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New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899, February 14, 1886, Image 7

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There i« a spot, though poor It be,
By worldly gear unbleat;
Yet oh 1 1 tis all the world to me.
My refuge and my rest!
There Love’s dear watchlight ever burns
Through all the clouds that come.
And there to mine a food heart turns.
The life, the light of home.
Pear home, sweet home, the peace how deep
Thou didst, thou canat impart;
Thy name still lingers on roy lip.
Thy light around my heart;
I care not for the wealth denied,
The trials that njay come,
By one dear shrine my heart can hide—
The life, the light oi home 1
ILet pleasure spread her flowery wings
And lure to scenes of mirth,
A sweeter song the angel sings
That sits beside my hearth.
Her eyes to mine their peace Impart,
Though shadows still may come;
’There leans on mine one faithful heart—
The life, the light of home I
No phantom Joy through life I ohaso.
Though pleasures are but few;
Thank God for one dear resting place.
One heart that’s ever true I
Though hollow friendship oft I meet,
Though care and crosses come,
Thank God for one dear refuge, sweet,
The life, the light of home I
“Heroine, are al were gliding and hiding,”
Kelly Fairfield thought. laying down the three
■volumes of “ADead Mystery.” She had read
“Lady Dampstick’s Doom,”'and “Lurid Light
ning.,” and “Green-Grey Eye.,” and “The
One-Legged Witch,” three volume, each, of the
most blood-curdling description that the village
‘library could eupplr. __
Nell’s taste in romance was not of tho higli
ast. She liked to bar. her blood curdled.
And as th. four week, of her country visit
had been incessantly wet, she had trotted her
young friend and hostel., Mary Marsh, In
the pony-trap .very second day to the cottage
library in eeareh of the weird and mysterious.
•At the end ef her month’s visit to Dark
leigh Court, Nelly s fair and eurly little head
was bewildered by three puzzling discoveries
—that Hubert Marsh, Mary’s obliging brother,
and the heir of this grand old place, was des
perately in love with her insignificant little self;
that the country was a compound of gray sky,
rain and mud, whatever the poets said to the
contrary, and that heroines—especially Ar
gentina, the lest herein.—could cry without
spoiling their violet eyes and their pretty lit
tle nosea, and that they had a habit,pf gli
ding and hiding. Argentina often dM, and
Nelly was beginning to feel just like Argen
tina since the heir of Darkleigh Court had be
gun to do her chivalrous eervioo from morn
ing till night to win a word or a smile.
“Hubert I* like I*rd Lockwood in *A Dead
Mystery,’” she told Mary Marsh, as they went
down arm-in-arm, ready to see a new guest at
dinner—a great event in a weather-bound coun
try house.
“ He has Black hair and eyebrows, and there
the likeness ends, ’ said demure Miss Mary,
with a smile. “We don’t want Hubert to be a
forger, or a highwayman, or a corsair, or what
ever it wm—not like Lord Lockwood, thank
you I”
“ But I de like a man to have something mys
terious— something grand—as if he were able
to •
“To slay somebody 1” hinted Mary. “That
would be romant e and out et the common.”
“Oh, no*” said Nelly, helplessly; “but I
Sn’t explain. Hnbert looks adventurous.
e might have been a courtier in the old
times and helped in secret councils, and——”
“Planned the smothering of princes and all
that,” laughed Mary. •• Poor Hubert 1 I did
not know what a bad epinion you had of him,
Nelly drew away her arm, and tried desper
ately to explain, but they had reached the last
step of the stairs, and the new guest was taking
off bis eoat in the hall.
He was a big-eyed, big-moustached, burly
man, with a sort of cousinly likeness to a bull
dog. He was afterward introduced as “our
friend Mr. Gobbleoock, who has come from
London to spend a day or two with Hubert.”
There was also at dinner that day a neighbor
Of Darkleigh Coart—a handsome young fellow,
Sir Harry Clive—who took the world easily. His
chief pastime was twirling the ends of his mous
tache, and his only troubles in life were laying
foundation-stones and gracing the platform at
public meetings. His occupations ranged from
lawn-tennis in Summer to sleighing in Winter,
and driving a four-in-hand. He called Miss
Marsh “Mary,” and she called him “Harry;”
they had known each othes since he painted
new complexions on her dolls in his Eton holi
days, and since her baby hands stitched the
Calico that sailed his ship. Now, when boys
and girls begin as playmates, they often end
only as friends ; new faces and new ways have
some day a mysterious attraction that the too
Well .knnown face bad not. Sir Harry Clive
stood by ths window that night curling his
moustache ou bis linger, and enjoying Nelly's
chatter with little Robin Marsh, on her theory
Of Bluebeard having possibly been the “wicked
uncle” mentioned in the “Babes in the Wood.”
“Hecouldut have been their uncle," said
the small boy, “ because there were never any
babes in reality; and it’s all a story.”
“ Oh, yes, they were babes—there were; it is
a positive fact,” said Nelly, truly enough. The
little boy looked bewildered, and Sir Harry
burst into a langh, and watched the pretty girl
as steadily as Robin did.
Hubert Marsh disappeared from the group at
the window. He was afterward seen in the gar
den, kicking the gravel and smoking a cigar.
Poor fellow 1 There are big boys that sulk in
this upside down world of ours.
“You darling little mite 1 You don’t believe
in Bluebeard, either. Wait till you meet him
some day I” said Mary, demure and diligent,
looking round trona her lace-work.
Master Robin looked straight across the room
at big Mr. Gobblecock. It was a look of inquiry;
>be had his doubts.
Luckily the friend from London was not
turned that way. He had made a thousand apo
logies, Baying that ho would not ask such a fav
or except in an old friend’s house, and they had
all clamored excuse and assent; and he had
bogged for a lit tie table te himself in an out-of
the-way corner ef the drawing-room,and spread
ing newspapers there and a large book—all out
of his black leather bag—he had set to work
studiously, firing remarks all the while like
stray shote into the conversation, and paying
attention to what every one was saying.
“I would do it in another room if you would
let me go,” he said ; “ but as you will not exile
me—you are too good 1 shall be free and at
your service iu one-half hour.”
Mr. Marsh carried ou the talk about stories
from the point where his daughter had left it.
“Ah 1” said that merry little man, the kindly
host, “my Robin is not what 1 was long ago. I
Bet beans to grow a stalk like the famous Jack ;
and even now, if I will read a story I like to be
lieve it. Once in the six months, maybe, I get
hold of one worth reading, and then all the
men and women I have met in it live lorever
more. What’s the good of a story that a fellow
feels is a hoax and a yarn ? Now, there’s that
book that everyone is talking of, ‘Brightley
Court ’ : that girl Ruth Moss is somewhere in
the world ; she is living like a violet in a wood,
and the air is better for her presence—happier
—and that’s all one knows. • Let us love muoh
because life is short; let us do much because
we love muoh I’ That girl is alive for me now
almost as much as Nelly there and my Mary.
She marries no one in tbs novel; why, there
Isn’t a fellow I ever met nt to put his hand un
der her loot to send her up to the saddle. I beg
your pardon, Harry, but you won’t mind. 1
don’t think you are good enough for Ruth
“All right, sir I Shan’t break my heart for
shat,” said Sir Harry. “ I’d rather have a real
live girl than a dream, though that is a very
irue character—very real—very I In fact, Ruth
Itloss reminded me of somebody 1 have met.
Have you read ‘ Brightley Court,’ Miss Fair
field ?”
Nelly had not; Mary had suggested it, and
she bad rejected it as too unromantio.
“ Ah! you should read that 1” cried both the
men in duet—Mary’s lather and Sir Harry
“ Who is it by ?” said the voice of Mr. Gobble
°°“Hyaamth Grey.”
“ Mr. Gobblecock, with a grunt, returned to
bis papers.
“A lady, I should think,” said the young
“Ah! I’m sure of it. Who else could have
told us about Ruth’s dresses and the color of
her hair? Yet there's an amazing amount of
knowledge oi horses in that book, and of bar
rack life,” said Mr. Marsh, and Hyacinth Gray
has one novel about London city life, and
another about yachting.”
