they ate their sup
per of dry bread, when a gentle tap was heard
' on the window, and a childish voice cried from
• without: “ Oh, let me in, pray ! I am a poor
' little child, with nothing to eat and no home to
go to, and I shall die of cold and hunger unless
you let me in.”
Valentine and Mary jumped up from the table
and ran to the open door, saying, “ Come in,
poor little child I We have not much to give
you, but whatever we have, we will share with
you.”
The stranger child came in and warmed his
frozen hands and ieet at the fire, and the chil
dren gave him the best they had to eat, saying,
“ You must be tired, too, poor child I Lie down
on our bed; we can sleep on the bench for one
night.”
Then said the little stranger child, “Thank
God for all your kindness to me 1”
80 they took their little guest into their sleep
ing room, laid him on the bed, covered him
over, and said to each other:
“How thanklul we ought to be 1 We have
warm rooms and a cosy bed, while this poor
child has only heaven for his roof and the cold
earth for his sleeping place.”
When their father and mother went to bed
Mary and Valentine lay quite contentedly on the
bench near the fire, saying, before they fell
asleep:
“1 he stranger child will be so happy to-night
m his warm bed.”
These children had not slept many hours be
fore Mary awoke and softly whispered to her
brother:
“Valeutine, dear, awake and listen to the
sweet music under the window.”
Then Valentine rubbed his eyes and listened.
It was sweet music, indeed, and sounded like
beautiful voices singing to the tones of a harp:
O, holy child, wo greet thee I bringing
Sweet strains of harp to aid our singing.
Thou, holy child, in peace art sleeping,
"While we our watch without are keeping.
Blest he the house wherein thou liest;
Happiest on earth, to heaven the nighest.
The children listened, while a solemn joy
filled their hearts; then they stepped softly to
the window to see who might be without.
In the east was a streak of rosy dawn, and in
its light they saw a group of children standing
before the house, clot ied in silver garments,
holding golden harps in their hands.
Amazed at this sight, the children were still
gazing out of the window, when a light tap
caused them to turn round. There stood the
stranger child before them, clad m a golden
dress, with a gleaming radiance round his
curling hair.
“ 1 am the little Christ-child,” he said, “ who
wanders through the world bringing peace and
happiness to good children. You took me in
and cared for me when you thought me a poor
child, and now you shall have my blessing for
what you have done.”
A fir tree grew near the house, and from this
he broke a twig, which ha planted in the
ground, saying:
“ This twig shall become a tree, and shall
bring forth fruit year by year for you.”
No sooner had he done this than he vanished,
and with him the little choir of angels. But the
fir branch grew and became a Christmas tree,
and on its branches hung golden apples and
silver nuts every Christmas-tide.
Such is the story told to German children
concerning their beautiful Christmas trees.
HELPING A MAM)RAW $2,00 0
BY M. QUAD.
I was in Chicago, you know, and was picking
my teeth on the walk in front of the Tremont
House alter a good breakfast, when a well
dressed, good-looking man comes up to mo and
says:
“ Why, how do you do, Mr. Pepsin ? How are
all the folks in Detroit ?
I shook hands with him and assured him
that everybody was well and hearty and gaining
on it.
“ No place like old Detroit,” he says, heaving
a sigh which bulged out his vest like a balloon.
“ I just wish I was back there again.”
“ Then you used to live there ?” I asked.
“ Was born there, sir. Panic of 1872 swent
us overboard. We lost SBO,OOO in six months.
How are Aid. Gies, Westcott, Jacob, and the (
other boys getting on ?”
Ijust told him they were rolling in fat and
wealth, and he seemed much gratified at the «
information.
“Say!” he suddenly put in; “maybe you want
to see the climax to a very funny incident ? I
bought a ticket in a lottery running here in Chi- f
cago, and paid $2 for it; 1 sold it to my wife for
a dollar; she sold it to a friend for seventy-five
cents; the friend turns around and sells it to 1
me for half a dollar. Last night I got notice 1
that the ticket had drawn $2,000.
