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MY LOVER’S BARK.
BY LAURA DON. I lean from my window looking down On stony arches hi d iurbid t>da. The lights stream in the drowsy town, And the wake of oars where boat-men glide, • Far, far beyond to the harbor s mouth; To the beacon light 1 ke a lur d star, Where the winds blow hot from the purple South, And the foam caps leap at the sandy bar. Oh '■ the ship at an< hor I Oh ’ bargeman bold I Oh I river rolling to meet the sea 1 My heart within me is faint and cold; I pray you, I pray you give ear to me. Oh, tell me where is my lover’s bark ? Is it riven or wrecked by Indian gales ? On some far sea in the nameless dark. Does a white moon rise o'er its tattered sails ? Some morn she will come to the harbor’s mouth. With the musk of the East in her dusky hold; ■ Z shall see her masts in the purple South, I shall hear the songs of her sailors bold; X shall hear her cordage rattle and strain, I shall lean me forth and with joyous tears Look on the bark of my love a.'aiu— The first of all at the crowded piers. And what will she bring jne from that far land ? What Indian jewel, or pearl of price ? What diamond, silted through burning sand ? What bloom from jungle or field ot rice ? Ah me I Ah me 1 shall I find once more Ln the priceless treasures that crowd that ship, The old lost gold that my hair once wore, Or the old lost red of my faded lip ? -Ohl I sit and wait at the dreamy piers. And the ships return and the ships depart; And my hopes die slow with the 'lying years. And drop their ashes upon my heart. The waves may mock, the winds may shout. The white moons wax and the white moons wane; The tide rolls in and the tide rolls out. But the bark of my lover comes never again. lAHISSffI'S SONS-IN-LAW. A LONDON STORY. Old Manasseh, the breechea-maker, married his two daughters to his two apprentices—lsrael Barnett and David Morris. They were both model young men in point of industry and busi ness aptitude ; so much so, that he considered St a pity that their talents should be wasted in the shop, which would go on perfectly well without such highly skilled assistance. He therefore started Israel in business as a bill broker in Cork street, and assisted David to establish himself as an accountant in Old Bur lington street. By his advice, Israel changed his name to Harrington, and, as Mr. Harring ton and Mr. Morris are at present two of the best-known West End money lenders, it would be i&le to pretend that their ostensible occupa tions represented their true callings. The experiment was so far successful that for some years old Manasseh had every reason to congratulate himself upon his choice of sons-in law. It suited the old man’s purpose excellent ly to find the money for these astute young gen tlemen to trade upon. He doubtless took every precaution to secure himself against loss, and by playing off his sons-in-law, one against the other, ho stiOceeded in netting a very large pro portion of the profits of both. He was, there fore,. enabled to devote himself exclusively to breeches-making. without, as heretofore, trou bling to relieve the pecuniary embarrassments ©fnis customers. If applied to for temporary Accommodation, he contented himself with re ferring the applicant to Mr. Harrington of Cork afreet, or to Mr. Morris of Old Burlington street, both of whom, he was assured, were highly re spectable persons, though on his honor as a gentleman, he was not personally acquainted with either. Unfortunately for himself, however, the poli cy he had followed with regard to his sons-in law led to this inevitable result, for the young men, who, previously to their marriage, had been tolerably good friends, speedily learned So hate one another with refreshing cordiality. Their enmity led to bitter and uncompromising business rivalry, which attained such propor tions that old Manasseh found that it material ly interfered with his profits. It was all very well for him to make the best bargain he could for his own benefit by pretending to prefer one to the other. If Isreal’s terms would not suit his grasping demands a threat to apply to David never failed to have the desired result, and vice versa. But when it came to customers playing the same game and reaping advantage from the bitter and furious competition which existed between the brothers-in-law, the evils ®f the system became painfully apparent. Old Manasseh wrung his hands in despair and made futile efforts to effect a reconciliation. But it was then too late, for Loth were so blind ed by hatred and jealousy of one another that they ignored their best interests. It was clear to old Manasseh that this deplorable state of things mustbe putjan end to. He must sternly discountenance one or the other, or else discon tinue his dealings with both. The latter alter native might be more just, but it did not com mend itself to old Manasseh. Both Israel and David knew his ways, were acute and shrewd, and could be trusted as far as he cared to trust any one. It was, therefore, a question which be should cast off, and this delicate problem gave him a great deal ot anxiety. After all-, blood is thicker than water all the world over, and the old man, notwithstanding his sordid disposition, had a natural affection for both his daughters. If he quarreled with Israel, he would quarrel with his winsome Harah; while separation from David would involve a painful Beene with his comely, red-lipped Rebecca. The difficulty of dealing with this critical sit uation caused old Manasseh to delay taking ac tion much longer than he intended, in fact, he became quite ill with the worry. But at length the knotty point was solved lor him by a cir cumstance which the old gentleman piously re garded as providential. The old breeches* maker, as before hinted, never trusted his sons in-law farther than he could see them and he took care to keep himself informed from a pri vate source of their proceedings. His agent was a certain Captain Falconer, who. tho’ his reputation was sadly tarnished, nevertheless retained sufficient shreds of outward respecta bility to enable him to mix with decent society, and to continue a member of two or three third rate clubs. In this way, in exchange for small favors of a pecuniary nature, the captain man aged to pick up some useful items of intelli gence regarding the dealings of Messrs. Har rington and Morris with their customers. From this cource old Manasseh learned