The voice of Gobblecock interrupted.
“In my time at school Hvacin-thus was a
•Greek boy, but these ladies that write novels
don’t trouble their heads about classicala ccur
Soon he wrote a long letter, sent it to the
post, folded his newspapers into the black bag,
and came with a thousand more apologies, and
made up for his absence by talking with the
volubility of a dozen. His stories made every
body laugh; his gentleness with the girls
made up for his lack of good looks; his
talk ot foreign cities made them won
der how (as our friends beyond the Chan
nel would say) he was most at home when he
was abroad. In a word, Gobblecock was a
gleasani man, good company—a success. Even
lubert came back, heart-aches and all, and
joined the circle. And then the candles gleamed
round the drawing-room, and Nelly looked her
prettiest, and Mary Marsh was her sweetest,
and Robin was his noisiest. Harry Clive was
pleased with himself and all the world ; Hubert
was only heard once (overheard by Nelly) to
murmur to his sister that he wished Harry was
“ far enough ”; Mr. Marsh made a happy pater
familias, and felt like a boy again when he de
tected Harry Clive waiting on Nelly, and poor
Hubert netting angry.' In short, it was a pleas
ant family circle, and Gobblecoek had become a
favorite with everybody, except little Robin,
whose mind had been disturbed about Blue
At Darkleigh Court the ladie« had a’w'rs an
>our to tbftmsdfCO, while the mon finished tho
late evening in the smoking-room or at tho
billiard-table. To-night Nelly took up the book
that was the talk of the season, and read a few
chapters while Mary worked.
“Presently Mr. Marsh came in. “So glad
you are reading that, Nelly I It is beauty and
poetry from cover to cover, no matter what it
talks about—ths hunting-field, or the camp, or
the barrack-yard, or anything.”
Mary did not look up from her work, bnt she
said gently, “ Hyacinth Gley’s books are all
delightful. He must be a man with a noble
Mr. Marsh paced up and down the room
thinking ; his thoughts had darted off to a sub
ject nearer his heart.
“I wonder what that boy ot mine has on his
mind?” ha said. “He stumps about over my
head, up and down, up and down, till two or
three in the morning. I wish you could find
out what is troubling him, Mary. Poor Hu
bert I It worries mo to think ha may have
some trouble and won’t tell me. Find out, if you
can. ’
“He has a little sitting-room, too, in the west
tower, has not he?” Nelly asked, when Mr.
Marsh was gone. “ The light is burning
there till one every night I have looked out
and seen Hie bright window aud wondered.”
“My father is afraid he is in debt, I can see,”
said Mary, smiling: “ but I am sure Hubert has
no embarrassment of that kiud, though you
must know, Nelly”—with an earnest look that
made it a persoual remark and set Nelly
blushing Hubert is anything but rich and
whoever ho marries will marry a poor man.
My father has barely enough to keep this old
place going. Hubert may have much more
than we have some day, though. There is old
Colonel Scamberly, his godfather, who sent
him in Harry Clive’s time to Eton, too. He is
rich, and some people think he has willed
everything to Hubert, though there was some
talk a little time ago about another will be
ing made out, giving It nil away to some in
stitution. The colonel is very eccentric. But
Hubert is never extravagant and he does not
count on a farthing ot that.”
The light burned in the upper window of the
west tower that night till the clock struck
one. Afterward Hubert walked np and down
in the room over his lather’s till halt-past three.
“ He must have some great trouble on h.a
mind,” thought Nelly, peeping from under the
corner of her window blind and seeing the
lonely light.
“He is like the polar bear In the Zoological
Gardens,” thought his sleepless father, listen
ing to the footsteps tor half the night.
On the next evening Hubert had carried off
“ Brightley Court” to that snug little sitting
room ot his in the tower. Mary Marsh asked
Nelly to run up for it, as her brother, and her
father and the great Mr. Gobbleoock were all
far away at billiards.
Nelly, in Hubert’s own dominions, delayed to
look round her before she took tlis open vol
ume from the table. Ail al ones footsteps and
Hubert’s voice and the voice of the dread Gob
blecock were close outside the door. Seized by
a silly fear of being found, she thought of Ar
gentina in tho last romance, and resolved to be
a heroine for once ia her life, she did just a.
Argentina would have done under »uoh cir
cumstances. She slipped behind a Japanese
folding screen and stood in shadow among its
painted and gilded flowers and birds.
She had expected that they were only coming
in for a few moments, and would go away di
rectly. Instead of that, they sat down at the
table, and strong whiffs of smoke began to ooms
over the folding screen. Nelly had never im
agined the terror of being in concealment She
was ready to faint Once in, how could she
come out? True, she might have stepped out
at once bravely aud made a joke of it; but by
hesitation that chance was lost Should she
faint, or should she cough, for the smoke was
choking her ? She stopped her ears with a pair
of fingers, and stood there in an agony of fear.
When she took her fingers out of her ears to
hear if they were going away, Hubert was say
ing :
“ It is absolutely necessary to put the baronet
out of tho way. My idea was poison.”
Nelly shuddered and turned cold.
“No, not a murder—not a murder, if it can
possibly be avoided. I have shrunk from that
lor years—always,” said Gobblecook.
Nelly could not pm her fingers into her ears
again. Should she scream ont loud ? Should
she fail down with a hang on the floor ?
“It is rather a horrid idea,” said Hubert, re
flecting. “ Bnt I shall have no horrors ! It
shall be poisoning—or drowning, if I could man
age taking him abroad and doing some boating ;
perhaps he might be lured into a Mediterranean
“ Very good,” said the other.
“Thai man is a monster I” thought Nelly.
“ Hubert is excited, but he is cold. He is
goading Hubert on, and pretending to think ill
of it.”
“ I mean to put some money in my pocket, I
can tell you I” said Hubert. “ I want you to
put me up to the legal formalities of arranging
tho will. Forgery ia rather worked out, but I
don’t see anything else.”
“ If I were you,” said Gobblecook, “ I should
send the eld man to a lunatic asylum, and——”
Moro and more Nelly was like Argentina.
She had tried gliding and hiding, and had step
ped into the middle of an entanglement of
crime and mystery. She knelt down, wringing
her hands.
“I shall make him a lunatic at large,” said
“Very well; then stop at that. Over-excite
ment—piling on the agony—is altogether a mis
take. I don’t like the idea ot murder, but I
shall gladly provide you with all the informa
tion about the will. To avoid horrors, I should
get rid of the old man into a lunatic asylum. I
am not sanguine, but I wish you luck, my lad,
and plots of this kind have succeeded before
now, though 1 tell you it is not to my taste.”
There was a pause of smoking and of choking
for Nelly, who had sunk upon the floor. Then
that horrible monster, Gobblecook, said :
“ And the girl—is it to be Nelly ?”—she could
hear the laugh in his voice, as if he had made a
shrewd guess. “ What is to become of her ?’’
Hubert hesitated.
“ Ought she ever to know who tho murderer
is ?’’
By this time the poor heroine, who was just
like Argentina, felt as if tho human heart—that
Argentina had not—were being smashed by a
blow and torn in two. Hubert, the man whom
she had begun to love and trust, was loaded
with guilty secrets—a villain of the deepest
dye. It was Gobblecock that had ruined him—
of course it was Gobblecock that had done all
the mischief. Gobblecock was an unmitigated
monster I
Nelly screamed ont loud—a shrill, piercing
scream, that rang through every lamp and
glass, and echoed as If tbe ground itself had
shrieked, till walls and ceiling thrilled with it,
Nelly oame to her senses lying on a conch in
the drawing-room, surrounded by ths whole
household. She was afraid of Gobblecock, who
was gently fanning her—the monster 1 And
she shrank from Hnbert, who was so glad to
see one conscious look in her eyes.
Poor Hubert 1 She burst into tears at the
sight of him. That villain of the deepest dye I
Had he not brought “ our frieud from London”
to be a conspirator, a plotter ot dark deeds ?
