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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. SCOVILL’S BLOOD AND LIVED STROP, a, peerless remedy for Scrofula, White s Swellings, Cancer, Erysipelas, Gout, Chronic Sores, Syphilis, Tumors, Carbun cles, Salt Rheum, Malaria, Bilious Com- > plaints, and all diseases indicating an Im pure Condition of the Blood, Liver, Stom ach, Kidneys, Bowels, Skin, etc. This } Grand Remedy is a Compound of vegeta ble extracts, the chief oi which are SARSA PARILLA and STILLIN’GIA. The cure® > effected by SCOVILL’S BLOOD AND LIVER SYRUP are absolute, and their record is undisfigured by failure. For sale , by all Druggists. i JOHN F. HENRI & CO., New York. SEND FOR ILLUSTRATED BOOK. ’ Humphreys’ A' fHOMEOPATHIC i er * nar J Specifics ■ Cure Diseases of ! Horses, Cattle, Sheep DOGS, HOGS, POULTRY, In nse for over 20 years by Farmers, Stockbreeders, Horse B. 8., &c. 3 .. Used by U. S. Covernmeri*. — O i able CHART Mounted on Rollers 4 Book Mailed Freo. t | llumph.-eys’ Med. Co., 100 Fulton St., W. V. Humphreys’ Homeopathic - Spseiflefeig \\f/> YOUNG’S PATENT ELECTRIC BELTS.—They are a sure cure for nervous loss of manhood, youtbftil errors, weakness or VV, ® mind, weak and I M HEALTH Wllamo back, etc. They are guaranteed to restore health and Manly Vigor in a few days. Come and see them ''A te °re you buy elsewhere, or in n »r J vr l?; e tor book < free ) on Man- MBH L y u« r nelr y c^K M [ * j - ! O i 9 OTT 0 8 £3 RED.-New Truss. Can hold any case. 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H MH tlivmvuv^ ei . vou3 Debility Pills, sl. in-H SSvigorating Pill, sl. All post-paid. Address £3 New England Medical Institute H No. 24 Tremont Row, Boston, Mass. Bl lUROfIimELFT Dr. Bohannan’s <r Veeetablß Curative” is warranted to permanently cure all forms of Spermatorrhea or Semi nal Weakness. Impoteney, etc., and restores "Lost Power,” and orings back the "Youthful Vigor” ofthose who have destroyed it by sexual excesses or evilprac tices, in from two to seven weeks’ time. It has been used by Dr. Bohannan in his private practice for over thirty years, was never known to fail in curingeven the WORST CASES. It gives vitality and imparts energy with wonderftil effect to those middle aged men who feel a weakness beyond their years. Young men suffer ing from the consequences of that dreadfully destructive habit of Self-Abuse can use this medicine with the as surance of a speedy and PERMANENT cure. The in gredients are simple productions of nature—barks, roots, herbs.etc., and are a specific for the above diseases. iKiF’Price Five Dollars, sent with full directions, etc., to any address. For sale only by Dr. C. A. Bohanuan, N. E. corner of Sixth and Biddle streets, St. Louis, Mo< Established in 1837. vWDr. B.’s “Treatise on Special Diseases,” which gives a clear delineation of the nature, symptoms, means of cure, etc., of SYPHILIS, SEMINAL WEAKNESS, Etc., Sent Free to any-addressupon receipt or stomp. Diseases of Men Only ; Blood Poison, skin diseases, inflammation; obstructions bladder, kid neys and other organs; weakness, nervous and general debility; mental, physical prostration, &c. t successfully treated and radically cured; remarkable cures perfected In old cases which have been neglected or unskillful!? treated; no experiments or failures, it being self-evident that a physician who confines himself exclusively to th® study of certain classes of diseases, and who treats thou sands every year, must acquire greater skill in thos< branches than one in general practice Dr. GRINDIA in Wwi ft., Vetwecii etb 7th uVvLU'A. 7