one day of the details ot the shocking treatment, by his son-in-law Morris of a miserable, dissipated youth named Johnson, who had contrived to run thro’ a fine fortune before he came of age, and was at present deeply engrossed in the ab sorbing occupation ot drinking himself to death. Old Manasseh bad the best reasons for knowing that David had picked the bones of this poor lad remarkably clean ; in fact, he had himself derived considerable advantage from the operation. But it now transpired that David had made a much better bargain with young Johnson than he had pretended, to the detri ment of his revered father-in-law, whom he had not scrupled to defraud of his due share of the -spoil. By the simple process of adding a naught to the victim’s receipt for a large loan, the versatile David had considerably misled his innocent rela tive concerning the amount of the advance, and had pocketed the difference. The lad Johnson, it appeared, upon receiving back this receipt at the settling up of accounts, had suspected the fraud which had been perpetrated upon him, but his poor befuddled brain was not strong enough to remember distinctly the original transaction. David’s indignant denials had, therefore, been aceepted, but young Johnson— aow in a chronic state of incipient delirium tremens—made no secret ol his suspicions, and had caused considerable scandal by repeating it Old Manasseh’s virtuous indignation at this disgraceful story was edifying to witness. Apart from the suggestion of forgery, it must be owned that Mr. David’s conduct toward the poor youth had been heartless and reprehensible in the highest degree. It was not so much this, how ever, which excited the wrath of his father-in law. The older breeches-maker was singularly large-minded in matters of business, and was ©ever disposed to quarrel with any man for driving a good bargain. The forgery was scandalous and disgraceful enough in all con science, but that a young man should deliber ately defraud his father-in-law and benefactor out of his just rights revealed a depth of iniquity which old Manasseh had not suspected, even in David. The old gentleman gnashed his venerable gums in speechless rage at David’s wickedness, but at least it afforded him one consolation—he no longer need feel the least hesitation as to which of his sons-in-law he must quarrel wRh. But, not content with his idea ef visiting his displeasure upon his son-in-law by withdraw ing from him his countenance and support, old Manasseh became possessed of an unhallowed longing for revenge, and he determined that Mr. David should pay dearly for his nefarious behavior. It was nos difficult to devise a means of wreaking his vengeance. Within an hour after ihe captain’s visit, old Manasseh walked into the office of Mr. Harrington, in Cork street, trembling with suppressed excitement. Mr. Harrington started with surprise at his father *ta-law’s agitation. “ What’s up, Mr. Manasseh ?” he inquired— " anything gone wrong, eh ? ’ “ It’s David, my dear,” replied ~the old man, speaking with forced calmness. “ What’s he been up to now ?” asked Mr. Har rington, with much interest. “ He’s a forger and a thief and a liar !” cried his father-in-law, shaking his wrinkled fist in the air. “Well, that’s no news,” said Mr. Harrington, readily. “ He’d boa murderer, too, if he had the pluck. Tvo said it often enough—haven’t “You have, Izzy, you have. You’ve always thought worse of him than I did. But you were right, my dear, you were right,” said'old Ma nasseh, in a carneying tone. “Oh I So you’ve found him out, have you ?” remarked My. Harrington, with the keenest sat isfaction. * I trusted him, Izzy, like I trusted you,” a aid the old man, feelingly. “Not quite as much, of course, because 1 always knew you were a gentleman, and I’ve treated you accord ingly.” “ Ahem 1” coughed Mr. Harrington, with a private wink at an imaginary person in the background. “ You’ve always behaved straight and honor able, Izzy, and you shan’t regret it, my doar ” oonUaued old Manasseh “But u lor that scoundrel—why, he has robbed mo of hundreds of pounds.” The old gentleman proceeded to relate his grievances, to which Mr. Harrington listened with eager and sympathetic attention. If the truth must be told, he seemed more exultant than grieved or indignant at the recital of his brother-in-law’s misconduct, but be could not withhold a-n involuntary tribute to David’s smartness. “ I’d never have believed he’d had the pluck, he exclaimed, half grudgingly. “He shall rue it, Izzy. W e’ll make him smart for it between us I He’s no friend of yours, my dear. The things he has said about you I only I never believed ’em I” continued the wily old gentleman.” “Curse him, no ! I’d like to ruin him I” ex claimed Mr. Harrington, amiably. “So you shall, Izzy ; so you shall,” exclaimed old Manasseh, leaning eagerly across the table. “ Shall I tell you how you can do a good stroke of business ?” Mr. Harrington was ready enough to ba in structed on this point, and his father-in-law proceeded to enlighten him at some length. After a long discussion old Manasseh took his departure, considerably relieved in his mind, and leaving his associate brimful of enthusiasm about the project he had revealed to him. Two days after this conversation the old gen tleman read in an evening paper that his son in-law, David, had been that morning brought up at Mulberry Street Police Court on a charge of forgery, the prosecutor being the poor lad, Johnson. From the published reports, things looked very black for David, his own confiden tial clerk having been brought up as a witness against him. Though represented by the high est legal talent, David had considerable diffi culty in getting the worthy magistrate to admit him to bail; but, with rare magnanimity, his brother-in-law, Harrington, had come forward with the offer of undeniable security. Eventu ally the obstacle was surmounted and David bad obtained his liberty, but with every likeli hood of having but a brief taste of freedom. Old Manasseh read the affecting intelligence in the little back parlor behind hie shop, and his old face puckered up into a sardonic grin ot intense satisfaction. His son-in-law’s un comfortable predicament seemed to afford him the liveliest gratification, but after half an hour’s reflection he began to show symptoms of uneasiness. Whether he dreaded a visit from David or shrank from a scene with his daugh ter, he, at all events, experienced