Nelly wanted te speak to Mary. The others
were all sent away, and to Mary she told all the
escapade—how she had slipped into a thrilling
situation, just like Argentina, in “ A Dead Mys
tery,” and
Mary interrupted her by saying, quietly:
*• Hubert is writing a story. His friend is a
writer from London. You dear little goose,
they were only planning the book 1 Hubert’s
frieud is correspondent for a foreign paper.
You saw him at his letter last night. And he
has written stories. * Brightley Court’ is his.
He put our home in that—and even poor little
me. You need not make your eyes bigger,
“ Oh, Mary, will Hubert ever forgive me ?”
“ Poor ‘villain of the deepest dye !’ He will
ask you never to be the heroine of a dead mys
tery again.”
“ But, Mary, did you say that—that—that big
man—wrote‘Brighlley Court ?’ You are Buth
I know it—you are Ruth I”
“He imagines so. He is Hyacinth Grey.
But you look frightened.”
“Ruth will marry Hyacinth Grey!” Nelly
“ I do admire him—from my heart,” said this
calculating heroine; “but I must show you my
little pearl ring. Harry gave it to me to
Alas ! let Shakespeare say what he will, there
is something iu a name. Not even Juliet’s love
would haxe sufficed if she had lived in these
days, and if Romeo’s name had been Gobble
The following facts concerning the raising of
German carp are taken from the bulletin of the
United States Commissioner of fish and fish
eries. Those bulletins upon the culture of fish
can be procured by any one interested by ad
dressing Spencer F. Baird, United States Fish
Commissioner, Washington. There are two va
rieties of carp, the scale carp, which is covered
with scales, and the leather carp, which has but
few scales. The former variety' is muoh the
more prolific of the two, but the leather carp
grows the most rapidly. This variety of fish is
well known and highly valued among fish deal
ers of Europe, but has been introduced into
the United States so recently that it is not very
generally known in our markets. As a food
fish it is pronounced quite equal to catfish,
perch, or any of our native varieties. The
young carp should not be caught for table use
until they weigh four pounds or more, as when
smaller the bones are troublesome. The best
Beason of the year to use them for the table is
from October to May, as they spawn in the
Spring and early Summer, and no fish is in
good condition to eat for some time after it has
spawned. In making ponds for carp, as large
a body of water as possible should be used,
although a small one of a few yards square will
serve to raise a few fish.
Tbe ponds should be located in loamy or
muddy soil, in which the fish can root about
for grubs, worms, ete. The pond need not be
deep, but the water should not be cold, as these
fish grow very slowly in cold water. The higher
the temperature the better they thrive, and as
shallow water is usually warmer than deep it is
generally better for them. Being sluggish fish
they do not care for running water, and they
delight in muddy streams, in which they can
usually obtain more food than from clear water.
Carp need good feeding: water plants, such as
cresses, Indian rice, water mace, and Vater lil
ies should be planted, but not too thickly, in
their ponds, and they should be fed frequently
with cooked cereals and vegetables ; boiled rice
and corn-bread are excellent for them, indeed
all kitchen scraps can be utilized in this way as
well as in a poultry yard it all salted or spiced
substances are excluded. Pepper and other
condiments are also injurious to them. They
can be accustomed to regular times ot feeding,
once or twice a day, and will thrive the better
for it. In a warm climate and with good feed
ing carp will grow rapidly, and have been
known to reach a weight when fully grown of
fifty pounds. In Pennsylvania a 3-year-old carp
usually weighs four or five pounds, in Georgia
one of the same age usually weighs six or eight
pounds. But they can be forced to much great
er weights by feeding.
Ponds for carp should be kept free trom all
enemies of the fish. .This variety does not in
jure other kinds, bit is greatly harmed by
many, such as trout, suckers, catfish and
others. In fact there is no variety of fish that
will not eat carp eggs and young carp if they
have tbe chance, so that carp should be kept
altogether by themselves. Still worse enemies
to be feared are amphibious animals, frogs,
mud-turtles, minks, water-rats, and water
snakes. These animals most all bo killed off
relentlessly ii they appear in the region oi a
pond, and all other varieties of fish from the
carp must be removed by draining. As a rule
carp will not destroy their yonng unless they
are driven to it from want of food. Still, it is
best to remove eggs from the pond for hatching.
Carp are very prolific if well fed and cared for,
and a pair of carp will annually produce 50,000
eggs. At spawning time, which usually occurs
iu May in the Southern States and in June in
the North, hemlojk boughs should be put into
the pond to receive the eggs. These can be
taken out covered with the eggs and put into a
small pond to hatch. In this small pond the
young fish may well be kept until they weigh
about a pound each, when they are quite able
to defend themselves, and may be put back into
the pond again. The freezing ot ponds and
streams in the northern latitudes does not
destroy carp, as the fish buries itsell in the mud
through the winter time. As soon as the water
grows temperate in the spring they make their
appearance again. In localities where the water
is always cold, or where tbe winter is unusually
long and severe, carp will not live, and it is of
no use to try to cultivate them there.
It was tho second night of tho blizzard. Tho
wind whistled through the great open furnace
rooms, and seven glowing furnaces sent up their
mighty breath to the kilns above.
Pete, the “night man,” pulling his old cap
over his ears, crouched down be ore the middle
fire and could scarcely keep warm then.
The snow whirled in at both ends of the
building and lay in little drifts on the clean
brick floor. Through the window before him
Pete could see across the narrow alley into the
back room et a saloon, where a game of seven
up was progressing. A flaring gas jot lit up the
low, smoke-blackened ro®m, the dirty wooden
table and the eager, stolid, and cunning faces
of tho group ot players. A big, burly Swede
seemed to be winning, to the chagrin and wrath
ot an excited little Irishman at the other side of
the table; presently the saloon-keeper came
in, and, leaning affectionately on the Swede s
shoulder, began a code of signals to the Irish
man, whose face grew rapidly exultant in pro
portion as his adversary’s fell. Pete grinned in
appreciation as he went off to the engine-room.
When he returned, a few minutes later, the
window was dark, the gas turned out, and the
players dispersed; a red glow from the fur
naces was the only light. Pete began to pre
pare for his supper. Taking halt a dozen pota
toes from his can. he was stooping over the fire
aud covering them carefully over with the
flaky gray ashes round its edges, when a small,
shivery voice behind him began quietly,
“Please, mister—”
Pete dropped his potatoes and turned with a
quick oath—his readiest expression of surprise
—to behold a tiny bundle of clothes standing
motionless in the shadow of the engine-room.
“ Como here, young un," he said, roughly,
and the bundle advanced into the red light, dis
covering itself as & scrap of male humanity, de
cently, bnt thinly clad, with chattering lips, and
big, pathetic brown eyes.
“Please, mister,” he began again, in a curi
ously old, quiet voice, “ may me an’ my sister
come an’ git warm ?”
Pete regarded him silently for a few seconds.
“ Where d’ye come from ?” he demanded.
“ Where dy’e live ?”
“ Forty-nine East Ontario—” began the mite,
mechanically. “ No,” correcting himself, “that’s
where ’twas. We was burned out,” in the same
matter-of-fact voice, “ last night.”
“ You was, was you ?” said Pete, meditatively
scratching his head. “Did ye live near Sex
ton’s ?’’ naming the scene of a late disastrous
“ Yes, in the alley. Please, mister,” glancing
uneasily out of the doors, “ may I git my
sister ?”
But Pete took no notice.
“ Where’s yer folks ?” he asked.
“ My sister’s outside,” said the child, moving
away from the fire, with another uneasy glance
toward the street.
“•Now, no foolin’!” said Pete, sternly. “ She
ain’t all yer folks, is she ?”
“No," reluctantly.
“Then, where’s tho rest?”
“ My aunt’s took ’em in,” answered the child,
“ Then why didn't she take you, too ?”
The boy hesitated. “ She said Maggie was
bad,” he said at length, unwillingly, “ ah’—an’
she turned her ont an’ so I come with her.”
