New York dispatch. [volume], February 21, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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BUILDING UPON THE SANDS.
BY ELIZA COOK.
’Tis well to woo, 'tis well to wed,
For so the world has done
Since myrtles grew and rosea blew,
And morning brought the sun;
Blit have a care, yo young and lair.
Be sure ye pledge with truth;
Be certain that your love will wear
Beyond the days of youth.
For if ye give not heart to heart,
As well as hand to hand,
You’ll find you've played the f‘ unwise part,”
And “ built upon the sand.”
*Tis well to save, ’tis well to have
A goodly store of gold,
And hold enough of sterling stuff —
For charity is cold.
But place not ail your hopes and trust
In what the deep mine brings,
Wo cannot live on yellow dust
Unmixed with purer things;
And he who piles up wealth alone
Will often have to stand
Beside his coffer chest, and own
"i’is “ built upon the sand.”
"Tis good to speak In kindly guise,
And soothe whate'er we can.l
For speech would bind the human mind,
And love link man to man.
But stay not at the gentle words;
Lot deeds with language dwell;
The one who pities starving birds
Should scatter crumbs as well.
The mercy that is warm and true
Must lend a helping hand;
-For those who talk, yet fail to do.
But “ build upon the sand.”
THE OiKLYIIiIIm«EDY.
BY EDWIN NORMAN.
In the Summer of 1884 I was on a visit to a
'married sister ©f mine in the west of England,
and in one ot my afternoon strolls my eyes were
attracted to a picturesque old mansion which
much reminded me of the “stately homes of
England.” There it stood, alone in all its
grandeur, some distance from the busy little vil
lage, in a quiet, elevated, rural spot, around
■which the wild birds wore chirping and singing
as if trying to break the spell of silence.
There was something about the dear old place,
with its diamond paned windows, ivy-capped
gables and stone-built walls, that seemed to en
ohant me, as there I stood without endeavoring
to picture a scene within. Stirring my imagina
tion, I fancied myself walking through its ban
queting rooms, corridors, and other oak-pan
©led apartment©. But enough of my sweet rev
erie, for very soon an old country gentleman
came upon the scehe, introduced himself in true
country fashion, and asked:
“ What do you think of it, sir ?”
“It is a grand old house,” [ replied.
“Ah, yes—it is indeed, sir; and, like most
grand old places, it has had its skeleton in the
cupboard.”'
“Indeed,” said I. “Then it is haunted,!
presume? ’
“ Well, sir, that is a question I cannot answer;
but it was once the scene of a tragedy that will,
I think, cling to it for some time—many years.”
I need not recite the whole of the conversa
tion between us; suffice it be there and then un
hesitatingly described the tragedy in question
whileawe were seated on a grassy bank. It was
as follows:
“ Well, sir, I will tell you the story of Oakly
Hall,” he began. “ Twenty odd years ago it was
the country seat of Sir Walter Harrold—and he
was a good, dear, old warm-hearted, gentle
man, whom all the villagers loved. Sir Walter
was a widower, with only one child—a lovely,
blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, and at the
time my story commences—which is a true one
—was just jumping out of her teens. All the
village folk believed that she had long been en
gaged to young Squire Cloudesley, whose man
i sion I will show you if you will return to the inn
with me. Of course he rs a middle-aged squire
now, as I am speaking of twenty years ago,
when Sir Walter Harrold was cruelly murdered,
which caused certain family secrets too ooze out,
and, I may add, they are very important items
in the story or tragedy of Oakly Hall.
One bleak December morning Sir Walter was
found groaning on his death-bed, with a fearful
wound on his forehead, which caused his death
a few hours after being discovered by the serv
ants, who, as I was told, heard their master's
faint groans as they were going down stairs
early in the morning to attend to their several
duties.
“The village doctor and constable, and oth
ers, arrived just in time to watch the last dying
moments ot the good old knight. There he lay,
dead, sopped in his own blood, with his fair
daughter weeping, raving, and bending over the
remains of her beloved father.
“ The old mansion was most minutely exam
ined, with the result that it was proved beyond
all doubt that not only had it not been broken
into, but there was not a single article ot any
kind stolen. Such being the case, it was justly
inferred that the murder was committed by
some person or persons who that dread;ul night
aiept or resided at the Hall. Who did it? Alas,
week after week passed in a search for a cir
cumstancial clew I At length one was found.
Sir Walter’s fair daughter—to whom I have
already alluded—one evening confessed she had
been playing a double game in the intricate art
of love-making. She declared, although appar
. ently engaged to Squire Cloudesley, to please
her father, she was actually betrothed secretly
to her father’s butler, subject to conditions of
sworn secrecy, and that they were not to be mar
ried during Sir Walter’s lifetime.
_ “It was in giving the young squire the good-
* by, and making him acquainted with the ful
filled conditions of her secret engagement to the
butler that the rejected one at once set to work
, conjuring up a thousand suspicions to hang his
presumed guilty rival.
“The butler was arrested, and after the first
hearing before the magistrate, was morally con
demned by the whole village, that was ready to
lynch him and hislairyoung mistress forthwith.
“Again and again the prisoner was remanded
And never a word came from his lips, probably
because his legal adviser had requested him to
be silent,
“The trial came. There stood the prisoner
to confront judge and jury and his accusers,
among whom were his odious rival and his fair
young mistress—his lost Ji ancee— who was now
I his bitterest enemy, and trying her utmost to
T <get his head into the hangman's noose. Her
conduct at the trial, where she gave evidence
against her presumed guilty lover, replaced her
in the hearts of the villagers. The poor trem
bling culprit heard her evidence go against him.
He fixed his eyes upon her, shaking with emotion
from head to foot. His tongue was tied—he spoke
not. His head fell, and he wept; but hie tears
did not touch the heart of his fair accuser.
“Again he turned his pale face toward her,
but she spurned it so severely that his hand
went quickly to his wildly beating heart. Judge
and jury seemed ready to condemn their pris
oner, but there was no evidence to sustain a
verd:ct against him. It was a question of life
and death, and they were constrained to give
the man the benefit of the doubt; con
sequently he was acquitted. Something, how
ever, deterred him from again venturing near
the scene ol the murder; nor did he dare to en-
the village again. And it was well for him
he did not, for, evidence or no evioen e, inno
cent or guilty, every living soul in the village
verily believed the butler to be the villain who
Sir Walter Harrold.
“Two years glided away, in which time noth
ing was seen or k. own of the whereabouts of
the acquitted man, whoso very name was svn
onymous with the Evil Gne. Oakly Hall bad'its
spinster mistress, and young Squire Oloudeslev
had married some town beauty with plenty of
money; for, on discovering that Miss Harrold
cared little or nothing for him—nor, indeed, for
any one else with a view to marriage—he soon
shifted his quarters, finally sojourning in Lon
don, where he wooed and won a millionaire’s
daughter.
“Well, sir, Miss Harrold, by Sir Walter’s
will, came into possession of all her father’s
property. She led quite a hermit’s life, and
was a sorry picture of misery—so much so,
’—that some people went so far as to believe she
was indirectly implicated in the murder. One
after another, in quick succession, all her serv-
♦ ants quitted Oakly Hall, and, not caring to re
hr main longer in the old mansion, she too left it—
f left it in charge of care-takers. Soon it was
known as the ‘Haunted Mansion,’ and after a
few months was deserted, and subsequently ad
vertised for sale. So much for the murder.
And now for the se piel of the story—the very
kqy of the mystery—the murder.