“No!” J
“Sure as shooting! I'm just on my way to ■
the oifice on Clark street to get the money. If f
you haven’t anything pressing on hand, walk <
over.”
I went with him. If there is anything on earth i
I do despise, -it is a man who can’t stand by and
encourage another man to draw $2,000 in a lot- !
tery. The fortunate fellow was very talkative,
and he grew confidential enough to ask mo whe
ther he had better buy his wife a sealskin sacque
or a pair of diamond earrings. I advised the .
diamonds. Sealskin wears out and grows shab
by, but diamonds are always O. K. with a pawn- i
broker. i
We finally reached the place. It was up two <
or three nights ot stairs, with two or three f
turns to the right and left. The man in the 1
oilice looked shabby and lonesome, but I .
didn’t lay that up against him. I’d have
looked the same way if I had lost two thousand ,
dollars in cash.
My friend introduced himself, exhibited his <
ticket* and the lonesome man fetched a groan <
of despair and handed him a roll of money as 1
big as my arm. Then my Detroit friend whis
pered to me that the lottery man had a game or
two there. They weren’t wicked games, but
just something to stimulate the system and
throw oil" the bile. He wanted me to go with '
him and help clean the lonesome chap out of a
cool thousand.
I took to the proposition very kindly. I
don't wish anybody any harm, but if I can get
ahead of a lottery man I’m going to do it. We i
had to urge him a little before he would con- ’
sent to open his games. Then he set out what I
he called a “ baby drawing.” You bought your 1
ticket and there was no delay in ascertaining
whether you had drawn a prize or not. My
friend and I went in to bust that bad man up ,
and wreck and ruin him. We chipped in S2O
apiece and the result was a cash prize of twen
ty-five cents. Then we put up S4O in partner- i
ship and the tickets all drew blanks. By this
time we had both got mad and we went down 1
for SSO apiece and yelled tor blood. Our cash
return was fifty cents. Then I began to reflect.
Was it right for us to hop on that poor man that
way and financially ruin him? No !
The man from Detroit who lost SBO,OOO in the
panic, was anxious for me to go another hun
dred, but I wouldn’t. My natural sympathies
had been aroused, and I wouldn't conspire to
ruin no man’s prospects. I went down stairs ,
alone, leaving my friend up there to carry out -i
his fiendish intentions. As I reached the street
a policeman came along and queried:
“ Leave any money up there ?”
“ About ninety dollars,” I answered.
“ Want to make a complaint?”
“ For wliat?”
“ Against the place ; it's a bunko shop !”
“ What’s a bunko shop ?”
He looked at me a long time, as if trying to ■
remember something. Then he suddenly re- 1
membered it and said : i
“ You are the biggest fool I’ve met in forty 1
years!” 1
He was evidently jealous of my success in J
busting the bank.
t
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
HE LEFT WITHOUT PAYING HIS
BOARD. ,
(From the St. Louis Republican.) j
A few days ago while an old gray-haired man <
was sitting in one of our hotels, a stranger got
off a train whidh had just arrived and passed ;
through tho waiting-room. He eyed the old
man closely and over the face of the latter there ,
flashed a look of recognition. ,
“ i’aj-don me,” said the stranger’“your face t
has a familiar look to me, yet I cannot place
you! Perhaps, I’m mistaken.”
“Oh, no,” answered the elderly gentleman, 1
“ I know you are not mistaken. I know you
like a book.”
“ Indeed 1”
“Yes. sir.. You used to board with me.” 1
“ Is it posssibls ?” said the stranger. .
“ Yes, sir ; and you left without paying your
board.” {
“ That, sir, cannot bs,” said the now-comar,
very much conlused.
“ Oh, but It can. I say you left without pay- 1
ing your board, and you left in the night.”
By this time the stranger was furious. He
grew red with anger, and intimated that only >
the gray hairs of the tormentor saved him from t
violent treatment.
“You need not get mad,” said the old man,
coolly, and enjoying immonsely the stranger’s 1
discomfiture. “ You did all these things, and ‘
left your baggage behind you.”