“So you come with her,” repeated Pete, slow
ly, “ an’ what hev ye bin doin’ sence?”
“Walkin’ round,” answered tho mite,
“Pete stared. “Nice weather for prome
nadin’,” hs remarked.
“ Come, young ’no,” taking down a lantern
from the wall. “ S pose we’U hev to go an’ git
yer sister."
They went out together into the storm and
the child led the way confidently through drifts
almost as high as himself to a comparatively
sheltered doorway near at hand. Pete, how
ever, stopped in dismay at finding it unten
“ She was here. I left her hero 1” he cried,
pitching his thin little voice to reach Pete’s ear
above the shrieking wind, and then suddenly
he made a dart forward toward a dark heap
covered with snow about a dozen yards away.
Pete struggled after him and flashed his lantern
on the prostrate figure of a young girl. The
thin woolen shawl which covered her head had
fallen off, and her white, unconscious face, as
white almost as the snow upon which it pil
lowed, was partially vailed by the long, sweep
ing tresses oi her dark hair. One small, bare
band was pressed against her side, aud with the
other she clasped a tiny bundle.
“ It’s Maggie 1" cried the boy, throwing him
self beside her en his knees and striving with
his tiny arms to raise her head upon his lap.
“ Oh, mister, do you think she's asleep ? She
donft hear me I Maggie I Maggie 1” calling
gently in her ear.
“ Here, young ’un, you take the lantern,”
said Pete. “ Hope ’tain’t too late I” he muttered
to himself, as he staggered with his burden
through the drifts te his furnace-room. Arrived
there, he carefully propped the still unconscious
girl against the wall, and then, stripping off his
old overcoat, he made for her an impromptu
bed on the warm bricks before one of the fires,
the boy meanwhile hovering about in pitiful
anxiety. “ Now, young ’un,” said Pete, “ git a
handful of snow an’ rub her hands and feet.
Guess ther’ ain’t much the matter with her,”
kindly. “Ye don’t need to be so skeered.
That's it," ho added, as he went off to the
engine-room and produced from a corner a
certain black bottle, some ef whose contents he
proceeded, muttering to himself, to pour gently
down the girl’s throat. This, in time, produced
the desired effect, and at last her tired-looking,
dark eyes opened and gazed about in strange
“ Georgia,” she whispered feebly. “ Georgia,
where am I?” with a frightened, wandering
“ Don’t be frightened, Maggie," answered the
child, stooping over and stroking back the wet
hair from her lorehead. “ The mister says we
may get warm."
“ I tried—to go away—from you—Georgia,”
she whispered painfully, with frequent stops
for breath. “ I thought—lt would be—better—
for you, but—somehow—l couldn’t The snow
was too deep—and I was so tired—so tired,"
pitifully; “ and ” Here a terrible fit of
coughing interrupted her, followed by an ex
haustion so complete that for some moments
she lay like one dead, with her head on the
Child’s shoulder.
*“ Guess she won’t last the night,” said Pete
to himself, apprehensively. “ Here, young
’un,” handing the bottle to the child, “ give her
some more brandy. I’m goin’ to fetch a doc
tor,” and taking down the lantern he disap
peared ouoe more into the storm. The brother
and sister were left alone.
“ Georgie,” she said presently, in an eager,
hoarse whisper, “I—l’m not—going to die—am
I ? I’m not—ready—Georgie—l’m not ready. I
mean—to begin—again—and be good. ’Tisn’t
too late, is it, Georgie ?” anxiously trying to
raise herself on one arm. “ Not too late—to be
good ?’’
“ Hush, Maggie, hush, don’t cry,” said the
frightened child.
“Oh 1” she cried wildly, raising herself with
a convulsive effort, “ it’s too late 1 I know it’s
too late 1 Georgie, I’m going to die 1 I’m go
ing to die I oh, Georgie I I’m so frightened,”
and with a low, gasping cry she sank back in
his arms.
When Pete returned with the doctor Maggie
was dead.
A few nights afterward, when the blizzard
was over, and a soft rain was falling out of
doors, Pete had another visit from the child.
“ I come to thank you, mister,” he said in bls
old, quiet voice. And Pete made him welcome'
and by-and-by they shared the roasted potatoes
and warmed-over tea, which made the night
man’s evening repast. Afterward, as they sat
together by the fire, ths silence was broken by
the child. “Mister,” he said, “wen folks ez
meant to be good git bad, an’ don’t hev time to
git good agen afore they die, do they hev any
chances afterward ?”
“ I don’t know, voung ’un,” said Pete, bro
koaiy, “ but I guess they
“Aunt Becky’s” Little Baek Parlor in
Pittsburg, from which came forth
many Beautiful Melodies.
{From the Chicago'News.)
Who has not been awakened from his sleep
in the early morning hours by some party of
home-going revelers singing “ Way Down Upon
the Suwanee River ?” The melodious music
invades the hall-roused senses like a dream,
and tho dreamer does not resist it. He closes
his eyes again to listen—motionless. He has
heard the old song many tines before ; he can
anticipate every word and note; there is no
novelty in it for him, but he is not provoked at
being awakened. He listens dreamily, aud lets
the music bring to him thoughts of home—not
the home of his manhood, made happy by wife
and children, but the dream home of his child
hood, where mother was.
The old song never grows old. Everybody
sings it and everybody loves to hear it sung.
No matter at what time or place its music rises,
there will be found a respectful audience. Not
oven the street gamin will cry “ chestnuts 1”
He instinctively respects the song of home with
out knowing why.
There stood in the city of Pittsburg, forty
years ago, a cottage at No. 31 Pearl street. It
was a cosy home, with vine-covered windows
and a broad hearthstone. It was the homo ot
Charles P. Shiras and his mother, familiarly
known to her friends as “ Aunt Becky ’ Shiras.
Charles Shiras had two particular friends of his
own age, Stephen Foster and John Hull. These
men had been companions from boyhood, and
death alone broke off their friendsh'p.
Shiras was a literary genius. He was well
educated, brilliant, and possessed of a fertile,
active mind. He was ambitious and animated
by the noblest purposes. For some years, and
at the time of his death, he was connected with
the Pittsburg Commercial Journal. All his lit
erary work was full of merit, and many of his
productions gained wide attention. He pub
lished two small volumes of poems, the best
known of which are “ Dollars and Dimes,” “ Re
demption of Labor,” and “The Iron Gity.”
These he considered his best works, but he
strangely refused to acknowledge the author--
ship of the beautilul songs which would have
given hie name, with that of Foster, world-wide
fame. He erred in his judgment of the effect
they would produce, and, in his ambition for
higher flights, considered them childish and
Foster was a musician and composer. His
soul was full of the poetry of sound. He had a
fine, effeminate face, and his nature was as soft
and yielding as a maiden’s. He was a dreamer,
olten sad and melancholy, and every bar ot liis
beautiful, simple music is marked with tho
characteristics of his nature. He found close
sympathy in the fine, poetic mind of Shiras, and
both found sympathy and encouragement in the
more rugged and aggressive nature of their
mutual friend, Hnll.
Hull was a mechanic, working for his daily
bread from his earliest boyhood. Unlike his
friends, he had no education, but the circum
stances of his life gave him strong good sense
and clear judgement. He was a lover of the
beautiful, and he found much to admire in his
friends Shiras and Foster. He had a musical
voice, and Foster, who could not sing, taught
him music. He had a retentive memory, and
from Shiras he learned much of literature. He
became the critic of the productions of both his
friends, and his judgment of a poem or a
song was to them all sufficient.
And so a beautiful friendship existed between
these three iu boyhood, in youth, and until
their early manhood, when Shiras died. They
were together during all their leisure time, and
“ many happy hours they squandered ” in
“Aunt Becky” Shiras’ a little back parlor. It
was here that Shiras, in his resting moments,
wrote those beautiful songs to please his
iriend Foster; It was here that Foster composed
music for them to please himself and his friend
Hull, and it was here that Hull sang them for
the pleasure of all.