“The village inh, known as the Three Brew-
was kept by a retired captain of the mer
chant service, who, by-the-by, was, and still* is
very f nd of being ‘half seas over,’ as the say
■ins nautically. One evening, bavin" im
bibed too much of that delectable beverage
teamed grog, to avoid his wile’s displeasure
to use his own expression, ‘her awful tongue
banging apparatus’—he strolled to the stables
and took sanctuary in the hayloft, to sleep off
the ill effects of the ‘drop too'much.’ Soon he
was awakened by voices not far from hi in
voices that seemed to paralyze him, makin"
tremble for his life’s safety. One was a
F stranep or unknown harsh voice; the other was
the Jlrmistakaple mutt r of his drunken ostler
who, at the time of the murder, was Sir Wal
ter’s vale Land confidential man.
“ ‘1 tell you what it is,’ said the ostler, T am
that I ever had anything to do with the
murder, for my conscience has never been at
rest since that awful night, and I’ve got so thin
on it that every one is telling me I’m in a con
sumption. No matter to me whether it be Win
ter or Summer, sunny or cloudy, I’m always
alike—got no life in me, no sunshine, no smile
no lau^h—and, *ke all bad men, I’ve taken to
r drinking heavily, and that makes matters
L worse still. My dear wife has always been one
KjOf the best of wives and mothers, and brought
all our family respectably. Ah, she little
L m the wicked wretch you know me to
be I If it was not for getting you into trouble,
I really think I should make a clean breast of
matters—confess to the murder, pray for Heav
en’s mercy, and let the hangman strangle me
out of my misery. As for doing another job of
the kind why, I tell you plainly I won’t have
anything to do with it.’
. ‘ Hang it I ent in the other, ‘I had to get rid
k of the jewelry, and you had a fair half of the
kgonoy it fetched.’
■ T ‘/h H “ av « u > 7 6S .’ repliea the other, ‘I did
—laid! And what good has it done me? I
have squandered it away in drink, trying to
, drown my conscience. I shall never forget go
! ing into a London jeweler’s with my dear old
master and there watching him buy the neck
lace ot diamonds lor my young mistress Yes 1
to to presented to her on her coming 0 ; i
age. My master said to me, “Godfrey, you are
my personal and confidential attendant, so bo
careful and let nobody know of this purchase,
as I wish to agreeably surprise your young mis
tress on her twenty-first birthday.” He was so
troubled with gout he could hardly walk in and
out the jeweler’s shop—l had to help him; yet
the poor old fellow, on reaching home, alighted
with the jewels as proud as a king. Ah. it was
the devil that brought you to see me that night,
Teddy 1 But when I agreed to the robbery and
let you into the mansion, God knows I did not
, dream you meant doing murder. My dear old
master, too—eh? Oh, Heaven, when I think of
it, I realize what a wicked wretch I have been 1
And now you have come to ask me to help you
rob this inn. Why, perhaps you would murder
my present master —eh?—he who found mo
employment here when I had lost my character
by being a drunkard ! No, no—l am not to bo
caught twice in the same trap. You murdered
Sir Walter Harrold; you shall not murder the
landlord of this inn I’
“ ‘ I—l murdered him ?” interrogated the
other villian.
“‘Yes, you did it,’ persisted the ostler. *1
let you into the house to steal the new jewels,
not to murder my master I*
“ ‘ You speak too loud, yon blubbering fool,
you !’ said the stranger’s voice. ‘Some one will
overhear us; then we shall be run in and
doomed to the gallows.’
‘Go away, then, at once,’ said the ostler ;
‘for there’s only about twenty pounds in the
inn, and you shall not rob the old man of it.
Go away !’
“The next moment there was a terrible scuf
fle between them, and the old wooden structure
vibrated as if it were going to ba razed to the
ground. Soon one of the two wretches had
fallen heavily to the floor.”
For a few minutes my story-telling friend
paused, smiled, and fixed his eyes upon me
very suspiciously, as if he fancied he had recog
nized in me an old acquaintance. But he soon
explained the cause of his strange behavior.
“Now, sir,” he continued, “I must take the
mask from my face,” and he paused again, with
his ayes set to mine as previously.
“ What do you mean, sir ?” said I. “Explain
—what are you thinking of?”
“I will tell you, sir, he responded. “I—l
was the poor shivering landlord of the inn—in
deed, lam still; so, of course, it was I who lay
in the hayloft listening to the life-and-death
struggle of which I have siioken.”
“ Oh, indeed I” said L “ But finish the
story.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Well, sir, I must repeat
that one villain fell heavily in the fight—so
heavily that the accumulated dust of years fell
from beams and rafters ever my head, forming
a dust-cloud that nearly choked and blinded
me, as there I lay hidden, motionless as a
statue, and afraid to breathe naturally. Then
came a cry that struck terror into my heart, for
I knew by it another murder had been done.
“ * Wretch, wretch I—you have stabbed me !’
cried the ostler. Then a few faint groans came
from the dying man, and as they subsided I felt
fairly cerUin his guilty soul had gone from the
hayloft.
“It was about eight o’clock in the evening,
and unusually dark for the time of year, so that
I had not an opportunity to steal a glimpse of
what was going on ; and as quite twenty min
utes must have elapsed since the ostler’s last
faint groan of death broke upon my ears, dur
ing which time I had not heard a soliloquizing
wbisperirom the murderer, I felt uneasy, think
ing the murderous villian might possibly strike
a match to see his ghastly work, and thus dis
cove my hiding-place, so near to him. However,
I was soon a little relieved when I heard him
articulate :
“ ‘ He’s dead enough, and dead men tell no
tales. Ha, ha I—he’ll not split on me now, that’s
certain ! He’s gone to his last home. Now I
must make for the road quickly. They’ll find
him stiff enough in the morning?
“ The murderer amended the hayloft steps
and quitted the building, and I now
mustered sufficient courage to venture cau
tiously in pursuit of him—or, perhaps I should
say, to the inn to get others to do so, as my
nerves had sustained a shock from which they
did not easily recover. 1 soon entered the inn,
fell back heavily into a chair, and told my tale.
It so happened my parlor was fairly filled with
a goodly company of farmers, their sons, and
others, some of whom were playing a game of
cribbage, while the others were watching the
game, as two or three bets had been staked on
the result. They soon dropped the cards on
hearing my story. I placed three old flint
locked guns at their service, and out they went
in quick pursuit, with all the tap-room custom
ers closely behind them.
“ My potman and others went to the hayloft,
where the village doctor soon arrived, and at
once declared the ostler had been dead some
time. As my wife, the doctor, and others inter
rogated me, I answered them as reticently as
if I had had some hand in the dreadful busi
ness. In fact, I was lost in a horrid reverie.
My thoughts went back to the murder of Sir
Walter Harrold at Oakly Hall some two years
previously. • Where, oh, where,’ I thought, ‘is
the poor, wrongly-accused butler, and she whom
he had loved, his young mistress ?’ Had she
not cursed him, cast him adrift, and branded
him as her father's murderer ? Yes, and I, in
league with all the village, had morally con
demned an innocent man. 1 could not help
believing that Providence had placed me in th at
old hayloft to witness, with my mind’s eye, a
scene which at once solved the mystery of the
Oakly Hail murder. ‘ Ah, perhaps, too,’ I
thought, ‘ heaven has decreed it to bring to
gether the innocent butler and his young mis
tress as man and wife.’
“Again my thoughts would drift in the direc
tion of the party in pursuit. Would they cat-h
the murderer,'whom I felt certain, in close
quarters, would not hesitate to bury his dagger
or knife in any breast in order to effect his es
cape? Would they find him? And, if so, would
they bo able to capture him without more blood
shed ? Then, I asked myself seriously, the
■ question, ‘Am 1 not a coward ?’ There I sat
trembling from the shock to my nerves, and my
head aching and burning as if brain fever had
set in. Each minute seemed like an hour of
wretched suspense, and the excitement, noise,
and rushing’to and fro both within and without
—for the whole village was now stirred by the
news—only added more misery to my shattered
nerves. 1 turned from the chair, and threw
myself on an old sofa, with my hand on my
aching forehead, and in a few minutes I was
lost in a swoon.