a strong dis inclination to return home that night. The consequence was that he sent a messenger to his residence for a modest quantity of clothes and toilet necessaries, with instructions to meet him at London Bridge in time for the Brighton express, and the same evening he took his frugal dinner in a quiet corner oi the coffee-room of the Grand Hotel. If the old gentleman came to Brighton in search of health he certainly found it, tor he walked during the next two days with a very sprightly and lively air, and looked radiant with conscious prosperity. The erring David had contented himself with writing to protest his innocence of the charge of which he was ac cused, being no doubt too much occupied with preparing his defense to find time for a journey to Brighton, so that the old man was spared the painful ordeal which he had dreaded. The pos sibility of his son-in-law being committed to trial, and ultimately sent to penal servitude, did not appear to disturb his equanimity in tho least degree, thdugh he naturally purchased at the earliest possible moment, the first evening paper which appeared on the day when David was to make his second appearance at Mulberry street. Old Manasseh chuckled without evincing the slightest surprise as he read the report of the day’s proceedings. What had happened was apparently nothing more or less than he had expected. After all, one is getting accustomed, in these days, to witness the conversion of what appears to baa serious legal drama into a screaming farce. When David had surrendered to his bail, it had transpired that the prosecu tor was nowhere to be found; in fact, somebody came forward with the edifying information that Mr. Johnson had gone down to sea in a’ ship, and had left the country. The counsel on both sides protested with a great show of outraged virtue at this scandal ous incident, and David’s representative waxed eloquent in proclaiming his client’s indignation and disappointment at the turn of events. But the magistrate was the only person who seemed genuinely concerned or surprised; he was evi dently inclined to make things particularly dis agreeable, and David’s lawyer was almost moved to tears by what ho termed the harsh qpas of some of liis worship’s remarks. How ever, “ Hamlet” can not be acted if there is no body to represent the Princo of Denmark, and the upshot was that David left the court without a stain on his character. Ths old-breeches-maker was at least as much amusetj at all this as the rest of the public, though he probably was much less scandalized. At all events, he remained at Brighton two days longer with unimpaired cheerfulness, and then returned to town. His first visit on reaching the metropolis was to his son-in-law, Mr. Har rington, in Cork street “ How did you manage, Izzy ?” was his first inquiry, when closeted with that worthy. “First rate. You saw it in the papers, I suppose,” said Mr. Harrington, with a wink. “And the youngster?” “Ho is safe out ot the way. Stood out for £SOO, though,” said Mr. Harrington, re gretfully. “Cheap enough,” said old Manasseh, with a knowing nod. “ X daro say it coat David a good deal more.” “ Well, I squeezed hitn pretty hard.” 11 What I you ?” exclaimed old Manasseh, with a start of alarm. “ Pooh! You know what I mean. Johnson’s lawyer,” said Mr. Harrington, laying his jew eled finger on his nose. “How much?” inquired tho old man eagerly. “ Five thou. ’ “That’s good, Izzy. That’s capital, my boy!” exclaimed old Manasseh, enthusiastically. “And he doesn’t suspect, eh ?” “ Went bail for him, replied Mr. Harrington, with a grin. “ I saw you did ! I saw you did !” chuckled his father-in-law. “Five thousand pounds! Well, that will teach him a lesson; won’t it, Izzy? He won’t rob his father-in-law again— he won't have a chance, that’s one thing. Our bird will have to fly very near the ground ior the next few years.” “ Swears he is ruined. It’s a lie, of course ; but I doubt if he has got much more,” said Mr. Harrington, producing his check book. “ Here is your share, sir,” he added, alter filling up a check. “ It’s mine, Izzy, every farthing,” cried the old man, pouncing eagerly upon the slip of paper. “It ain’t half what he’s robbed me of, not half. It's restitution, my dear, and then, you know, I shall probably have to do some thing for Rebecca and the children. That’s why I take the money.” “ He is sure to come and ask you to set him up again,” said Mr. Harrington, with a laugh. “ You’ll find him and Rebecca, too, at your place when you return.” “ I wouldn't give him a farthing, Izzy, not if he was to go down on his bended knee,” cried the amiable old gentleman. Mr. Harrington gave a loud laugh of approval at his father-in-law’s resolve, and the latter de parted, a little nervous and flurried at the or deal which awaited him, but firmly resolved, nevertheless, to act up to hia word. Old Manasseh was greatly relieved when neither hia daughter Rebecca nor her husband appeared to trouble him either that day or the next, but when three days passed without his seeing or hearing from them he begarn to feel vaguely uneasy. And on the fourth day un comfortable forebodings had taken such com plete possession of him that the sudden appari tion of Mr. Harrington, breathless and agi tated, at the door of his office, caused him to break into a cold perspiration. “Good Lord, Izzy, what is it?” he mur mured. Mr. Harrington carefully closed the door of the private office, after a cautious glance into the snop to make safe there were no listeners about, and then said in a frenzied tone: “ Father-in-law, we must bolt! I'm off by the next train to Dover 1 You had better follow double quick I" “ Why ? What?” gasped old Manasseh. “ We’ve been blown upon I It’s all up! David has found out everything, and he is applying for a warrant at Mulberry street at this mo ment !” “ A warrant! What for ?" screamed the old man, turning livid. “ Why to arrest you and me for conspiracy. Ho sent after young Johnson and brought him back. He knows the whole story, and its Senal servitude for both of us. “ I'm off,” said tr. Harrington, seizing the door handle with nervous energy. “ Stay! Stay I Izzy I” cried old Manasseh wildly; “ I want to speak to you. This—this is an awful business,” he added after a pause— “ awful I mean for yon, my boy.” “ It ain’t a Summer picnic for you, either,” retorted Mr. Harrington rather angrily. “ It-it wasn’t my affair, my boy. I—l wasn’t in it. I was