The first song they published was “ Old Uncle
Ned.” Foster sold it to a Pittsburg house for
SIOO. With this money he purchased a small
piano and placed it in “ Annt Becky ” Shiras’
little parlor. And on this little piano was after
ward played music which has gone around the
world. “ Old Uncle Ned ” made its appearance
about tho year 1850, and immediately became
popular. Within three years later Shiras and
Foster together produced “Old Folks at Home,”
“Susannah, Don’t You Cry,” "Gentle Annie,”
“ Hard Times Come Again No More,” “ My Old
Kentucky Home,” “ Massa’s in the Cold, Cold
Ground,” “ Old Dog Tray,” “ Willie, We Have
Missed You,” “Come Where My Love Lies
Dreaming,” and others fully as popular.
It is certain that Shiras wrote the lines of
nearly ail these songs, except “Come Where
My Love Lies Dreaming.” Foster was willing
and anxious to share their authorship with his
friend Shiras, but the latter often laughingly
told Foster that be was welcome to all tbe repu
tation he would get from their publication.
Poor Shiras died when he was twenty years
old, before he dreamed that the songs which he
had written in an idle fancy, as a mere pastime,
would live in every home in the Christian world.
Mrs. Jane Swisshelm wrote his obituary. He
left a young wife and a girl baby. This baby is
now a buxom mother ot babies. She is the
wife of Captain J. H. Morris, of Pittsburg.
Foster lived some years after the death of his
friend. He went to New York city, where he
died in 1864, from tbe effects of a fall in the
Bowery. He was widely known and very popu
lar. His funeral was attended largely by the
literary, theatrical, and musical classes. A cho
rus of voices sang over his grave, “ Come where
my Love lies Dreaming.”
“Aunt Becky" Shiras, who so often scolded
“ the boys ” for staying up late at night and
making so much noise in her back parlor, has
passed away. And so has John Hull, who first
startled good “ Aunt Becky ” with the rattling
rhythm ot "Old Uncle Ned,” and soothed her
with the melody of “ Massa’s in de Cold, Cold
All are dead. But their music will live as
long as there are homes. It has been said of
John Howard Payne that Christians and Mo
liammedans alike wept over his distant grave;
that the whole world did him honor, and that
his countrymen built to bis memory a monu
ment simply because he had written one song
of home. But whenever a heart sings of
“Home, sweet home,” it sings, too, of the “Old
folks at home.” And shall the memdry ot him
who wrote the one be more reverenced than
the memory of him who wrote the other ? All
honor to these gentle heroes who made it pos
sible to weep in songs of home—Payne, Shiras
and Foster.
A little girl lay ill with typhoid fever, and her
baby brother played about her bed. Her mo
ther, fearing that the noise he made might be
injurious, endeavored to take him away, but he
cried out to his sick sister, who said she wished
that he might remain by her. The family was
poor. The house in which it d welt was weather
beaten, and in more than one place the plaster
was off the ceiling of tho little room where tho
girl had been lying, hovering between life and
death for many days, and the shingles of the
roof were warped and cracked so the sun often
shone down upon her bed. The mother left her
baby boy with his sister and went out into the
balmy air of the Spring morning to cultivate
her little garden, while baby was quiet and
Daisy was still. When she left her children,
the little boy’s chubby hands were entwined
with his Bister’s curls, and her wan face bright
ened, as she felt their soothing touch, and her
eyes closed peacefully, and one of her weak
arms lay caressingly upon her brother’s shoul
The child was still for a few moments, then
his little flaxen head sank upon the pillow, and
he, too, slept, lying close to his sister, his little
face bnried in the rich waves of golden hair that
clustered about her angelic features. A ray of
sunlight, finding no obstruction in roof or ceil
ing, came and nestled at their feet, and as the
*day wore on, it crept upward, and as its source
became more perpendicular to tho rift in tho
roof, through which it gained entrance, spread
out and covered more and more ef the sleeping
children. Daisy had told her brother of the
shining stair, which she would one day ascend.
He awoke, and seeing the sunlight on her feet,
he dallied with her curls and cried aloud :
"Dadiel Dadie ! Oo foot is on e step. Go
doin up ittie stair, Dadie. Oo is up two, fee
step, Dadie, an’ oo doin up. an’ up, an’ up, way
up to e g’eat bid ight.”
Daisy awoke. Her hand again sought the
shoulders of her brother, and a smile, such as
only the faces of angels wear, blossomed on her
lips as her flushed cheeks paled and her eyes
sought the innocent lace of the brother she loved
so welL
“ Hush, darling,” she said in a voice scarcely
louder than a whisper. “I am going up the
golden stairs. Do not tell mamma until lam
tone, and come closer to me sweet brother, for
am going—going away—up, up above the
clouds—up the shining stair—to heaven 1”
“I know, I know, Dadie. Oo foot is way up
e bidwed stair—e pnrty, wed stair, an’ e bid
wed ight shine on oo tnrls, Dadie, an it am did
g’eat bid an’ bidder, Dadie.”
“ Listen, darlmg. I am almost to the white
gate at tbe top of the bright, pretty stair. I see
the angels on the hilltops inside, and I hear
their happy voices singing such sweet—such
soft and pretty music, just like mamma sings
to you sometimes, only it is even softer and
sweeter than that. Oh ! darling brother, kiss
me. lam almost up the stair, and the gates
are swinging open, and the light is so bright
and cheerful, and—good-by—brother—kiss Dai
sy good—by.”
The little one did her bidding, and when her
bright eyes closed and her whole form was
flooded with the splendor of the sunlight, his
face sank upon the pillow among her curls
again and his little arms were clasped about
the neck of his dead sister, and sobbing, he
fell asleep.
The mother entered the room of her sick
child. She saw her girl and boy sleeping eo
peacefully that she would not wake them.
“ Daisy must be bettor,” she whispered to her
self as she went about her household duties
with a lighter heart. “It is so long since she
has slept so restfully. Ah I yes, my child is
better—much better.”
The doctor came. “She is asleep,” the
mother whispered, as she led him to tho death
chamber. He started as he. looked upon the
face of his little patient. "Yes, good mother,
she is asleep,” he said, “asleep, never to wake
again. This must not be,” ho added, as he
lifted iho form ot the bate beside tis sis
tor’s body. “He may contract the Infection,
It was too late. Before the form of little
Daisy was laid in the village churchyard, the
fever—tbe fatal fever—had seized upon her ba
by brother, aud one morning, just as the sun
peeped through a chink in the crazy wall and
fell upon Ins face and form, as his mother bent
over him, he throw up his little hands and
smiled, and cried out with his baby voice:
“Oh, Dadie, Ise turnin’ up ’e bid—wed—
stair to ’e bid ’ight I”
And tho widowed mother’s heart gave a
great bound of grief and was broken as the
light filled the room and then went out forever,
leaving her childless and alone.
One Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher in
Texas, advertised a barbecue, with better liquor
than usually furnished. When the people were
assembled, a desperado in tho crowd cried out:
_ “ Mr. Paul Denton, yonr reverence has lied.
You promised us not only a good barbecue, but
better liquor. Where is tho liquor?”