“On returning to consciousness I saw all
those whom I had previously seen going in pur
suit of the murderer standing around me, and
they soon assured me that my description of
the villain had enabled them to secure him.
“ ‘ Whore is he ?’ I asked.
“ ‘ He fired three shots at us,’ answered Farm
er Lingford—‘ two shots from a double-bar
relled pistol; but Providence sent them clear of
us, and as the last one whistled past my head, I
shot the wild bird of prey in the breast, when
he fell to the muddy roadside, cursing and
groaning. We carried the half-dead robber to
Dame Munrow’s co'ttage, and there loft him in
charge of the doctor and constable. The con
stable was one of our pursuing party, and the
doctor is Dr. Brown, who, on finding he could
do the murdered ostler no good, mounted his
horse and came to help us.’
“ ‘ Wretch I’ I exclaimed. ‘ Will ho live, do
you think ?’
“ ‘No, no,’ replied the old farmer. ‘Dr. Brown
says he will not live the night through. But it
matters not, as he has made a full confession of
both murders, and when we left him was im
ploring God’s forgiveness lor his guilty soul.’
“ To know the guilty wretch had k made a full
confession, gave me instant relief. It acted like
a potent charm on my nerves.
“For the murdered ostler I had but little
thought, as 1 verily believed he had met with
righteous punishment after having placed a rob
ber in his master’s house, and was thus morally
guilty of the murder which followed.
“ ‘ I did not wish to murder Sir Walter,’ con
fessed the dying wretch; ‘ but when he awoke
and saw me with the casket he sp'rang upon me,
so I brought him down with a deadly aim/
“ Well, sir, it would take me a whole day to tell
you all the details of the Oakly Hall murder ; so
I will justjvind up with a few important facts.
“The murderer died the very night the farm
er’s gun—the one I had lent to him—levelled
him to the earth, in whkiff he was soon after
interred. *
“ The young mistress came back to the Hall—
that mansion,” and he pointed to it. “ She ad
vertised, hoping to find the wrongly-accused
missing butler, and expressing a wish‘to recom
pense him with a long purse of gold. More
weeks and months passed, and nothing was
seen or heard of the man to whom she had
imputed the awful crime of murder. At length
it was discovered that some one believed to
have been him had long since died in an
adjacent village, where he had been employed
on a farm.
“Time, however, solved the mystery of his
absence ; for, about three years after the mur
der of Sir Walter Harrold, the butler returned
to the village from America. He went straight
to Oakly Ball ’’—pointing to the house—“ where
he was well received by his former young mis
tress, and, I may add, subsequently feted by
al] the village folk. While in America he had
speculated with his many years of savings by
launching into honest business concerns, which
yielded large profits on the small capital in
vested. Thus he returned to England a com
paratively rich man.
“ Well, sir, I suppose the old love-feeling in
each heart waxed warm again, for there was
s®on a wedding. Yes, and a very quiet one it
was, too. After the marriage the happy couple
retired to the Isle of Wight to spend the honey
moon ; then they returned here, and ever since
have resided in that old homo and lived happi
ly together. Of course they patronize the Lon
don season, and occasionally sojourn at other
places ; but that house, sir, is their dear old
home, and in all probability they are now with
in. Like the rest of us, they are getting old
birds now, but as happy as' ever, devoted to
each other, and beloved by all the village.
“ New, sir, I have told you the story of Oakly
Hall; and perhaps you will excuse my adding
that 1 am at all times welcome there.”
The old gentleman invited mo to his inn,
where, after partaking of tea, he took me to the
hayloft where ho solved the mystary of Sir
Walter Harrold's cruel murder.
After a good old-fashioned hand-shaking with
my truthful story-teller, I went to my sister’s
house. Sho confirmed the old man’s story
and, on rejection, I thought his true story
quite as good as many in the realm of fiction •
so there and then I resolved to write the
little story of “The Oakly Hall Tragedy ” as
my old narrator termed it.
A man in a passion rides a horse that
runs away with him.
NEW YORK DISPATCH, FEBRUARY 21 1886.
’ ROBERT TAVERNIER.
BY FRANTZ JOURDAIN.
The sorvantjirew aside the curtains.
A gray and dismal daylight, filtering through
fog, was entering the windows.
“ That you, Etienne ?”
“ I desire to ask monsieur’s permission to
wish him a happy New Year.”
“ Well, thaus a fact!—to-day is New Year’s
day. Thanks, my Any letters?”
“ I put monsieur’s mail on the table with the
morning papers. Will monsieur breakfast at
homo ?”
“Yes; you can set throe covers. I expect
some friends. Bring my chocolate, and light
tho fire.”
And Robert Tavernier, who had sat up for a
moment in bed, lay down again, wrapping him
self up cosily in tho blankets.
Life seemed to him so sweet in the delicious
languor of his half doze—in the caressing
warmth of tho bed—in that indescribable feel
ing of comfort which the elegance of his room
impressed him with—everything dainty in its
newness and good taste, as prepared by a fash
ionable upholsterer. With eyes fixed on vacui
ty-staring at a water-color by Delort without
seeing it—he began to think.
So he was a bachelor again—free, independ
ent, his own master I Only ten days ago he had
been divorced, and he could not help smiling,
in spite of himself, a't thinking it was all over,
and well over. He could now enjoy himself at
his ease.
All the worry he had been so much afraid of
—the court-summons, the lawyers, the quib
bling, the Palais de Justice, the long waitings
in gloomy meditation, the cutting speeches of
the attorneys, the days wasted in wearying ef
forts at a compromise—all that was past and
gone, like the paeeing of a nightmare. He was
now free again to gather those roses with the
thorns of which ho had hitherto only pricked
his fingers.
He had been too foolish, anyhow—the idea ot
an experienced Parisian like he marrying a
simple country girl who did not know and who
did not even want to know, anything about
life ! Why the devil did that aunt of his, at
Blois—who made the match—meddle with his
affairs for ? Well, it didn’t last long.
One year after the wedding they could not
bear each other any more. She was simply in
sufferable, that Bertha—dry, austere, cold, and
above all things, jealous I —stupidly jealous,
meanly jealous, vulgarlarly jealous ! She
opened his private letters; she searched his
pockets ; she set people to watch him; employed
folks te play the spy on him. It was simply out
rageous. Such things are never done in genteel
society. Still, he had acted very clumsily for
bis part; he had to acknowledge that I He had
allowed himself to be caught like a foolish boy.
Really there was nothing, however, to get so
angry about!—it was only a farce—the most
stupid, crazy farce of a scrape for a sensible
man to get into 1 But, then, with a silly woman
like Bertha, a trifle was as b;g as a mountain.
Immediately the divorce was applied for ; of
course friends tried to bring about a reconcilia
tion, and if it hadn’t been for that Puritanical
old father-in-law, who spoiled everything, they
might have succeeded. It became a question of
pride, and, as luck would have it, the divorce
had’ been granted, after they had kepfrhouse to
gether for six long years. There w.as only one
thing ho regretted—that was, being separated
from his little Christaine. The court had as
signed her to the mother—that was natural
enough;'but, bah ! he could see her again once
in a while ; there was no sense in worrying him
self about that.
To-day was the day to be jolly ! Be was be
ginning life over again, and he proposed to
begin it in style ! He was only thirty-five, a
handsome man, with a constitution of iron, and
a good round fortune. Ho was comfortaoly
fixed—like a rat in a cheese—in his newly
furnished rooms in the Rue Miromesnit—he had
only to let himself move along with the world
in order to be the happiest fellow on earth. It
was not Paris he was living in—but the very
heart of Mahomet's paradise.
Tho servant again aroused the dreamer from
his reverie, by bringing the chocolate and a
letter.
“ Some one has just left this note for mon
sieur.”