“ See here, old man, who in ■ are you, any- >
way, and where are you from?” 1
“ I am, sir. Captain Jack Warner, and you are 1
Quartermaster Murphy, and you escaped from
the prison at Libby while I was commissary of <
that institution.” ,
“My God !” was the stranger’s ejaculation, as '
he warmly clasped the hand of the old ex-iebol,
“are you, indeed, the old commissary ?' Well, (
you are right. I did board with you, and I gave
you the slip, too,” he continued, laughing.
Quartermaster Murphy belonged to a New
York regiment, and was captured and sent to
Libby. It was the practice of the rebels to al
low those persons who were practitioners of
medicine to attend th® sick in the prison hospi
, tai. They were allowed the freedom of the
. grounds, to go and come at will. One day a
3 green sentry would not allow the men to pass,
1 when he was sharply reprimanded by Captain
Gibbs, and told that those men who wore rod
t ribbons on their coat lappels (this was the m
, signia of doctors) should pass unmolested.
J Murphy overheard this, and profited by it. In
, the inside of his vest he had some red flannel,
, and, tearing off a strip, he pinned it to his coat,
. and. watching his opportunity, he got past tha
, guard, and reached the Union lines in safety.
, The meeting described herein is the first
[ since those days when, as a captor and a cap
. tivo, they dwelt within the walls of tho famous
[ Southern prison.
MODERN FABLES.
CONSIDERABLY AFTER THE PER
SIAN._
THE PEASANT AND THE SEBPENT.
One day upon bis Return from Market a Pea
sant found a Dangerous Serpent playing with
his children. Without stopping to make Inqui
ries he seized a club and dealt the Reptile a
Mortal blow.
“ Wasn’t your Action an Arbitrary Abuse of
Power?” queried the Toad. “ I don’t think you
can Prove that the Serpent had struck one of
your Children.”
“ As to that,” replied the Peasant, “ the time
to kill Poisonous Reptiles is before you are Bit
ten.”
moral:
A Wolf doesn’t make his Appearance among
Lambs with the Intention of leading them to
Sunday School.
THE JUDGE AND THE THIEF.
A Thief having been tried and found guilty
on a certain charge, cried out that Great Injus
tice had been done him. Ho saw among' the
Jurors a|man whose Reputation for Honesty had
more than once been Questioned.
“That may be true,” calmly reblied the
Judge, “ and I will Sentence you only on the
Opinion of the other Eleven. I’ll give you Four
Years at hard labor I”
MORAL.
There is no use in Kicking a Boy for calling
you names when all Men are convinced that
you are a Rascal.
THE LAW VS. MONEY.
A Confidence Man who had Roped au old
Hay-Seed out of ninety dollars and had been
Arrested for it called in a Lawyer and asked:
“Is there any Law by which I can be Pun
ished ?”
“That is not to the Point,” replied the Law
yer; “ what I want to know is whether you have
money enough to beat the Law by which you
can be punished?”
MORAL.
It was Proved in Court that the old Hay-Seed
begged him as a great Favor to Accept the
money as a Christmas Present.
Our worthy contemporary, Drake's Travellers
Magazine, tells this story of that infernal bore
and übiquitous nuisance,
THE MAN WHO CAN’T BE FOOLED.
“What time does the next train leave far Clifton
Springs ?” said a well dressed man, with a red nose,
as ho balanced himself before the little opening in
the Bureau of Information at the Grand Central
Depot the other day.
“ Six-thirty 1” said the attendant.
“ What’s the fare ?” he continued, all in a breath.
“ Seven dollars and eighty-five cents 1” was the
reply.
“ What time did you say the train left—seven
eighty-five?”
“ No! I said six-thirty !”
“Oh, yes, so you did; fare is six-thirty, too—is
it?”
“No ! the fare is seven eighty-five 1“
“Can I go sooner than six-thirty ?”
*, No i”
“ I thought there was a six o’clock train for the
west ?” he put in.
“So there is; but it does not go to Clifton
Springs.”
Isn’t Clifton Springs on the line of this road ?”
“ Yesl”
“ Well, it’s mighty strange that the six o’clock
train doesn’t go there, then 1 See here, young man I
I don’t want you to trifle with me.”