“ There I” answered tbe missionary, in tones
of thunder, and pointed his motionless finger
at the matchless double spring, gushing up in
two strong columns, with a sound like a shout
of joy, from the bosom of the earth. “There I”
he repeated, with a look terrible as tho light
ning, while his enemy actually trembled on his
feet, “ there is the liquor which God, the Eter
nal, brews for all Hie children I Not in the
simpering still, over smoky fires, choked with
poisoaous gases sad surrounded with tho
stench of sickening odors and rank corruptions
doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious
essence of life, the pure cold water; but in the
green glade and grassy dell, where tho
red deer wanders and the child loves to
play—there God brews it; and down, low
down in tho deepest valleys, where the foun
tain murmurs and tho rills ring, and high upon
the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite
glitters like gold in the sun, where storm-cloud
broods and the thunderstorms crash, and away
far out on the wide, wild sea, whore tho hurri
cane howls music, and ths big waves roar tho
chorus, sweeping the march of God—there He
brews it, that beverage of life, health-giving wa
ter. And everywhere ii is a thing of beauty;
gleaming in the dew-drop; einging iu tho Sum
mer rain; shining in the ioo gem, till tho trees
all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a
golden vail over the setting sun, or a white
gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in
tho cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in
the hail shower; folding its bright snow cur
tains softly about the Wintry world, and weav
ing the many-colored iris, that seraph’s zone of
the sky—whose warp is the rain-drop ot earth,
whose woof is the sunbeam ot heaven—all
checkered over with celestial flowers, by the
mystic hand ot refraction. Still always it is
beautiful—that blessed life-water I No poison
bubbles on its brink; its foam bring no mad
ness and murder; no blood stains its liquid
glass; pale widows and starring orphans weep
no burning tears in its depths; no drunkard’s
shrieking ghost trom the grave curses it in
words of eternal despair 1 Speak out, my
friends 1 would you exchange it for the demon’s
drink, alcohol ?”
A shout like tho roar of a tempest answered:
“No I”
Doan Swift on one occasion invited to dinner
several of the first noblemon and gentlemen in
Dublin, who, knowing his punctuality, assem
bled at the time appointed to the minute. A
servant announced the dinner, and the dean
led the way to the dining room. To each chair
was a servant, a bottle ot wine, a roll and an
inverted plate. On taking his seat, the dean
desired the guests to arrange themselves ac
cording to their own ideas of precedence and
fall to. The company were astonished to find
the table without a dish or any provisions. Tho
Lord Chancellor, who was present, said:
“ Mr. Dean, wo do nqi see the joke.”
“ Then I will show it yon,” answered the
dean, turning up his plate, under which was
half a crown and a bill of fare from a neigh
boring tavern. “ Here, sir,” said he to his
servant, “bring me a plate of goose.”
The company caught the idea, and each man
sent his plate and half a crown. Covers with
everything that the appetite of the moment
dictated soon appeared. The novelty, the pe
culiarity of the manner and the unexpected cir
cumstances altogether excited the plaudits of
the noble guests, who declared themselves par
ticularly gratified by the dean’s entertainment.
“ Well, gentlemen,” said tho dean, “if you
have dined, I will order the dessert.”
A large roll of paper, presenting particulars
of a splendid dinner, was produced, with an
estimate of the expense. The dean requested
the accountant-general to deduct the half
crowns from the amount, observing “ that as
his noble guests were pleased to express their
satisfaction with the dinner, he begged their ad
vice and assistance in disposing ot the frag
ments and crumbs,” as he termed the balance
mentioned by tbe accountant-general, namely,
two hundred and fifty pounds.
The company said, that no person was capa
ble of instructing tho dean in things of that
nature. After the circulation of the finest wine,
tbe most judicious remarks on charity and its
abuse, were introduced, and it was agreed that
the proper objects of liberal relief were all edu
cated families, who from affluence, or the ex
pectation of it, were reduced through misfor
tune to silent despair.
The dean then divided the sum by the num
ber of his guests, and addressed each amount
to some deserving person.
Ono day, at a pleasant country house, where
Edward Everett, Washington Irving and Ban
croft were guests, the conversation, as was
natural among three gentlemen who had all
been foreign ministers, fell upon diplomatie
life. Irving, with a sly twinkle in his eye, was
soon telling comical incidents of his experience,
when Everett, after listening with an air ot
great amusement, said: “ One of the drollest
incidents in my diplomata life occurred at my
presentation as United States Minister in Eng
land. I went to tbe palace by appointment with
Lord Melbourne, feeling very uncomiortable in
my official toggery, and found that the
Neapolitan ambassador, the Prince Castelcicala,
wae to be presented at the same time. We were
introducedfto each other, and, alter a proper
interval, the official presentations to Her
Majesty took place. When they were over
(probably at Windsor) Lord Melbourne said,
‘Your excellencies will be expected to remain,
and in tho evening join in a game of whist with
the Duchess of Kent’ We bowed,” continued
Mr. Everett, “ and Lord Melbourne added, ‘ I
play a very poor game myself: in fact, I scarcely
understand it, but the duchess is very fond of
it* * And I,’ said tho Prince Castelcicala, turn
ing to me, ‘am a very poor player; and if I
should chance to be your excellency’s partner,
I invoke your forbearance in advance.’
“We were all moving down tbe corridor to
ward the duchess's apartments,” said Mr. Ever
ett, with a grave smile, “ and it was very amus
ing to hear our mutual apologies and depreca
tions, especially as I remarked in my turn that
I was not very familiar with the game. Here
we were, three dignified personages in middle
life, clad in extraordinary attire, and solemnly
proceeding to play a game which we imper
fectly understood, and for which we did not
care in the least When we reached the duch
ess's apartments she was seated at the table,
and wo were formally presented, and, at her
gracious invitation, seated ourselves for the
game. Just as wo were beginning to play, a
lady in waiting approached, and placed herself
at the back of the duchess’s chair. The duchess
then turned to us, and said, politely, ‘ Your ex
cellencies will excuse me if I rely upon the ad
vice of my friend here, for I really am a very
poor player.’ It was inexpressibly droll,” said
Mr. Everett, “ and it was a curious illustration
of the ceremonial character of Court life.”
To a crusty old chap who can’t dance, there
is something extremely exasperating in the
amount of admiration and worship extended to
the young gentleman who “ leads the german.”
For a long time the writer hereof was ashamed
to confess his ignorance of the meaning of the
term “ leading the german.” He failed to un
derstand wherein the additional honor came
over leading the Irishman or the Frenchman.
He used to think the German was blind, and
wondered why he didn’t get a dog. One day be
unwittingly ventured this suggestion to a young
friend and was informed, in accents of scornful
pity, that the “german ” was not a man, but a
dance. Confound our befuddled old senses ;
we are getting behind the age. We presented
our abject apologies aud swore not to be a clam
Since this episode we have noticed an article
going the rounds of the papers showing the
brilliant and variegated attributes and qualities
that must be focused in tbe man who success
fully “leads the German.” He must bo
thoroughly proficient in dancing and deport
ment, most be possessed of tact, ingenuity and
originality. It is absolutely necessary that he
shall be cool-headed, noted for presence of
mind and full of endurance, capable of direct
ing without giving offense, and heaven only
knows what else I We can never be sufficiently
thankful to our young friend for letting in this
flood of light to our benighted mind.
We had been hugging the dreadful delusion
to our bosom that dancing, while no doubt an
innocent and exhilarating amusement, didn’t
require the exercise of any more talent and
brains than the whitewashing of a barn door.
Too late, alas ! we have discovered how terribly
we were mistaken. It is quite evident that be
fore the glorified ereatnre in a swallow-tailed
coat who proudly “leads the germ-au ” tiHother
lions must succumb, “and join our expressions
of glee.” What does that little affair of Horatius
at the bridge, or Leonidas at tbe pass amount
to when compared with the brilliant terpsich
orean aohievements of our modern hero?
We venture to prophesy that a hundred rears
bsaso poets -will c.—ii tj etog Mil srr.tois
to rant of the glories of Sesostris riding to the
temple in a chariot drawn by captive kings ; of
Alexander weeping for more worlds to conquer;
of Julius Caesar bestriding the narrow earth
like a colossus, or of John L. Sullivan doing
deeds of power with his doughty fiats. Yea,
verily; they will have tuned their harps and
voices to sing the praises of the graceful dude
who “leads the german.” Then, indeed, can it
be more truthfully said, “ Peace hath her vic
tories no less renowned than war.” But, sure
as fate, there’ll be some blamed fool of an icono
clast to rise and say that, “ if the young men of
the nineteenth century had applied a tithe of
the great attainments the * genman' seems to
have required, to railroads, business and states
manship, the history of that period would not
be so thickly strewn with bankrupt railroads,
misfit business men and corrupt politicians.”
(from the Des Moines, lowa, Leader.)