It was a letter from one of Tavernier’s in
vitees, excusing himself for not being able to
come; unexpectedly retained at home by his
sister; he could not refuse to stay, as it was Now
Year’s.
“ You need only set two covers, Etienne.
Wait a moment,” he added, taking up another
envelope that had lain hidden under a heap of
visiting cards and letters—“ perhaps this is
Tremonts’ answer—yes, it is !”
And he read aloud:
“My Dear Friend—ln accepting your invita
tion I bad totally forgotten New Year’s Day.
But that tyrant did not forget me and has seized
mo bodily; I find I must dine at home, with my
wife, my children, and my mother-in-law!
You are no longer a prey to these social neces
sities, awful bachelor that you are ! but you
have too much good sense not to excuse those
who remain their victims.
“ /I thousand regrets, and believe me truly
yours, “ J. De Tremonts.”
“Another backer-out! All right, Etienne,
you need not set the table at all; I’m going
out.”
Tavernier arose and entered his dressing
room, alter having hastily swallowed his choco
late. “ How ridiculous it would be to breakfast
all by oneself on a day like this I No, thank
you • —l’d rather go to the club.”
His good humor had received an unexpected
chill. Outside, the sight of the implacably
gloomy sky, so low that it seemed to be upheld
only by the roofs of tho houses, filled him with
a vague melancholy.
Nevertheless, his merriment came back to him
with the first puff of cold air that slapped his
face. The animation of the street; the bright,
busy look in the faces of passers by ; the Hash
ing splendor of the shops; that characteristic
physiognomy which Paris always wears on the
first ol January, and also, perhaps, an excel
lent cigar—all helped to restore to his fancy the
gayety of his first awakening.
Tavernier descended the Faubourg Saint Hon
or©, and made the customary long round of the
Parisian stroller, before reaching the club,
which he entered, humming to himself a melo
dy from Le Petit
He ascended the great stairway, which was
silent as a church, crossed the ante-chamber,
glanced into tho absolutely empty parlors, and
entered the dining hall. The maiire d’ hotel
respectfully presented the bill of fare.
“Is it possible nobody has come here yet?”
asked Robert.
“No, Monsieur—nobody. To-day, Monsieur
must know, everybody stays at home.”
“Very well; I’ll breakfast in half an hour.”
And, feeling slightly nervous, the young man
proceeded to the reading-room to glance at the
daily papers.
The silence—rendered still more intense by
the crackling of the fire, tne far-olf rambling of
the carriages, tho rustling of the paper that be
was reading—the silence weighed upon him.
He felt ridiculously out of place, utterly lost in
the vast hall, solitary in that elegant club
house which was ordinarily so animated and so
noisy, secretly watched by'the servants, whose
surprised and mocking glances bo could feel
turned upon him from behind the doors. He
flung down his paper and listened, hoping to
catch some welcome sound from the ante-cham
ber.
Twelve o’clock-half-past twelve. Nobody!
The clock struck one—flinging its silver vi
brations through the great room, that seemed
now to belong to the Castle of the Sleepin"
Beauty. Tavernier roused himself from his
torpor and sat down to breakfast.
The bottle of Chateau-Yquem which he or
nered was his only company.
Going out, he met his valet de chambre in the
vestibule, waiting for him with a telegram.
Tiie sight of it made him frown. Tearing
open the envelope, he read-:
“ Regret. Must dine with mother. Will try
if possible, meet you this evening at private
box Nouveautes, eleven o’clock. Thanks brace
let. Love. « Sfbbanza,”
“Hermother! H’m! I know her mother.
Much good it did m® to put myselt out to se
cure a box for her. Ie it possible that every
thing and everybody have leagued together to
spoil my day ? lam annoyed. I’d give a louis
lor some opportunity to slap somebody’s face ”
His divorce had brought about a coolness
between himself and the various members of
his family, who resided in Paris. Not knowing
what else to do with himself, Tavernier accord*
ingly made up his mind to call at the few houses
which had not refused to welcome him after
that scandalous divorce suit.
But everywhere he felt ill at ease, out of
place, bored and a bore to others. The tables
covered with toys, which the children would
bring into the drawing-room, despite all orders
to the contrary ; the joyous faces of his friends
the holiday look of the apartments; the wild
laughter of happy children ; the tender family
affection that enveloped overvthing like a warm
atmosphere-all thia added' keenness to the
melancholy which was oppressing him.
When, at seven o’clock that evening, he found
himself again in the street, he vainly tried to
think of some acquaintance whom he could ask
to dinner. Where on earth could he go ? Not
to the club—oh! no; he did not propose to
endure the martyrdom of that morning more
than once. Far better to sit down in the pub
licity of any common restaurant—there, at
least, he could escape the misery of being alone
with his own thoughts.
The ground floor of the Noel restaurant was
packed with visitors. Tavernier, arriving
rather late, obtained a seat only with difficulty
Finally, he managed to find a table between a
young married couple, who were too much oc
cupied in looking at each other to cat, and a
whole bourgeois family—father, mother,’ a boy
and a little girl. All seemed ravished with de
light
Looking a little awkard in their too-new
clothes, the good parents gave free rein to
their merriment, without paying the least at
tention to the general astonishment ot which
they were the objects. They were thoroughly
enjoying themselves.on an occasion, doubtless
impatiently longed-for during many months
and felt quite as much at home as if they were
in their own dining-room. Both parents talked
loud, and stuffed their children with dainties
while the children never stopped asking ques
tions about everything and everybody around
them.
The little girl—apparently about five years’
old—her face flushed by the warmth of the
flace, and her large black eyes distended by
.he surprise of a scene so now to her— stared
with open mouth at the Moresque arch work
of the restaurapt, or laughed at the top of her
voice; she clapped her hands; she danced upon
her chair ©very time the waiter brought a new
dish.
Tho sight of this dainty creature—adorable
in her darling innocence, her grace, her fresh
beauty, her bright fun—suddenly recalled to
Robert th© memory of hier own little Chris
tiane, who must have been about the same
, ago .-
Then an immense regret swelled in his heart.
An intense, an irresistible, an irrational long
ing came upon him to see his child, to lift her
in his arms, to kiss her, to take her away with
him—very, very far away, somewhere? But,
’ like an electric shock, there also suddenly camo
to him the sensation of a ruined life of happi-
' ness irremediably destroyed, of love forever
' estranged. The human society ho had so much
longed for a little while before, now seemed to
him odious.
He rose from his seat with a great sinking at
his heat, with a stifling sensation at his throat,
and went out, feeling his knees bend under
him. And then, magnetized by on© fixed idea,
ho wanted to find his Christiane, to hear her call
him papa—just as the child at tho Noel restau
rant called the vulgar fellow who sat beside
him. A father certainly had some right to kiss
his child on New Year’s Day I
Bowing his head to tho sleet which com
menced to fall, jostling the passers by, rushing
hurriedly on hia way, without oven thinking of
calling a cab, Tavernier reached at last the Rue
Prony.
But the open air, the cold, tho long quick
walk had calmed the nervous excitement. The
madness had passed ; now he understood that
he must bow the knee before that fate which he
had made for himself with his own hands, and
that he, the stranger, the unknown, the divorced
man, had no longer any right to ring the bell at
the door of hia wife, or, at least, of her who had
been his wife. He crossed the street, raised his
eyes, and looked long and earnestly at that
bouse in which, after all, he had passed so many
delightful hours. The facade was dark, as if
the house were itself buried in the silence of
pain. At one window only a very soft light was
burning, like a watchlight, and through the
muslin curtains could be vaguely discerned the
outline of a child’s bed.