“I am not trifling with you 1 lam giving you
correct information,” rejoined the Bureau man.
“ Well, your statements are badly mixed. You
don’t seem to know your business. You say there
is a train at six o'clock going west; that Clifton
Springs is west, you can’t deny; that it’s on the
line of your road, you admit; and yet, you say the
six o’clock train don’t go there !’’
The gathering crowd standing in line, waiting for
time tallies and information, at this juncture began
to show signs of impatience, and a little thin man
in the line, with a deep, bass voice, sang out:
“ If you know so much more about this road than
the man you are talking to, why don’t you move
along, and not keep us waiting?”
Thereupon a female, following close behind, ran
her umbrella in the ribs of the man with a red nose;
and he gathered himself together, and moved for
ward for “ next.’’
The St. Paul (Minn.) Pioneer-Press is re
sponsible for this idyl of
KISSES BY MAIL.
A young postmaster of a village post-office was
hard at work, when a gentle tap was heard upon
the door and in stepped a bashful maiden of six- 1
teen, with a money order which she desired cashed.
She banded it, with a bashful smile, to the official, '
who, after closely examining it, gave her the money
it called for. At the same time he asked her if
she had read what was written on the margin of the
order.
“ No, I have not,’’ she replied, “ for I cannot make '
it out. Will you please read it tor me ?” . j
The young postmaster read as follows: “I send 1
you three dollars and a dozen kisses.”
Glancing at the bashful girl, he said: “Now, I
have paid you the money and I suppose you want 1
the kisses.” (
“Yes,” she said, “if he has sent me any kisses, I
want them, too.” (
It is hardly necessary to say that the balance of
the order was promptly paid, and in a scientific
manner at that, and eminently satisfactory to the ’
country maiden, for she went out of the office 1
smacking her lips as if there was a taste upon them 1
she had never encountered before. 1
After she arrived homo she remarked to her mo- 1
th er : j
“ Eh, mother, but this post-office system of ours
is a great thing, developing more and more every ,
year, and each new feature seems to be the best. ;
Jimmy sent mo a dozen kisses along with the money *
order, and the postmaster gave me twenty. It beats 1
the special delivery system all hollow.” ’
This was a soldier who knew how to head
A RETREAT IN FINE STYLE.
Dave Bowland was a high private in an Alabama
“ critter company” during the war, and sometimes
was carried into the hottest sort of a fight when a
charge was ordered, because his horse would run 1
when the othejs ran, no matter how hard, he i
pulled at the reins. (
One day the captain dismounted bis company j
and ordered the men to “charge the enemy a-foot.’’ ]
With a big yell, away went the boys, but they soon
got far ahead of Dave, for he hadn’t the spirit of his 5
horse.
Dave began to think of the cursings he was to get (
from his captain and the railings from the boys, i
when, looking ahead, he saw them coming back in
full retreat. Dave says he “immediately recovered
his courage, and, wheeling around, shouted out:
“Come on, boys I” and then outran them as badly
as they had him a few moments before. When they
had reached the cover of the breastworks, Dave
sauntered up to his captain and inquired:
“ Didn’t I lead that retreat in fine style. Cap ?’*
Here is a Christmas incident from Boston. It
was only
A LITTLE APRIL-FOOL JOKE.
There was a more or less amusing incident at a
Christmas celebration in a West End residence last
night. At about 9 o’clock the door-bell was rung I
by a policeman, who insisted on seeing the lady of I
the house. When she came to the door the police- c
-man asked : |
••Have you got a license for giving an exhibition u
with a personation of Santa Claus ?”
“Why, no, not that I know of.”
“Well, what are you giving the personation for?”
“I didn’t know that a license was necessary in a
private house.”
“ Well, it’s a new law, and I’ll have to complain
of you in court unless you give me $5.”
Great commotion on tho part of the lady, who
was about to pay the $5, when it occurred to her to
inform her brother-in-law of the demand. He came
to the door and rather roughly rebuked the police
man, who became violent and attempted to arrest
the man. There was a brief scuffle, during which
a pair of false whiskers came off the policeman, re- .
vealing the features of a cousin of the lady of the
house. It was his little April fool joke transplanted
to Christmas time, No arrests were made.