down at Brighton,” said the old man with a miserable attempt to look at ease. “ You shared the swag," said Mr. Harrington, coarsely. “ Yes, but, my dear boy, who is to know? You won’t tell tales, Izzy, and I’ll stand by you,” cried old Manasseh, imploringly. “ I shan’t wait to be asked questions,” re turned Mr. Harrington. “ Whan he finds I’ve gone, my clerk, Josephs, will go over to David, and he knows about the check. The scoundrel never turned up this morning; that is what first roused my suspicions. I squared David’s clerk, now he has returned the compliment.” “ Stay; one moment more, Izzy! Can’t wa see David I” cried his tather-in-law. “ I’m willing to let by-goues bo by-gones, ana we can both refund, ft may cost us a trifle, but we must share the expense.” “ Not I,” interrupted Mr. Harrington, im patiently. “ I’d sooner bolt with what I’ve got than stay and bo ruined. You mark my words, David won’t drop it—No, not for twenty thous and. If you think you can afford it “I—l can’t go away. How can I leave the business?” interposed the old man, in a per fectfrenzy of terror and perplexity. “ Hang the business !” cried Mr. Harrington. “ I’m off. Meet me in Spain. That’s your only chance gov’nor.” With these ominous wards Mr. Harrington fairly turned and lied, leaving his father-in-law in a half-fainting condition. For nearly a quar ter of an hour old Manasseh remained seated in his chair, looking halt demented, and com pletely unnerved by the news he had hoard. Then, by degrees, he began slowlv to recover ; he poured out a glass of sherry with a trom- NEW YORK DISPATCH. MARCH 28, 1886. bling hand and drank it at a gulp, and finally with a great effort, he summoned an assistant, and bade him go and letch his son-in-law, David Morris, instantly. * * * «■ * * What passed between old Manasseh and bis son-in-law at the momentous interview which on sued need not be detailed. It was a very pain ful acene, and neither party, it is to be feared, manifested the best qualities of human nature. But the result was that David was induced to abandon tho criminal proceedings he had con templated, upon condition ot being paid no less than £20,009 in cash. Old Manasseh never re covered tho blow, and soon afterward manifest ed decided symptoms of softening of the brain. One of his delusions was that the whole affair was a disgraceful plot concocted by his sons-in law to ruin him. Nobody paid serious attention to such wild talk of a sick man ; but it is a curi ous circumstance that when Harrington re turned from Spain, which he did immediately the compromise had been effected, his brother in-law, instead of showing any signs of resent ment, welcomed him with great cordiality, and a secret and profitable business partnership has subsisted between them ever since. THAT FATAL DIAHOJD. A THKFSUJONFESSION. I am the most unhappy man that ever occu pied a prison ceil. I say this advisedly, know ing that hundreds are at this moment bewail ing their fate, which in many cases may seem harder than mine; but it is not, if they still re tain the self-respect which I have lost. That’s what tortures me; my prestige is gone; I am degraded in my own eyes; I despise myself as heartily as the most virtuous man in the world could. ’ That I, to whom half the thieves in London have looked for guidance, should my self have laid a plot for myself and walked into it I It is too humiliating I To fall a victim to a too powerful combination of adverse circum stances is no disgrace; to be outwitted by the superior finesse of the police is hard but en durable, but to fall into a snare which should not have misled a boy who had never so much as stolen a handkerchief in his life—this, this is shame I It was that diamond ring that did it. I really think that some special ill luck must have at tached to the trinket, for it brought no good to its previous possessor. It was hardly in the regular way of business that it came into my hands—just as it has escaped from them in a most unbusiness-like fashion. That young man must have been in great straits before he united himslf to me in the business of stealing his un cle’s cash-box, in order to obtain funds to pay his gambling debts. It was a very easy matter for me. He was to mix a few drops of an opiate I gave him with his relative’s brandy and water one evening, and leave the hall door open; I had only to walk in and take up the booty he had collected and placed ready for me. It was a very fair collection of plate that awaited me as well as the coveted cash-box; but I am fond of jewelry, and the house was so beautifully asleep, that I could not resist creep ing up to the master’s bed-room to see if there was not in it a trifle worth picking up. There was—the diamond ring and a rather good set of studs. I took them, and slipped ou»t of the room so quietly that I should not have dis turbed their owner, even it my young friend had not, byway ot making sure, doubled the prescribed* dose of the opiate, and thereby plunged his uncle into, not sleep, but death. Poor young fellow ! the knowledge that he killed a relation who had always treated him with kindness, if also with severity, was too much for his mind, which doubtless was never strong. Those debts of honor were never paid; he never came to claim his share of that night’s spoil, and I have heard that the distant cousin who, failing him, inherited the old man's prop erty, grumbles greatly at having to pay for his being kept in a lunatic asylum. ' This is cowardice on my part. I have con demned myself, as the fitting punishment of my folly, to set down in black and white the way in which I entrapped myself, and I am postponing the task to maunder over an irrelevant inci dent. The ring had not been long in my possession when 1 paid the unlucky visit to Paris which be gan my misfortunes. The London police were very active just then, and business was in con sequence dull and risky, so, being in funds, I thought I might take a holiday and enjoy a fort night in the city of pleasure. I was pretty well known at home; but I had not, so far as I know, a single enemy in France, and I did not intend to make any. For a fortnight I would boa mere innocent pleasure-seeker, tak ing the day’s amusements as they came, and making no effort after either my own gain or others’ loss. Such was my intention ; but alas I what intention, especially if it be a good one, can withstand the force of the habits of a life time ? Mine gave way, and