Then all the sorrow of that empty day—all
the anguish of abandonment—all the horror of
the irreparable—burst from him in a sob. The
least trifles of hie past existence crowded back
to his memory, and each trifle assumed now
and vast proportions. He remembered Chris
tiane’s little christening cap, with its pink vail
—and the first time that she could walk by her
self, when she left the foot stool in tho bedroom
to run into his arms—and the little white satin
cape that became her so well, with tho bunch
of feathers on the side—and the way sho used
to climb upon his knee to play with his watch—
and the two-lino compliment she had recited to
him on his birthday—lisping tho words, as her
mother prompted her—yes, and a thousand
other little nothings, indefinable, charming,
whereof the memory made dizzy his brain and
lacerated his souL
Then the blase, the scoffer, the skeptic, the
fashionable man-of-thh-world, trembling under
the freezing rain, supported himself against the
wall. Heedless of the passers-by, ho bowed
down, with his face in his hands, and cried like
a child, seeking to stifle his sobs in his pocket
handkerchief.
And a sturdy mechanic passing, with a sleep
ing baby in his arms, looked at the miserable
man with astonishment.
“There’s a fellow who’s had too much of New
Year’s,” he muttered to his wife. “ He’s paying
the bill now, I guess !”
“ Yes—full as an omnibus. Isn’t it a shame ?
-and a gentleman, too ! What sprees these
swells do go on I”
Robert Tavernier heard nothing—he still
sobbed there, turning toward the lighted win
dow. And the light in the window burned on
—very calmly—through tho misty and melan
choly night.—A - . 0, Tinies-Democrat.
A TERRimiAL TILT.
MONTANA AND IDAHO DISCUSS
“HOME, SWEET HOME.”
When a couple of Western men get together,
and the spirit ol rivalry is stirred within them,
their conversation begins to take a very inter
esting shape.
A day or two ago two typical Westerners—
one from the thriving “ wonldn’t-be-a-State ”
Territory of Idaho, tho other from the thriving
“ wouldn’t-be-a-State ” Territory of Montana
sat around a warm stove and amicably dis
cussed the latest mining news from their sec 1
tions.
1 A third party entered—he meant no harm,
but his first remark was the occasion of a ter
rific verbal combat between Idaho and Montana.
“ You have a long journey beiore you,” he re
marked to Idaho, who was thinking of return
ing home.
“ Yes, it’s a long journey, and you are d
! sorry when you get there,” interpolated Mon
■ tana.
i Idaho winced, but hit back again.
i “ llelore I'd live in a blizzard-breeding coun
try like Montana,” said he, “ I’d quit business
’ and go to New Mexico and shoot lizzards.
Idaho wouldn’t have any blizzards butforMon-
, tana.”
; “ Any place but Idaho would be able to stop
a blizzard,” retorted Montana. “ But you
haven’t got a tree in your whole Territory.
. There is nothing there but alkali desert® and
t plains ot lava.”
; “ Tho last time I was in Montana,” returned
Idaho, “ there was a snowfall on, and the wind
[ was blowing so strongly at the same time that it
r drove tho enow an inch and a halt into the
[ trees.”
, “We don’t hove snow-slides, anyway, in our
country,” said he ot tho land of blizzards. “ I
i had a paper from Butte Citty this morning that
i tells of a snow-slide there the other day that
carried away and killed one-third of the popu
lation of Idaho.”
1 “Do you mean that?” inquired Idaho, with
> real anxiety pictured on his countenance.
“ Certainly I do.”
, “ And how many were killed ?”
“ Two men.”
A painful expression flitted across the face
i of Idaho, and, turning to the third party, he
, explained that he of Montana was in reality an
■. laa’no man, but was temporarily employed in
the manufacture of blizzards in Montana while
i awaiting tho expiration of bis statute o! limita
tation, when he would return to Idaho.
I “How does the statute of limitation affect
! him ?” inquired the third party.
“ Oh ! it’s in connection with a little affair he
' had with a horse—several horses, in (act—some
years ago,” returned Idaho, “I don’t want to
give him away.”
Montana replied by taking out his pocket
book and scribbling in it iu large characters
the figures :
3-7-7- 7.
Then he tore out the leaf and handed it to
Idaho, sayim*:
“Don’t those figures recall unpleasant remin
iscences, my friend?”
“ What do they signify?” asked the third party,
beiore Idado had time to reply.
“Oh! now and then, up in our country,” said
Montana, “the officers of the law require a
little assistance in the maintenance of law and
order. This assistance is rendered by the
Vigilantes, and when the Vigilantes meditate
an excursion, tho post the town with those
figures, and they meet the eye everywhere.
They signify that there is danger in tho air, and
prudent men keep quiet for a day or two.
“Men who havh been guilty of wrong-doing,
when they see those mystic figures, arc con
science-stricken, and generally emigrate into
Idaho,” and Montana glanced queerly at the
representative of the Territory named.
“And if they don't get out?” inquired the
third party again, with a view to allowing Idaho
time tiTgot cool.
“If they don’t go, the Vigilantes pay them
a visit and allow them fifteen minutes or half
an hour to get out of town. I have a man in
my mind now who was allowed fifteen min
utes to take the Idaho road out of Butte
City.”
“Pid he take it?”
“He promised to be satisfied with ten min
utes, if the mule didn't kick.”
“But do all Vigilantes use the same fig
ures ?”
“No; in Butte City they are 3-7-7-7, but in
Helena they are 1-1-7-7-7, I believe.”
At this moment the conversation was inter
rupted by the arrival of a man from Arizona,
who suggested poker; and amid bluffs and
flushes and straights and pairs, the minds of
Idaho and Montana once again became calm
and quiet.
THE BOY SHAKE.
BE HAS A MILL THAT THE OLD
MAN DOESN’T UNDERSTAND.
“ Haf you seen my boy Shake last night ?” in
quired Mr. Dunder as he entered tho station
yesterday.
“Jake ? No, I haven’t.”
“ Vheil, Shake goes avhay from home yes
terday, und maybe he doan’ come back anv
more.”
“ What’s the trouble ?”
“ You know Shake vhas shmart! He goes
mit Toledo und Chicago, und nopody comes
some shtring games on him. Vben I goes oudt
Shake runs der saloon, und nopody can tell
him to stalk it down. Der odder days he says
to mo:
“ • Fadder, I like to haf a mill in our barn. It
vhas all der fashion to haf mills.’
“ Vheil, I doan’ ask him if it vhas a grist-mill
or a coffee-mill, because I haf some peesness
mit two Aidermens. Shake vhas a great hand
mit machinery, und Ipelief maybe he set oop
some mill to saw boards.”
“ I understand.”
“ Vbell, dot mill comes off last night. Shake
tells me I pe-ttei* keep avhav, pecause dot ma
chinery vhas dangerous, but I like to see how
dot mill vhas und 1 go oudt. Dot barn vhas full
ot men und poys, und I hear ’em call oudt:
“ ‘ Timo!’
“ ‘ Foul!’
“ ‘ Slug him, Bill I”
“ ‘ Knock him oudt, Johnny !’
“ Vheil, dot seems curious machinery to me,
und I goes in py der alley door. Some police
mans goes in at der same time. My poy Shake
vhas in a ring mit his hands up like dis, und I
see some fellers mit sponges, und some feller :
mit a watch, und eaferypody cries oudt:
‘“lt vhas a draw und all bets vhas off.’
“Shake und all der crowd runs avhay, und
dot policemans says to me:
“ ‘ Look hero, oldt man, I like to run you in
for six mouths.’ ”
' *’And you didti’S know what a ‘mil! 0 was?”
» “ Vholl, I was in a grist mill and a caw-mill,
’ bnt Shako fool mo. Dot vhas vhy ho rtns avhay
nod' doan’ come home. If you ses him you
i might say dot I vhas madt, but doi he shall
i come homo und beg my pardon Bad I doan’
•• take him down cellar mit a club.” 1
Two Men Made Great by Ona Even&and
Both Succumb to a Common Eater
General Hancock, the pride ov the army, of
splendid physique, martial beaming, the obe
dient soldier; whom war made famous.