" I have a atory for you,” said a drummer.
“ I don’t mean a yarn or a joke, but a simple
account of a fact. Last week I was out in lowa,
and one night stopped in Ottumwa. There I
became well acquainted with a quiet young
man. On his invitation I sat in hia room in the
evening, and he told me that he waa a minister
ot the Gospel, who had been ordained a few
weeks before, and had come to Ottumwa to per
form the marriage ceremony for some friends
of hia. In fact, the ceremony was to take place
that very night, in his room. Pretty Boon a
rather elderly couple came in, shook hands
warmly with my friend, ending in standing up
before him and being married in the usual
form. After a time they left, and my new friend
aaid to me:
“That, I think, is the most peculiar marriage
ceremony a minister ever performed. I never
heard ot its equal, and never expect to.”
“ What do you mean ?” I said.
“ ‘ I’ll tell you,’ was his reply, • only you
must bear in mind that it is a secret. My father
and mother were pioneers in a county not far
from this city. I waa reared on their farm and
finally sent off to school. My parents are well
to-do people, church workers and are highly
respected in the neighborhood. About two
years ago my father wrote ms a letter in which
ho wanted my advice and assistance. Hia
trouble was that ho had never been married to
the woman who passed aa his wife, i'or years
they had been satisfied with this relationship,
but at length my mother began to worry about
it. She wanted the ceremony performed legal
ly. My father had no objection, but did not
dare to go to any minister or functionary in the
neighborhood. Then my father consulted me,
and the result ot it was a decision to wait. Two
weeks ago I was ordained a minister and our
plans were then carried out. The couple I have
fust married were my own father and mother.”
©ur Wkly (bwly.
An astute Arkansas negro has found a new
way to make the Boycott available. Hia inven
tion ie
"Colonel,*' eaid an old negro, approaching a
well-known citizen, "I'se roun' beggin' fur er little
he’p frum er mungst de white gennerzneu. We'se
tryin' mighty hard ter build er church, Bah.*’
"Isn't this old Nick Page ?"
" Yas. Bah.”
"Well, I happened to be foreman of the grand
jury some time ago and I remember that you
were Indicted for stealing."
"Yer don’t meun me. I reckons, dis me what am
stand in’ right heah, now ?"
" Yes, I do."
"Doan yer think dat dar’s room fur tome sorter
mistake ter creep inter dose heah prerseedings ?"
"I think not."
"Gwins ter 'dem* me right heah, widout er
trial ?"
" You had a fair trial.'*
" Wall, didn't Ido what de jedge tolo mo tor do ?
Tole me ter go down on de county farm, an’ I done
it. When er man do his duty, yer kain' ax no mo’
offen him. Gwine tor gin me some money F*
" Not a cent."
" What, not attor I hab dun made dis fine *spla’-
nation ?"
"Not a nickel."
"Doan* b’lebe dater nigger is got no soul, does
*• Some of them have more body than soul."
"Wall, I ain’t one e’ dem sort. I alius does mer
duty when do jedge says so. Jedge tells me ter go
ter jail, I goes. Boss, dar's suthin' 'bout dis heah
church whut gwlno ter consarn yesse’f er good
" How so ?"
" W’y, sab, we gwine ter build It on er lot j’inin’
yer house an* dem shoutin' niggers gwine ter keep
yer er wake all night."
" You trifling scoundrel I "
"Dat’s all right, sah," moving away, "we gwine
ter bicott yer wid dem himes an* 'sa’ms an’ pra’rs.
Good day. Got yer font Er, haw, haw."—Arkan
saw Traveler.
This is about the way in which one woman
generally tells another
"If It's to be a small pudding, why, of course, I
don’t use much flour, and the bigger it’s to be, why,
the more flour I take. Sometimes I have to use a
great deal of flour, and then again I can very often
get up quite a pudding without having to use very
much. You see it depends a good deal on the
baking powder. If that’s real good it don’t make
so very much difference about the flour, you
" I suppose you use raisins ?"
" Well, now, sometimes I do, and then, sometimes
I don't. It depends altogether on whether I want
it very rich or not, and what kind of sauce I am
going to use. Of course, the richer I want it the
more raisins I put in ; but if the sauce is to be very
rich you must be very careful about the pudding, or
you will be sure to get it too much so. The best
way is to make your pudding first and then fix your
sauce to match it."
" How much sugar do you take ?"
"Well, now, some folks takes a good deal and
some folks don't. As for me, I never did like to
have anything too sweet, and for that reason I'm
always carefnl not to got in too much sugar. After
you’ve made it once or twice you won’t havs a
particle of trouble in getting it just to suit you."
"How many eggs do you use?”
"Well, now, that's the beauty of it. With this
kind of a pudding it don’t make so very much
difference how many you take. If you’ve got
plenty of eggs, and you’re going to make a big
pudding, why, you can put in several; it won't
hurt; but if eggs are scarce, you can get along
with one or two just as well, and nobody will ever
notice the difference."
"Do you mix your dough with milk F'
"Well, now, sometimes I do, but it's not so very
particular about that. If you’ve got plenty of milk,
and don't need it for anything else, it won’t hurt to
use it, but if you haven't, why, don’t do it. If you
get everything else right, it won't matter about the
milk at aIL"
" How about spices ?"
"Use ’em if you want to. Some folks likes 'em,
and I think myself they rather help a pudding
sometimes, especially if you use plain sauce. But
yon must follow your own taste about that, and if
you don’t get it right the first time don’t blame me,
for the Lord knows I’ve done my very best to tell
you just exactly how to do it and all about it."
The man who attempts to play practical jokes
with hia wife usually gets left. Women don’t
understand jokes, as is plain from
A man who plays practical jokes upon his wife
deserves to be punished—and Slatterly, of Muncy,
was punished. His wife has a dread of cats, and
before retiring at night she always looks carefully
under the bed to see that no stray puss and no
man, on robbery intent, are concealed there. A few
nights ago, after Mr. and Mrs. Slattery had retired,
Slatterly, who had been learning ventriloquism,
thought he would amuse himself and scare his wife
by gently yowling and making the sound come from
under the bed. Mrs. Slatterly instantly sat up and
exclaimed :
"Josiah, I do believe there is a cat in the room."
"Oh, nonsense,’' grunted Slatterly ; and then he
made the noise again.
"I tell you, Josiah," exclaimed Mrs. S., "I hear a
cat under the bed. I wish you’d get out and drive
it away."
"Oh. go to sleep, Matilda," said Slatterly—"l
don’t hear anything. There’s no cat about."
Then Josiah, with his mouth beneath the covers,
uttered a louder screech than before.
" Well, if you won’t clear that cat out, you brute,
I will I” said Mrs. Slatterly.
So she reached over, picked up Josiah’s boots,
and put them on in bed in order to protect her feet
and ankles from the infuriated animal. Then she
took Slatterly’s cane and stooped down to sweep it
around beneath the bed. Just as she did so, Josiah
emitted a fearful yell which might have come from
a eat in the last paroxysms of hydrophobia. This
startled Mrs. Slatterly so that she sprang backward,
and in doing so she stumbled against the baby's
cradle, which was overturned, and she went head
foremost against the twenty-five dollar looking glass
on the bureau, while the cane flew out Of her hand
and lighted with considerable force on Slatterly’s
The screams of Mrs. Slatterly aroused all tbo
neighborhood, and even brought out the fire depart
ment, so that by the time the baby was rescued
from the wreck and the broken glass picked up, two
engines had streams playing upon the house, and
the front door had been burst open by the police,
and tbo firemen were engaged in dragging a wet
hose over the entry carpet and up the front stairs
just as Slatterly came down to explain things.
That vetriloquism cost him ninety dollars for car
pets and looking-glasses, and a contusion on the
head which his friends to this hour believe he re
ceived in a pugilistic encounter with his wife.