speedily. One evening—a pleasant April evening—l formed ono of the crowd that surrounded the platform.at an open-air concert. By my side was standing a stout and elderly man, whom, from a score ot tiny indications, I guessed to be a British holiday-maker. “ There’s from fifteen to twenty pounds in his coat-pocket, I'll be bound,” thought L “He is far too cautious to leave bis money at his hotel, where Frenchmen, whom he regards as all thieves, may lay hands on it, so he carries it about with him, thinking that on his person it cannot fail to be safe.” The idea of undeceiving him in this particu lar was too tempting. I found myself smiling in anticipation at the bewildered and horror stricken expression his face would wear when he discovered his loss. It was the humor of the thing that touched me. That fatal gift of humor, which has ruined so many honest men, led me to my destruction. Deep in my soul, beneath the outer garb of the man of the world I was wearing, dwelt the instincts of the profes sional pickpocket. Almost unconsciously I in serted my left band (we are all ambidexter in our profession) in his pocket, and gently drew out a pocket-book—the very sort of pocket-book I knew he would carry. I edged away from my victim as soon as the little operation was over, and disentangling myself from the interested auditors who were listening to a gayly dressed damsel shrieking with the remains of a once powerful voice, I soon found myself walking along the brightly lighted boulevard. I had not gone long before I noticed that the diamond ring which 1 constantly wore on the third finger ot my left hand, was missing. It was a little too large for me, but I had not thought it advis able to have the size altered just yet, and the result was that it had slipped from my finger. I knew that I wore it when I left my hotel, but I could not recollect noticing its presence at any subsequent time; so I went to every place I had visited since I came out, the cafe where I had dined, the shop where I had bought some cigars, the streets I had traversed, looking everywhere for some trace of my lost jewel, and inquiring of every one to whom I had previously spoken, if they had seen anything of it. 1 felt a dreary conviction that my treasured ornament was gone forever, when, as a last re source, I went to a bureau de police, and gave a description of the ring to the officer there. The officer was polite, but gave me small hope of ever seeing my diamond again. I gave it up as gono forever. I was sitting in my hotel dull and depressed, angry at my own carelessness, and inclined to give up any further holiday and forget my annoyance by a speedy return to my profes sional duties in London, when my friend of the police office entered. “ I am happy,” he said, bowing politely and smiling with, as I thought, anticipation ol a handsome reward—“ lam happy" to inform monsieur that we hope soon to place his ring in his hands. One answering to the description you gave was brought to our office by the finder, a countryman of your own. The ring being rather an uncommon one, I felt assured that it could be no other than the one you had lost. You described it, I think, as consisting of five diamonds set in the shape of a violet, with a smaller brilliant in the centre—a very curious and valuable jewel.” “ Yes, that’s it,” I replied curtly, wondering why he could not give me back my property without so many words. “ Then I may safely assume that this is the ring in question?” He brought out my ring Irom his pocket and showed it to me. “It is, I said, stretching out my hand ; but he did not restore the jewel, only stood there, holding it and smiling more than ever. I sup posed he wanted to see some sign of the reward he expected to receive before parting with the trinket. I took out my purse, and opening it, made some remark about showing my appre ciation of his honesty ; but he shook his head, smiling, if possible, more broadly than before. “Do you not wish to know, monsieur, how your ring was found ?” he asked, with a leer which I thought was disagreeable. “ Well, how was it found ?” I said, tartly. My policeman drew himself up to deliver his great effort: “ Monsieur, your ring was found in another man’s pocket!” I stared at him in bewilderment, mingled with an indefinite fear, while he continued his narrative in a lees courteous and more confi dential tone than he had hitherto assumed: “Ahl mon ami, one may be too clever ; one’s dexterity may lead one astray it it be not bal anced by discretion. You had not long left the office, when another Englishman came in com plaining that he had lost a pocket-book con taining all his money. “He had put his hand in hia pocket to bring it out, meaning to pay for something, but found it gone and in its place a diamond ring—your ring. For my own part, I do not doubt your honesty—even your generosity. You believed, doubtless, that exchange is not robberv and that in leaving your ring in exchange ior his portmonnaie, you would at once obtain a me mento ot a compatriot and do him a practical benefit. That is the interpretation I should wish to put on the affair; but the owner of the pocketbook will not see it in that light—he lacks imagination, as so many English do. Of course, your coming to ask us to try to recover your lost ring tends to give color to his version oi the matter, which is, that while you were robbing him of his money, the ring slipped from your hand and remained in his pocket, and with a lack of sympathy for a countryman, which I grieve to recount, he demands that you should be arrested, a duty which I am reluctantly com pelled to fulfill.” I was absolutely dumb with surprise and an ger. Had I had my wits about me, I might— though circumstances were against me—have brought some counter-charge of theft against my accuser ; but I was so stupefied by the strange turn events had taken, that I submitted meekly to be searched, to have the fateful pocket-book taken irom me, and to bo led away to prison. Somehow, too, I was unable to se cure possession of the ring that was the cause of my undoing, and 1 have not seen it since my arrest. So here I sit in my cell, depressed and wenry, a victim to the bitterest self-reproach. I could almost wish to be condemned to life-long im prisonment, for what is freedom worth to me ? Aitor such a piece of suicidal lolly as f have been guilty of, I shall never dare to lift up my head among my professional brethren, and I fear that nothing will be left for mo but to take to honesty when my term expires.