Gov. Seymour, the old-time gentleman, the
pacific statesman, the idol of a great party.
Both men standard-bearers of the Democra
cy; the one as a soldier, the other as a states
man in a Presidential contest— both dead; both
dead almost al the same hour!
There is a remarkable parallel and contrast
between these two men. Thw war period made
both famous. Both were patriots; both yielded
to the same ambition; both succumbed to the
same fate I
Hancock apparently well one day, the next,
says ths Jl’brzd, “is sinking step by step, like a
person descending a pair of stairs.”
Governor Seymour, says the associated press,
has been gradually failing for eight years. Both
men, though of entirely different temperament,
yield to a common fate.
Hancock’s case was discovered by an emi
nent physician at the very last moment, to be
beyond help, because, back of the malignant
ulcer in his neck, was a disorder which made
living impossible.
Governor Seymour’s life for eight years has
been feeble, as the associated press says, be
cause of a serious attack of renal inflammation
some time ago, and his death therefrom has on
ly been a question of time 1
Both Hancock and Seymour might have lived
many years had they known and recognized the
fact that they were each of them victims of a
dangerous kidney disorder, and treated them
selves successfully, as they might have done,
by that great s ientifio specific, Warner’s safe
cure. Well might a well-known physician ex
claim: “I sometimes think people would never
die if their kidneys were always sound.”
An eminent New York physician says: “ Han
cock’s kidneys stopped excreting urea.” No
wonder he died, for 400 grains of this horrible
blood poisoner should be passed out by the
kidneys every day; if they fail, disease runs
riot through the whole system, and death is in
evitable. Deaths from kidney disorders are of
the commonest occurrence among all classes,
but are more noticeable in these two cases, be
cause of the prominence of the victims. Tnou
sands of cases of needless deaths—ay, ot actual
suicide and homicide—occur every year, be
oouse people and physicians fail to give proper
attention to the only blood purifiers in the sys
tem.
These two cases, occurring so strikingly near
each other, originating in a common source,
and eventuating in a common fate, ought to
arouse the people to the necessity of allowing
no season to pass without taking a few bottles
of the great spe?ifio alluded to, which is the
only remedy known that has direct power and
control over these great'Organs, not only pre
venting and curing the diseases to which they
are subject, but also preventing and curing the
many, many diseases which would never exist
if these organs “ were always sound.”
FIGHT WITTfAN ARAB.
AN ENGLISHMAN COMPLETELY
KNOCKS HIM OUT.
A corroapondent writing from Cairo, says:
An anecdote illustrative of the feeling which ex
ists among the Arab populace of Cairo, has
been communicated to us in a private letter.
Mrs. Butler (Miss Thompson), the artist, is now
with her husband, Colonel Butler, commander
of the Camel Corps, occupied m making sketches
for a picture representing the manoeuvres of the
corps. While driving with two ladies in an
open carriage the other day, an Arab fanatic,
apparently exasperated at the homage paid to
the English ladies, jumped up behind the ve
hicle and began assailing the fair occupants with
the most horrible curses, in which the Arab lan
guage is so fertile. The terror of the ladies
may be conceived when tho crowd, attracted by
the scene, began to join in the abuse.
One of the ladies, braver than the rest, sud
denly rose and confronted tho ruffian, beating
him over the head with her parasol until he
was compelled to dive beneath the projecting
hood of the carriage to avoid the blows. The
lady’s parasol had been broken by the violence
of her attack, but the opportunity afforded her
of revenge upon the coward was not lost upon
the brave English woman. Having her adver
sary upon a level, she valiantly tore the skull
cap from his head and Hung it among the
crowd, now moved to laughter at the sight of
the struggle. Each time the man essayed to
raise his head the valorous champion dealt
him a blow upon the nose until his face was
covered with blood. He could now do no more
than vociferate his string of Arab curses, and
as the lady began to show signs of muscular
exhaustion, and the Arab still held on like grim
death to the back of the carriage, she was fam
to have recourse to the only weapon now left at
her command—the one upon which' a woman
can always reckon in moments of emergency—
her tongue; and in the stoutest and most vigor
ous English, such as Ruskin’s soul would have
delighted in, with breathless volubility she re
turned the abuse by a long tirade, taken she
knew not whence, and-uttered she remembered
' not by whom, but fancies that it must have
been from a speeeh oi O’Connell’s learned by
heart at school.
And this literally floored the miscreant; for,
. in his surprise he dropped to the ground, com
' pletely awed by what must have seemed an in
' cantation uttered in the language of the Evil
One. The driver, who all this while had been
paralyzed with alarm, now drove on quickly,
and the ladies reached their home in safety.
The incident served to show the feeling of
hatred among the ignorant portion of the Arab
population, and tho indifference of the class
immediately .above, for not a single individual
stirred a finger to help the poor ladies out of
the dilemma in which they were placed, and a
1 strong recommendation has been issued enjoin
-1 ing all European ladies never to appear in the
streets of Cairo unattended by a male compan
ion, even when driving in a close carriage. Tho
Italians firmly believe that guakin will shortly
be delivered over to them by the English, and
that their policy will be to drive the rebels back
by degrees into their native deserts—not to at
-1 tack, as tho English have done, but simply to
repulse, and take possession of the ground thus
forcibly abandoned.
BIRD MIGRATION.
Traveling Two Thousand Miles toy
Winter Quarters.
'.from the San Francisco Call.}
While the Southern California Winter is like
the Eastern •Spring, the birds fail to nest until
the real Eastern Spring of May and June comes
around -though certain birds, the identity of
which I have not been able to ascertain, live in
their nests during the present season. These
nests are models of ingenuity, and are placed
upon the top ot the prickly pear that is so care
fully avoided by all animals. The nests, and I
have found four or five within an area of five
feet, are bag-shaped, but built lengthwise, ly
ing parallel to the ground, and having a perfect
piazza in front of them, with a projecting cover.
The nests are oarefnlly constructed of various
vegetable matter, and made perfectly water
tight, the interior being lined with the softest
material to be found. These nests are undoubt
edly built in May or June, hut they are occu
pied bp some bird as a home and refuge at this
season—a tact that is sustained by many evi
dences.
The Southern California Winter birds are par
ticularly welcome to Eastern people, aslthere
are innumerable forms with which they are fa
miliar in the extreme North and East. Bobins,
■whose feprOsentaiivts nested last Summer in
the apple orchards of the East, are now spend
ing the Winter among the ©range groves of this
country, and among the familiar forms are
warblers, and an infinite variety of songsters.
The instinct that causes these myriads of forms
to migrate twice a year, flying over vast dis
tances, has created much speculation. The
robin has been seen within the Arctic circle in
the Summer, and during the Winter as far
South as Mexico, and one of tne smallest birds
a warbler, takes a flight every year equaling,’
perhaps, 5,000 miles.
What causes bird migration is somewhat dif
ficult to determine, the lack of food and the ap
proach of cold being the principal agents
Whatever may be the direct cause, it is a fact
that there is every Fall a general movement of
birds toward the South, and in the Spring a re
turn. The majority of birds make the entire
trip from the extreme North to the Gulf States
Southern California and Mexico. Others, as the
crows, etc., remain in the North during the
Winter, while others, again, asj jays, woodpeck
ers, etc., are partial migrators.
It is somewhat of a pnzzle how young birds
find their way over the country to the South and
back to the same dooryard m the Spring; but
that they do it is well known. Kobins build in
tho same tree year after year, returning to it in
the Spring, perhaps after traveling 2,000 miles,
within a few hours of their arrival on the year
previous, While it is somewhat speculative
how birds find their way, it is evident that they
follow the great rivers, as the Mississippi, the
mountain ranges, as the Coast Kangs and the
Rocky Mountains, and the coast itself. The
birds on the eastern coast are often blown out
to sea, many reaching Bermuda, and on the
Pacific coast, even the most delicate of all, the
humming birds, are found on the Islam! of Juan
Fernandez, and all the islands of tho California
coast are resting-places for birds during their
migrations, jdomo birds, perhaps the majority
fly at night.