There are women who are determined to have
THE LAST WORD.
“ Oh, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. F., after vainly en
deavoring to pour hot water out of the empty tea
kettle, •• how did I forgetit, I wonder. I’m get
ting a perfect simpleton. I wish I did have a little
common senso.”
“ But, my dear,” interrupted Fogg, “ suppose
you had. “Do you think you’d know what to do
with it ?” |
•* Do with it ?” echoed Mrs. F.; “ many things. I 3
might want to be married again, you know, and it G
might save me from making a fool of myself a e
second time.”
He was a clever fellow who managed to have |
his |
PROFANITY DONE BY PROXY.
“It is just wonderful, Mr. Blinks! You know
how profane Bill Stokes used to be ? “ Well, he
hasn’t uttered an oath for a year.”
“ Why, that is strange 1 Under strong provoca
tion, however ”
“Oh, he’s even provided for such an emer
gency.”
“ How ?”
“He’s trained a parrot to do his swearing for
him.”
tiOINTILLATIONS.
While cars drawn by cable frequently
lose their grip on Brooklyn Bridge, it is certain that
tho railroad companies will not lose theirs.
Kentucky is called the “Pasteur
land” of America, because the inhabitants have a
disease which leads to a great dislike of water.
There is said to be one doctor to every
nine hundred persons in this country. If it wasn’t
for tha doctors there would be one to every thou
sand.
“ I see they’re making railway tracks
of paper, now.” “Nothing curious about tbat. I’ve j
seen tracks made out of even softer material.” <
“ What kind ?” “ Wagon tracks.”
Teacher—Now, Susie, you mdP read ’
the next verse. Susie—Cast thy bread upon the , ’
waters. Teacher—Susie, why should we cast our I ’
tread upon the waters? Susia—To feed the fish, i 1
D“<am. I I
> An Associated Press dispatch says :
* “ Hatch, of Missouri, gets red in the face when ha
t talks on the silver question.” And no wonder. It
- is a subject which should make any conscientioua
> man blush.
( “Oh, yes; Lizzie and I were made
L one in New York,” exclaimed a newly-married man
i to a friend on the cars. “ Traveling West ?” “ Yea,
going to Chicago.” “Ah, going to be made two
again. My congratulations.”
A little girl, aged nine, called her
, father to her bedside the other evening. “Papa,”
, said the little diplomat, “ I want to ask your ad
i vice.’’ “Well, my little dear, what is it about?”
“ What do you think it would be best to give me on
■ my birthday ?”
; The faith cure is showing some re
markable developments in Chicago. One woman
has been cured of a tumor by having a verso ot
Scripture read to her once a day. They are now
experimenting on a broken leg with more heroic
doses—half a chapter twice a day—and are confident
of success.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
LEFT. ~
Pat—“ Soy, how soon will a train be here go
ing east?’’
Station Agent at Albion—“ The through
freight passes in thirty minutes, but it won’t
stop.”
Pat—“ Will it go slow so I can jump on ?”
Albion Station Agent—“ I don’t know, but it
will slack down there at the crossing so you Can
get on.”
Pat—“ What crossing ?”
Albion Station Agent—“ Oh, the one about
halt a mile west of here.”
Pat (relieved) —“ Well, if I don’t get on here
1 will go down and meet it and get on at the
bridge.”
THE ’TOTHER ONE.
A n 0 ™ a . innocent-looking man was waiting
at the Third street depot the other day for a
train, and as he was walking in and out a good
deal tho officer on that beat cautioned
I’confidence 1 ’confidence men.
I know all about conficlence men,” was
the reply, and that ended the conversation lor
tho time.
In about an hour the old man came rushing
up in an excited state of mind and cried out:
“ Some infernal skunk has picked my pocket
of $22!”
“ Well, I cautioned you !”