— Chambers's Journal, A NUKSE’SJXPERIENCF. SAD EXPERIENCE OF A DOMESTIC IN CARING FOR AN INVALID. (From the Denver News.) “No more invalids for me,” said a weary looking woman as she dragged her way into a well known Larimer street intelligence office yesterday afternoon. “ Why, did t you like your place ?” asked the lady in charge. “The place was all right, and I don’t know but if I was the invalid I would like it; but no more caring for invalids takes me out of town.” “ Well, what was tho trouble? ’ “Oh, a new racket, and excellent for the in valid if she could only get hold of the right kind of a girl. When I went up to Idaho Springs and took that place you sent me to, I was surprised at the kind of a looking invalid I was to take care of. Oh, but she was a strapping, able looking laddy-buck as you’d find m a day’s walk.” “ Well, you hired with her “Indeed, I did, ma’am, and was glad of the chance, for I thought sure that an invalid with arms on her as big as a stovepipe couldn’t'be much trouble to take care of.” “Well?” “ Well, there was a smell of beer about her that would do for a saloon sign, and when I sat down near her she looked at me as if I had trod on her corns. ‘ Don’t you hear them children crying?’ says she. ‘The poor little darlings haven’t had a bite to eat to-day, and yet you let them cry as if my health wouldn’t be hurt by it.’ 1 tried to tell her that taking care of an in valid wasn’t cooking for a whole houseful of children, but she shut me up with, ‘ What I . don’t yon suppose it makes any difference to my health whether my children are starving or not ?’ and I went and got the children break fast. When I got through with this, says she to mo, ‘Maria,’ says she, ‘the life is worried out of me with the pile of washing that’s to be done in this house and that isn’t done.’ And says I, ‘You don’t expect me to do the washing, too, do you ?’ ‘Do you suppose I can improve any,’ says she, ‘while I have it on my mind that my poor little darlings hasn't a clean stitch to put on them ?’ and with that she burst into tears. Well, sooner than see her cry that way, I off and started in at the washing. I wasn’t long at it, though, when I hears a screech, like a steam whistle, of ‘Maria!’ “ I knowed it was my invalid at once, and when I went to heri thought she would die any moment with the wild highsturicks she was in. ‘Oh, Maria,’ says she, ‘my husband will be home to dinner in half an hour, and there isn't a bit of a meal ready, and won t be, unless you get it for him.’ ‘ Mam,’ says I, ‘ I hired to take care of an invalid, and if it’s yourffiusband, in stead of you, why, I’ll be only too glad to take care of him I’ To see the look she gave me. ‘Do you suppose,’ says she, ‘ that it’ll benefit my health to have my husband raving and tear ing because there’s no dinner cooked for him, and if you think so, where did you learn that way of taking care ot a poor, sick, helpless woman?’ and away she went again into tears. Well, I couldn’t stand that, and so off I goes and scrapes up what little dinner I could find for her husband. It was a very thin meal, but it was the best I could do, and I went and told her what J got for dinner, some cold meat and a bit of butter, a dish of preserves and a lew other things. ‘ Preserves and butter,’ says she, ‘ and do you want to break the heart ot a poor in valid by wasting everything in the house ? Go and bring me them preserves this instant!’ I did so, and when I left to let in her husband, she was swallowing the preserves by the hand ful. “ I was afraid of my liife of the husband from what she said, but you never saw a quieter, broken-downer looking man on the face of the earth. He smiled when he saw the dinner I got him, and thanked me for everything I done for him. He looked like a skeleton, and if any body needed to be taken care of as an invalid, it was him. Well, when his dinner was over and her husband gone, I went back to tho wash tub, but had hardly got to work ag;<in when I heard the screech of my invalid, calling me. ‘ Did you lose your last place,’ says she, ‘ by starving your invalid to death ? Why don’t you set about getting me something to eat ?” And with that she gave me an order on the butcher for a two-pound porter-house steak, a lot of cakes from the baker, and two quarts of beer. ‘ Hurry with that, now,’ says she, ‘for I feel a gnawing at my stomach, and if something ain't done to stop it soon you’ll be without your in valid, for I’m going fast.’ Well, I got her the meal, and after she had cleared out all of the tender parts of the steak, ‘ take that,’ says she, ‘ and get your own and the children's dinner out of it, and put the rest away for doar Char ley’s supper.’ Thon she ups with the pitcher of beer and drinks it down without ever taking her mouth from it. “ Well, alter the children’s meal was over, I started back to the tub. li was the same at supper as at dinner, and when night came I ielt that I could sleep. But what does she do but calls me and says, ‘ Maria,’ says she, ‘ I must go and take my exercise, and I want you to dress me for the rink.’ Well, I got through with it somehow, although it was one of the toughest jobs I ever undertook in all my life. I never could get on paint or powder or curls enough to suit her, it seemed. ‘ Now lollow me to the rink,’ says she, ‘ and if I faint you be ready to take care of me and keep them from throwing water in my face, for it will spoil my curls and take all the paint off. But never mind, I won’t faint to-night, I don’t believe, for there won’t be anybody of much account at the rink. Be ready with a shawl to throw around my shoulders when I stop to breathe, and have some sandwiches with you steeped in brandy.’ “ ‘ Ma’m,’ says I, ‘ maybe you think I m a fool because I don’t put on more style, but if you think I don’t know any better than to bo seen in a skating rink you’re off your base, ma’m.’ says I. ‘ You won’t obey me, won’t you,’says she. ‘No,’ says I, ‘ I won’t, and if you’ll pay me’ for my day’s work I’ll be taking my leave of you.’ ‘ And* you’ll dare talk that way to a poor invalid, will you ?’ says she, and with that she took me by the back of the neck and, running me through the hall, flung me out of the door and down the front steps. I was glad enough to get out of her hands, and so I picked myself up and started on foot for Dnn ver, and here I am ready to take care of a livery stable or a lumber yard, or anything else only an invalid.” tunisiaTjustice. AFTER THE MANNER OF CALIPH HAROUN AL RABCHID. The East is the cradle of the race and the source of its legends and fables. Hindoo moth ers soothe their children to sleep by telling them the originals ot stories which are the commonplaces of European nurseries. An En glish traveler undertook to teach a Tartar hoy “ cat s cradle.” The little fellow took the string out of the European’s hand, and showed him a more intricate “ cat’s cradle ” than ho had ever seen. The brothers Grim, both learned philolo gists, gathered the admirable collection of stories they have published, from the old peas ants of the Black Forest and the Hartz Moun tains. But the traveler in India may hear them as they were told two thousand years ago, if he will enter a native hnt and coax the grand mother into telling the stories her grandmoth er told her. Every one knows the fable of the monkey whom two cats asked to divide the stolen cheese over which they had quarreled. It is a very old fable. Did he who first told it see some thing like the scene which occurred two or three years ago in the audience hall of the Bey of Tunis ? One morning, while the Bey was on the judg ment seat, two Bedouins appeared before him. They had found a cow which no one claimed, and which each insisted on retaining. They quarreled, and both came before the Bey. He tried to persuade the two Arabs to settle the matter amicably, but they were too angry to be reasonable. Seeing that he must decide, the Bev ordered the cow to be brought before him. On the animal’s appearance, he said to the two litigants: “ All property which has no legal owner be longs to me; therefore, according to law, the cow does not long to either of you. Let the owner come be here and ask me for his cow; he will be sure to receive punishment for not prop erly guarding his cattle from straying. “ As for you, think yourselves happy to go out of my presence without being bastinadoed, for I strongly suspect you stole the cow.” “NOT THE WORST OF IT.” THE DISTRESSING AGONY OF A DESERTED HUSBAND. (From the Chicago Intel'-Ocean.) John Loiser, connected with the glass works at Ottawa, 111., rushed into the detectives’ office and told Lieutenant Shea that his wife had eloped. The lieutenant was inexpressibly shocked, and so said nothing. “ But that ain’t all of it, by a blamed sight,” said the excited visitor. Lieutenant Shea’s eye-browa raised, as if to question the statement of there being any details that could add to the horrors of the desertion of a husband by.his Wife. “ No, sir, it ain’t all. She—she—run away with two men.” The eye-brows were raised a little higher now, and the lieutenant was about to say something, when Leiser yelled, *’ but that ain’t the worst of it 1” The lieutenant backed a little and watched Mr. Leiser closely, to see if he were not de mented. “ No, sir, it ain’t; she took SSOO with her.” Leiser wept rather copiously at this stage of the interview. The lieutenant was about to join him, when the bereaved husband looked up with a tear in each optic, and observed in a hoarse whisper, “ But that ain’t the worst of it. it ain’t. She slipped away at night, and when the baby awoke I could not find the paregoric.” “Whew! tins is serious,” said the efficient detective. “ Sbo mustbe found. You think she camo to Chicago, do you ?” “ Positive of it; they bought three tickets for Chicago.” “Then we’ll find thorn,” and tho lieutenant summoned a couple of detectivesand instructed them in the details of the matter as given by Mr. Leiser. In a very short time the detectives returned. They had in custody a man named George Fredericks-he had been seen with the woman. Alter a timo Ernest Von Bauer re ported at the station and the two acknowledged they were tho men sought alter by Leiser. But their story differed from that of tho lachrymose husband. They had never seen a cent of his money; knew nothing of his paregoric, but knew all about his wifo. They were coming to Chicago and bad been requested to escort Mrs. Leiser here by the lady herself. She had in formed them she was tired ot her husband’s abuse and wanted to leave him. They also stated they had found apartments for her at the Schweitzer Hotel, while they had secured rooms at a place down town. The woman was re quested to come to tho station, which she did, and corroborated the story of tho men. The people were allowed to go, as Leiser was unable to prove that any money or anything else had been stolen. AMERICAN FABLES. CONSIDERABLY AFTER THE PER SIAN. THE FOX AND THE HARES. A Fox who was passing through the Forest one day heard a great Dispute among the Hares, and he turned Aside to find several of them En gaged in Hard Knocks around a Burrow. “ What's all this Row about ?” demanded Rey nard as he fell Among them,. “Why, sir,” replied one ot tho Hares, “our Father is Dead, and we can’t agree as to who shall Possess his Burrow.” “But it is large enough for all of you.” “So it is; but that settles a Question of Fact instead of Principle.” “ Well. I’ll take the Fact and you can keep the Principle,” said the Fox as he took Possession of the Burrow. MORAJL : When the Heirs Fight over the old Homestead the Lawyer comes to own the Farm. THE TIGER AND THE PEASANT. A Tiger who was out for a Walk came to the Cabin of a Peasant and Knocked on the Door. “ Who is There ?” demanded the Peasant. “ It is I, the Tiger.” A Gun was poked out of a Window and the Tiger received a mortal hurt As he rolled on -the Ground in his Dying agonies he Gasped: “ Ungrateful Man ! I was Intending Simply to pay you a Friendly Call!” “Ah! yes,” sighed the Peasant; “but the Difficulty of Distinguishing a Good Tiger from a Bad Ono is so Great I make it a Rule to fire upon all.” MORAL: There are no Honest Burglars. This writer is certainly one of our most pro lific novelists. He takes pride in being entitled THE GREAT UNKNOWN. “ What is your business ?” a passenger on a rail way train asked of a chance acquaintance. * I am a writer of popular novels.*’ ’• What is your name?” **Niok Smith.’* ‘•Well, i don’t believe I read any of your novels. But perhaps you e.nploy a nomdc plumef” •• Yes.” •• What is your pen name ?” ♦‘l change it very frequently.” «* Why so ?” '■Well, you see, I am employed by a publishing house to continue the works of men who die in the zenith of their fame. I have finished ‘Hugh Con vay’ and I am now waiting for Wilkie Collins to die.'