Astronomers have seen flocks three miles up
in the air, maving onward so high above the
earth that its familiar markings were spread
before thorn like a map. From this habit of '
traveling at night they often fall victims to va
rious objects. The lighthouses on the coast '
especially those where fogs prevail, could tell a
strange story of the myriads of delicate feather
ed victims that dash against the light on misty
nights. In Eastern waters often a hundred
birds will be found in the morning at the foot :
of the lighthouse, and ou a light near Denmark
(Heligoland), that stands in the track of oue of '
the great European lines of bird migration
great heaps of birds are often found by the '
keeper in the mormug. The sustaining porfer i
I of birds is well shown in tho fact that I have
, | soon birds of many kinds alight on the extreme
r outer keys of the Florida reef. They were
i I blown out by northers* showing that they had
I flown across the Gull of Mexico. At such times
’ they are very tame, alighting upon vessels.
A friend tells me that he has often had birds
alight on his boat when fishing ten miles off
shore, a sparrow, even, alighting on his head.
In Eos Angeles, in the Fall, when the migra
tion h»e set in, the electric lights are often fatal
to the birds, their bodies being found under the
polo in the morning, while in a fog myriads
, have been seen darting about as it fascinated
■ by the dazzling light. The headlight of the
locomotive is also fatal to bird®, and the en
gineers on the Southern Pacific and other lines
' frequently find evidences of contact on the glass,
and dead birds have been, found on the engine
and track.
The San Gabriel Valley at present is- affording
shelter to birds that Summer in Alaska, and
even farther north, and the entire country here
abouts is a veritable bird sanitarium, for which
tho agriculturists should be truly thankful.
AN UNRELIABLE WATCH.
HOW IT CAUSED THE SEPARA
TION OF TWO YOUNG PEOPLE.
“Ever see anything funny in the course of
my business ? Certainly I do,” said a jeweler
to a reporter. “See lota of fun sometimes, and,
by the way, your question reminds me of the
fellow who was in here half an hour ago. He
has a watch—there it hangs now—that is more
trouble to him than all his brains, though I
don’t mean to say that he is a fool. The most
foolish thing that I know of him is that he will
persist in carrying that watch. Well, as I was
about to say, that self-same ticker of his comes
to me not less than once a month regularly.
“I remember very well the first time he
brought it. It was one Tuesday morning, and
as he had known me for some time before that,
he stopped to tell of his troubles. The watch,
he said, hung on a nail in his room on Sunday
evening, ticking away for dear life. He was
very much interested in a book he was reading,
so much absorbed, in fact, that though he look
ed at the watch every two minutes to see if it
was time to go to see his best girl yet, he did
not notice that tho hands had stopped moving.
At last he heard the clock striking, and me
chanically counting the strokes found that it
was 9 o’clock. The watch only said 7:30, and
as it was a case of 8 o’clock or not at all, he
tried hard to devote the remainder of the
evening to his book, which had suddenly grown
uninteresting.
“ The next day he shook the timepiece up, got
it to going in fine style, called on his lady love
in the moruing, explained the cause of his fail
ure to keep his appointment, and soothed her
sensibilities by arranging to take her to the
opera at night. When evening came he made
sure that the watch-hands were walking around
the watch-face at the usual rate aiid Again took
up his book. Half-past six, seven and half-past
seven—it was time to go now. He put tho
ticker in his pocket, his coat on his back and
left the hotel. When he reached Walnut
street he rang the bell, walked in and asked for
Miss with the greatest assurance.
“ Gone out? It was impossible.
“But, he was told she did go at half-past
eight with Mr. . Half-past eight! He was
thunderstruck again, but a glance at the clock
on the parlor mantel assured him that it was
then nearly nine o’clock, and he left in a maze
of disappointment. The watch had stopped
some time during the day and started again ac
cording to its own sweet will, and was an hour
or so behind time.
“Since that time he has married another girl,
and is not yet on speaking terms with the oue
that his watch got him loft with. Nearly every
time he comes, he tolls of how he missed an ap
pointment, or a tram, or something of the kind,
the day before. I have frequently told him
that the watch was a cheap affair in the first
place, and it is not worth repairs now, as it
cannot be made to keep time by the best jewel
er in the land, but he always says it will have
to do a little longer. Just for the curiosity of
tho thing I looked over my booke the last time
he was hero to see how much he had paid nie
for putting it in order, and it was just $32. I
sell a very fair watch for S3O nowadays.”
One woman was convinced that
A WOMAN HAD MARRIED A FOOL.
“ There was a very sad case in the Police Court
this morning,’’ said a lawyer to his wife. " A girl
was arrested for stealing a fine lace vail. The wo
man who owned the vail came to court, and, with
heartlessnesa, persisted in prosecuting the poor girl.
The judge, however, would not allow himself to be
influenced, so he released the girl.”
"She did not prove that she was innocent, did
she ?”
“Oh, no.”
"Then why did the judge release her ?”
"Well, he said that ho Lad no right to Interfere
with religious matters.”
" Religions matters ?”
"Yes. He said that the laws of the land grant to
every woman the right to take the vail.”
, The woman did not reply for several minutes.
t Then she said :
"I know a woman who marred a fool. I’m the
woman.”
i There was one abstracter of umbrellas who
was
’ BOUND NOT TO BE BLUFFED.
A gentleman, recently calling at a boarding bouse,
J left bis umbrella in the bat-rack with a card, on
which was the following :
"Belongs to a man who strikes a forty-pound
blow. Will bo back in five minutes.”
When he returned, the umbrella was gone; but in
its place was a scrap of paper bearing the words :
"Taken by a man who walks five miles an hour.
’ Won’t be back at all.”
He played “keards,” but he
DIDN’T GO IN FOR BEAN-BAG GAMES.
Mr. Realbad, a citizen of some prominence in a
1 Western m ining district, came to pass a few days
with some maiden relatives in a prim New England
[ town. His cousin, Maria, gleaned from his conver
k sation that he was fond of cards, and proposed to
him that she should invite a few of the neighbors
j to join them in a quiet game. Mr. Realbad was de
lighted at the idea.
In tho evening, when the company assembled,
Parson frowns proposed a rubber of whist, but Mr.
Realbad had never heard of the game.
" Perhaps you play cribbage ?” suggested Miss
1 Lucinda Crick.
"No, I don’t.”
> "Or casino?”
I “ NO, I don’t.”
" Euchre, then, Mr. Realbad ?”
“No.” , > &
“oh.“ sighod Cousin Maria. "I thought you
played cards.” b J
"So I do!" roared Mr. Bealbad. "Fvo shuffled
tho pasteboards every day for the last twenty years
: Kow’s. <J,<? you say ? Why. Cousin Maria, my equil
at stud-horse poker ain’t to be found in the cen
tennial State of Colorado, and I can deal a monte or
break a faro bank with old Pop Wyman himself. I
own up that I ain’t much at them ‘button-button*
' and ‘bean-bag’ games you've been telling about.
When I play games, I play keards J”
This elderly gentleman found that the man
he was talking to
HAD BEEN INVITED TO THE WEDDING.
"Good morning, Mr. Johnson,” said a young
man to an elderly and near-sighted man, who had
come off without his glasses. "Going up to town?”
‘ ‘Yes. Got to do a lot of trading at the stores
and I don’t know how on airth I will get along
without my glasses."