“ You ro a liar ! You told me to look out for
confidence men and never said a word about
pickpockets ! While I was a-telling one chap
that I was no greenhorn and that nobody could
confidence me, his partner got into my pocket f
You’re a nice old police force, you are !”
CANNOT GIVE UP HIS DOGS.
During the late National Field Trials at Grand
Junction, Tenn., there was in attendance a
young Englishman who recently arrived in this
country. He has a great passion for fine dogs
and handled several setters from the kennel of
Dr. Howe, of Chicago. One day, while con
versing with a party of Southern gentlemen,
one of them remarked that he was glad to
learn that he was so well pleased with the
United States, and especially with the South,
and hoped he would remain in this country,
adding that there were many pretty girls hero
and he might catch one of them for a wife.
“Ah,” said the young Englishman, “hi 'ave
no wish for ha wife.”
“ Why not?”
“ Well, hif hi was to marry my wife would ex
pect some attention and that would interforo
with my dogs and I cannot give them up.”
A DOCTOR OF DIVINITY.
In Mississippi so many darkies have claimed
exemption from road duty on the pretext of
being ministers of the gospel, that some of the
courts have required that all claiming exemp
tion on that score shall produce certificates of
ordination or appointment. At the last terra of
Madison County Circuit Court, Brother Dick
Barnes was minus this all-important document
and he sought the advice of a young friend who
told him “he would fix it all right for him ; to
come back in about ten minutes and he would
have a certificate for him.” While the preacher
was gone tho young man stepped across the
street to a drug store and got a “ Marsden’s
pills ” diploma and, placing it in an envelope,
gave it to Brother Barnes, who was promptly on
hand when the ten minutes had expired.
When court convened, and it was in order to
offer excuses, etc., Brother Barnes approached
the clerk’s desk and threw down his certificate
and said : “Thar’s my certify-ter preach ther
ward.” The c.erk passed the document up to
the Judge, who smiled and remarked :
“ Uncle Dick, this is a doctor’s certificate.”
“Well, Jedge, hain’t I er doctor ov divinity?”
A VAIN APPEAL.
Yesterday a man stood leaning up against the
wall of the Third street depot, hands in his
pockets, and a cheap, second-hand look on his
lace, when a gray-headed stranger, with a self
satisfied air, came along and asked :
“ Have you got a pencil in your pocket ?”
Tho other stared at him, but made no reply.
“Because I want to do a little figuring,”
continued the stranger. “I think I’ve got it
down pretty fine, and that the world will be
aston'ished.
He held out his hand for the pencil, but the
other man made not the slightest move.
“It is in regard to sound,” whispered the
stranger, in confidential tones. “I have dis
covered that it travels only half the distance
in a given time mathematicians have figured
on. Let me draw you a diagran, and give you
my deductions.”
No move—not a word.
“Maybe you are not interested in the sci
ences ? No, I don’t believe you are. I’ll bet a
quarter you can t tell the difference between the
Stone Age and the Drilt Period.”
No answer.
“ If I should ask you how long since this en
tire continent was one immense bed of ice, what
answer would you make ? ’
The disgusted man pulled his right hand out
of his pocket. Then his left. Then he assumed
a perpendicular position, seized the stranger
and whirled him around, and after walking him
to the curbstone gave him a kick and returned
and assumed his original position. The ques
tioner looked astonished, indignant and grieved
as he turned around, and slowly walking past
his assailant he observed:
“ Say ! you do that again and I’ll just make
you imagine that a Glacial Period has struck
you between the eyes! Hang it! I'll bet a
dollar to a cent that you can’t guess the age
of Lake Erie within a- thousand years ! No,
sir, and you never heard of Noah’s Ark nor the
Deluge !”
But the taciturn man had gone to sleep.
Why He Wants a Divorce.— One of
the most novel suits for divorce has just been
instituted in the Circuit Court of Tippecanoe
county, Indiana. John H. O. Kirchoff asks for
a divorce from his lawful wife on the ground of
her sleeping upside down. She persists in
sleeping with her feet on the pillow, and as Mr.
Kirchoff is opposed to this reversal of the order
of things, he has asked the court to interfere.
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7