This is a domestic scene which a great many
married persons have witnessed, and
Briggs has a boy baby, about ten months old,
who is admitted to look just like his father, and to
be the smartest boy baby of his age in G street. The
other morning the child was sitting on the floor,
playing with five or six buttons on a string, and
taking an occasional nibble at an apple to bring out
his first crop of teeth. Mrs. Briggs and a neighbor
were talking away as only women can gossip, when
the baby hid tbo buttons under a mat, and started
to finish the apple. A bit of the skin got in his
throat, and he gave a cough and a whoop, and
pawed the air, and rolled over on his bead.
"Oh, them buttons! He haß swallowed them
buttons !” cried the mother as she yanked him up,
and shook him.
"Pound him on the back I" yelled the other
woman, trying to bold the baby’s legs still.
"Run for th® neighbors 1” cried Mrs. Briggs.
"Oh, he'll die 1 he’ll die 1" screamed the other, as
she ran out.
And the neighbors came in, and made him lie on
his stomach and cough, and then turned him on
his back, and rubbed his stomach, and jogged him
about all sorts of ways, until he got mad and went
to howling. Then the boy ran for Briggs, and
Briggs ran for the doctor, and the doctor came and
choked the baby, and order d sweet oil and a mus
tird plaster, and told them to hold him on his back.
Everybody knew that those six buttons were lodged
in the baby s throat, because he was red in the face,
and because be strangled as he howled and wept.
They poured down sweet oil, and put a mustard
, ;l-s'.cr arises him, wept ever him, and Ute mo-
ther said she could never forgive herself. The doo
tor was looking serious, and Briggs waa thinking
that he hadn’t done anything to deserve such a
blow, when one of the women pushed the mat, and
discovered the buttons.
Then everybody laughed and danced, and they
kicked the sweet-oil bottle under the bed, threw the
mustard plaster at the doctor, and Mrs. Briggs
hugged the howling angel to her boson, and called
him her " wopsy topsy hopsy dropsy popsy little
The intelligence of the country mayors ol
England is well exemplified in this story of
The mayor of a country town discovered a charter
in which, as he interpreted it, “frying bacon” after
sunset without the authority of the mayor was an
offense against the municipal laws. Now, his wor
ship being anxious to vindicate the dignity and add
to the importance of his office, sallied forth one
night in company with the parish beadle, to detect
and punish all offenders. After perambulating ev
ery nook and corner of the borough, they came to a
thatched cottage on its precincts, in which they
found a poor fellow who had just returned from a
hard day's work, hungry and worn out, iu flagrante
dehetn, and immediately arrested the savory morsel,
and consigned its cook to a supperless cell. On the
following morning bis worship ordered the unfor
tunate wight to be brought before him.
" Sirrah," quoth he, “ know you not that It is a
grave offence against the ancient rights, laws, and
customs of this ancient borough, to fry bacon after
sunset ?”
" He! he! he!" giggled forth the town clerk.
“ Ha 1 ha ! ha 1" roared out the audience.
" What means this indecent uproar ?” shouted
his worship, boiling over wiih rage; “ by Heaven,
I'll commit you all for contempt of court !*'
" Ho ! ho? bo !” convulsively jerked out he of the
long robe; "if you please, your worship, it's a mis
" A mistake ? I think it is a mistake, but I'll let
you know that I am Mayor."
At this culminating crisis. Master Beadle, amid
the roars of the court, came to the rescue, and said
that his worship had read the charter wrong, fer
that it was " firing a beacon," and not " frying
Widowers, when they go courting, are not
usually very backward in their advances.
Thia, however, was not the case with Widower
Smith, who had to be
Widower Smith rode up one morning to Widow
Jones’s door, and gave the usual country signal
that he wanted to see somebody in the house, by
dropping the reins and sitting double, with his efe
bows on his knees.
Out tripped the widow, lively as a cricket, with a
tremendous black ribbon on her snow-white cap.
" Good morning" was soon said on both sides, and
the widow waited for what was further to bo said:
"Well, Ma'am Jones, perhaps you don’t want to
Bell one of your cows, nohow, lor nothing, any war.
do you?”
Weil, there, Mr. Smith, you couldn’t have spoke
my mind better. A poor, Jone woman like ma,
doesn’t know what to do with so many creatures,
and I should ba glad ,to part with one if we oaa
come to terms.”
So they adjourned to the meadow ; Farmer Smith
looked at Roan, then at the widow, at Brindle, the*
at the widow again, and so through the whole forty.
The same call was made every day for a week, but
Farmer Smith could not deoide which cow ho want
ed. At length, on Saturday, when the Widow Jonec
was in a hurry to get through with her baking fee
Sunday, and had "ever so much” to do in the
house, as all farmers* wives and widows have on
Saturday, she was a little impatient—Farmer Smith
was as irresolute as ever.
"That ere Alderney cow is a pretty fair creature,'*
h® stopped to glance at the widow’s faoe. and
then walked round her—not the widow, but the cow,
"That ere Bhort-horn Durham is not a bad-looking
beast, but I don’t know— *’ another look at the
widow. " The Alderney cow I knew before the late
Mr. Jones bought her." Here he sighed at tke
allusion to the late Mr. Jones; she sighed, and
both looked at each other. It was a highly interest
ing moment. "Gid Roan is an old milch, and so is
Brindle, but I have known better."
A long stare followed this speech, and the panes
was getting awkward, and at last Mrs. Jones broke
"Lor, Mr. Smith, if I'm the one yon want, do say
The intentions of Widower Smith and the Widow
Jones were duly published the next day in ohuroh
for the first time ; and as soon as they were pub
lished three times, they were married.
He knew when he had a good thing, and wa<
A wholesale house in Chicago started a salesman
•n the road, giving him SIOO for traveling expenses.
A week passed, and nothing was heard from Mr.
Traveler, Still another week passed, and still no
word from Mr. Traveler. Finally the house wired
him as follows: "Mr. Traveler—Nothing from you
since you left. Are you still with us ?” To which
Mr. Traveler replied: " Youra this date received.
Have made draft on you for S2OO. Am still with
Something highly prized yet always
given away—A bride.
Talk about women being flighty I
Look at bank cashiers.
A prize-fighter is always willing to
take his pay by the pound.
It’s the little things that tell—espe
cially the little brothers and sisters.
It is believed that the devil takes off
his hat whenever he meets a hypocrite.
A subscriber asks for a remedy for
cold feet. Try banking them np with sawdust |
if they still remain cold, set the sawdust on fire.
Old jokes may raise a laugh at times,
but writers who are sage
Make new ones, for they know that jokes are always
Jack—“ Grandma, have you good
teeth ?" Grandma—" No, dear ; unfortunately, I
have not." Jack—Then 11l give you my wal
nuts to keep till I come back."
The hardest thing in the world to
please is a woman. Mr. Young, ef Wabasha, Minn.,
locked his wife into the house; Mr, Potts, of Pepin.
Wis„ locked his wife out of the house. Now both
women have sued for divorce.
“Some infernal old idiot has put my
pen where I can’t find it," growled old Asperity
this morning, as he rooted about his office desk.
“Ah—aw—yes ; I thought bo," he continued, in a
a milder tone, as he hauled the writing utensil out
from behind his ear.
Mr. Charles Parsons, who was an as
pirant, has withdrawn, and now the appointment
of Gen. Taylor seems to be inevitable. His endorse*
ments are equal to those of any man whose name
has been put before a department here, and his ap
pointment will be hailed with pleasure.
“Oh! give me affection, I’ll sigh for
naught more," sings a poetess, addressing her love.
She may not sigh for anything Just now, but before
she has been married a year, we venture to say, she
will be sighing for a sealplush sack and a pug-dog
with a eatin-lined blanket and a silver-plated col*
Snug as a Bug in a Rug.—
Behind a prancing span they go,
Their hearts with happiness aglow,
Although their ear-tips tingle;
The air is crisp and bright the day,
And blithely, merrily the sleigh-
Belle jingle.
Along the winding road they skim,
The maiden Bits quite close to him.
In fact, could not sit snugger,
A girl of wit and sense is she—
She drives and leaves him both arms free
To hug her. w
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