" Getting ready for the wedding, I suppose ?*•
" Yes. My darter Emmer is going to get married
She an’ that good for-nothin’ Hank Williams have
made a match of it at last. I thought that young
man would never get down to business. He’s as
slow as sorghum m'olasses in January, an’ as shift
less as an Injun. Idpp’| Relieve he can earn his
saltan I gpegSTllhave to support him.”
"But, Mr. Johnson ”
•*Oh, he’s good enough for Emmer. That’s the
worst girl I ever raised. She hain’t a bit like her
mother, nor like me, nutter. I have to pull her out
of bed every morning, an’ she’s as lazy as an old
bog. She can’t bake, an’ hain’t wuth a cubs on tho
sew. A fine poor man’s wife she’d make. Beside,
she hez bunions on her feet as big as early rose per
tatera,an’ she kin eat more’n a boss. An’ that ain’t
the west on’t. If ’twan’tfor her mother that girl
wouldn’t keep herself clean, an’ she never thinks o’
slickin’ up her hair nor puttin’ on somethin* nice
'oept when company’s expected. She’s a regular
slouch, Emmer is, an’ she kin wear out seven pairs
o’ shoes a year. But she’s good enough for that
Hank Williams, an’ if he’ll only support her I’ll be
tarnal glad to get her off my hands. S’pose you’ve
got an invite to the weddin’ ?”
"Yes, I’m invited. You don’t seem to know me.
Mr. Johnson ?”
"Yes, Ido, but I can’t just place you. Lot me
see—l haven’t got my glasses with mo—but I know
you. Your name is—is ”
" Hank Williams, sir.”
A correspondent is responsible for this story
of
A FLORIDA DARKY’S SLEEPING POWER.
When a Florida darky makes up his mind to take
a good square rest and settles to it, it is like reviv
ing a corpse to get him on his feet again.
On one of last Summer's warm days " Mose”
crawled under an orange tree, and placing his back
to the trunk, prepared to enjoy himself. The col
ored parson came up and hailed him.
" Hyar, hyar I What you gwine ter do ?”
"Res’.”
"You’d bettah do you wuk. Ise gwine on. I’ll
be back ter-night.”
Toward sunset the parson repasses and sees Mose
still under the tree—goes up and shakes him.
" Heah, heah—git up !”
Mose, half asleep, mutters:
"G’way from dar, B’lindy I Didn* I fotch vou
pail er water las’ Satiday ?”
Boys whose fathers take them to the theatre
should
AVOID SAYING ANYTHING BEFORE THE OLD
WOMAN.
An enterprising young merchant of Albany, with
a strong theatrical penchant, has a wonderfully
bright lad of five years or thereabout. He had been
with his respected father and another gentleman
friend at the museum one afternoon during the
past week, and hugely enjoyed the performance.
Upon his return home he delighted ma mere with
an account of Fannie Louise Buckingham's thrill
ing feats upon tne "fiery, untamed steed.” Pres
ently he broke forth upon another subject.
"Mamma,” he asked, "do angels wear dresses?”
"No, my dear.”
" None at all ?” he continued.
“ Why, no, child—why do you ask ?” •
"Because when the pretty girl in tights was <
placed upon the back of the horse both pa and Mr. 1
looked at her through glasses, and when Mr. 1
said she was a fine-looking woman, pa said she !
was an angeL I didn’t know angels lived in this !
city."
An accentuated silence was preserved for some '
time alter Johnnie’s discourse. J
) tfOINTfLLATIONS.
’ Entering the asylum for inebriates,
he asked, "Do you treat drunkards here?” "Yes,
sir,” " Well, I’m one. Where’s yer bar ?”
Bees near a distillery stay drunk all
j the time, and make no honey. Bees are a good deal
t - like men. They don't care for honey when they can
get whisky,
“There are times,” says Gail Hamil
ton, "when s woman does not feel like learning a
i language or saving a soul.” It is just after she has
porsnded her finger with a tack-hammer.
Customer (in restaurant): “Waiter r
this chicken soup has feathers in it.’* Walter: “Yes,
sah. If yo’ want soup made outon chickens old
’nough to be bald, sah, yo'll have to go to some
odder 'stablishment.
1 Active and passive.—Teacher: ‘‘Now,
Klaus, if I say the father blessed his six children, is
that active or passive?” "That is active.” “Cor
rect; and what is passive?" "Tho father was
blessed with six children."
“Did you ever see anything like this?”
said a young lady to her escort, at a church fair
where raffling was in progress. "Only once.**
“When was that?” “Well, I was on a Western train
one time when it was robbed.”
Bothering a rich man by boasting;
of a set of malachite studs he had just bought, a fop
asked if he did not admire them; "O. yes.” repl ed
the man of wealth, "very much, indeed; I’ve got a
mantelpiece like them at home.”
Nurse (to Johnny, who has been
brought'in to see his uncle) —Why don’t you spe ik,
Johnny ? Can’t you tell your uncle you’re glad te
see him ? Johnny (whimpering)^—lt belongs to him
first to tell me I’m a fine fellow, and big for my
size.
A young Scotchman lias discovered
the true inwardness of the debating club. Hurry
ing along the streets in his best clothes he was
stopped by a friend and : asked where he was going.
"I’m gawn to the debatin’ society,” ho said, “to
contradick a bit.”
“ Mamma,” said a little girl, “what u
that man doing over there on Mr. Thompson's
porch ? He has bean sitting on tlie steps for two
hours and a half and hasn’t moved.” “That, injr
child, is a bouse painter. Bo is painting Mr.
Thompson's house by tho day.”
Somebody says that a healthy infant,
cooing in a cradle, is a sight that makes angels lean
over the battlements of heaven and gaze longingly
toward earth. The idea is poetic, but the cold facts
in the case are that life is full of howling discord
to the inexperienced father of colicky twins.
Said a young man the other evening :
“Is it etiquette, in writing to a young married wo
man whom you have known well, to call her ' my
darling little pet?’ ” "My dear sir, it is not a queo«
tion of etiquette, but of athletics. It depends how
far you can distance her husband in a mile.”
Little Edith—“ Mr. Sapley, why doea
my sistor Clara always pray when you come to see
her?” "Surely she doesn’t. What do you mean ?"
“Whv, every time yon come here and the servant
comes up to the library to say you are in the par
lor, Clara just shrugs her shoulders arid says, ‘Oh,
Lord.’ ” ’ -■' u. , .
“ Did he pop the question last night?”
eagerly asked the mother, aa the cams
down late to breakfast. "No, not quite." “What
did he say ?” “Why. he squeezed my hand twice,'
and said he believed I'd m ike some man an excel
lent wife if the fellow had sense enough to take me
so far that you couldn't visit ma more-than once in
twenty years.”
“Maria, what is Augustus muttering
about?” “Why, he woh’t eat his soup, dear.
" Won't eat his soup—what do you mean, sir ?” “ X
don’t like it.” “Don’t like it, eh?—why, when I
was a boy I was glad enough to have dry meat and
broad for my dinner. Just bread and meat, sir.”
“ Well, it’s a good thing you married into our fam
ily, then, pa.”
Miss A.—What, Carrie ! going into
town again ? Miss B.—Yea. I bought a dress pat
tern last wees, and when my dressmaker came to
cut it up she found I had only enough for the skirt.
So lam going to get another eighth of a yard for
the waist. Miss Scissorsnip says it will be morS
than ample, but I*m bound to have enough. I hate
to scrimp, you know.
Wife (reading the paper)—Well, I
declare, if that isn’t the queerest thing I ever heard
( of. Husband—What’s that? Wife—Why, here in
the paper is an account of a wedding up in Man
chester, and among the wedding presents was a
bull-terrier given to the bride by her father. Hus
band—l don’t see anything odd about that. Sh®
was the old man’s yonngest daughter, wasn’t she?
Wife—Yes, but what’s that got to do with it ? Hus
band—Why, of course, if she and all the rest were
married, he had no further use for tho dog.
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7