* No ono will deny but that Mr. Martin gave A PLAUSIBLE REASON. “That's a queer name fora book,” remarked a young lady in a book-store to Mr. Martin. “ What’s that ?” he asked. “ ‘ Letters to Dead Authors.’ I wonder what it is.” “Well, I can't say, a3 I haven’t read it; but from its title I should say it was a request to the late Hugh Conway ior more stories.” It was lucky for him that his wife didn’t know this FRIEND OF HIS BOYHOOD. “My dear,” said Mrs. Snaggs to her husband, this morning, “I don’t think I know your friend, Mr. Pott, do I ?” “Pott?” asked Mr. Snaggs, in surprise. “Yes, Mr. John Pott.” “John Pottl I don’t know anybody of that name.” “ Oh, you surely must know him very well, for you talked about him in your sleep last night, and called him Jack, aa though you had known him all your life.” “Jack Pott! Ah, I must have been dreaming about a schoolmate of my boyhood days. I had al most forgotten him.” And Snaggs went down town cogitating ou what a narrow escape he had. Here is a neat bit of DOUBLE MEANING. “Say, George, what kind of a doctor is this young Allen ?'* “All that I know about him is that he snatched my aunt from the grave last Summer—that is, I shall always think he did.” “Did he, indeed?” replied the other; “well, he must be a pretty good doctor, then. What was the matter with your aunt?” “ Oh. she was dead and buried, you know.” Even on the frontier there are men who take advantage of the ignorance of the uncultured and SELL THEM FALSE MOTTOES. A traveler in Western lowa noticing on the wall of the parlor of the hotel the legend, “Ici Ton parle francais,” said to the proprietor: “ Do you speak French ?’* “French ? No. United States is good 'nougli fer me.” “Then why do you keep that legend on the wall? That means ‘French is spoken here.' ” “ Is that so ?’* “ Certainly.” “Well, I’m a half tKr.’ied from up the Missoury if a feller with a wart on his nose didn't sell me that for a Latin motto: ' God bless our home.’ ” This young woman was more truthful than women usually are in such matters, when she explained why SHE HAD A REAL GOOD TIME. “Did you go to theTibbons party the other night, Mrs. Prinkley ?” inquired one woman of another in the jam at a millinery store. “Yes, indeed,” she replied, with eyes fairly snap ping with delight. ‘ Have a good timo ?” “Yes, I had a splendid time. The Twomley girls were there, you know, and they didn’t have on a thing fit to be seen, while everybody said my new dress was just too lovely for anything. Isn’t this delicious weather ?” John Gough probably delivered as many lec tures as any man that ever took to the rostrum. But Mr. Awljaw looked upon it aa NOTHING EXTRAORDINARY. Mrs. Awljaw—" Mr. Gough must have been a re markable man. I have just read that he lectured nine thousand times.” Mr. Awljaw—“ Nothing remarkable in that.” “No ? Where is there a similar case ?’* “Let me see. We have been married thirty years. Now, you have lectured about every night —let us say thirty times three hundred and fifty ” (Seance breaks up in disorder.) Mr, Fogg gave a very good reason for being TIRED OF VISITING. “ No,” said Fogg, “I’m tired of going out visit ing. If I call on Brown, he’s sure to bore me to death with his everlasting bragabout his dog; if I go to Black’s, he’ll talk of nothing but that confound ed horse of his, and at White’s I shall hear of noth ing but his hens. Therefore, I prefer to stay at home and enjoy myself.” “But, my dear,” interposed Mrs. F., “the con versation will hardly be more improving if, as usual, you dilate on pipes and tobacco.” “Yes, my love,” replied Fogg, “but you should remember the difference. Ido the talking.” It was a nice fit and the suit was made of ex cellent goods which DE JONES GOT FROM ISAACS. Isaacs—Mine frient, dot vits you shust like der skin on der sausage. De Jones—Yes, it fits fairly well, but is it good goods ? Isaacs—Goot goots ! So hellup me, dot ves der finest biece of goots on der market. De Jones—Do you warrant it ? Isaacs—Varrant it! Veil, no. but, mine frient, if dot goots ain’t goodt, shust you bring it back and ve’ll make it goodt for not’ing. SCINTILLATIONS. “What is your idea of love, Mr. Sin nick?” ”Three meals a day, and well cooked.” Women swallow flattery as babies swallow buttons, without aux Ida. ot tho troabl. that may follow. A man never realizes how insignificant he is until be attempts to describe to his wife the dress worn by another lady. “ I aim to tell the truth.” " Yes,” m terrupted an acquaintance, “ and you are probably the worst shot in the country.''* The reason that a lady always likes to wear tight gloves is because it makes it seem as though somebody was squeezing her hand. A society lady, who was describing a grand ball to a friend, a few nights ago, was asked how she was dressed. “Low—and behold!” was the response. “Pat, what time is it?” “Oi don’t know, Mike, but let’s guess at it, and thin, begor ra, the man who comes farthest off can go out to the kithen to look.” “ Madam,” said a shivering tramp, “ w-will y-you give a p-poor fellow a ch-chanoe to getw-warm?” “Certainly,” replied the woman, kindly; “you can carry m the ton of coal, but don't burn yourself,” A young lady—a sensible girl—gives the following catalogue of different kinds of love : “The sweetest, a mother’s love; tile longest, a brother’s love; the strongest, a woman’s love, and the sweetest, longest, dearest love—a 'love of a bonnet.*** An elderly gentleman is seen to tread on a pioce «f orange-peel and come heavily down on what may be politely called the large of his back. To him a polite stranger, raising his hat, says : "Excuse ma, sir, would you mind doing that again ? My friend didn’t see it." “I guess, sister, you needn’t bother about having the parlor swept out to-day,” was the remark of a youth, as he started to school. " What on earth do you mean. George ?” "Well, I heard lather tell mother that if that young man of yours came to-night, he’d wipe the floor with him.” A Henry county farmer came to Olin ton on the late cold wave wearing a coonskin over coat. A west side grocer inquired: "Why don’t you wear the hairy side in instead of out?” "I reckon the coon knew which side was the warmest when he wore it, didn’t he?” replied the farmer. Mr. Jenkins j)layfully remarked to his wife that in her he possessed five fulls. "Name them, my love.” "You are beautiful, dutiful, youthful, faithful and an armlull,” “ You have the advantage of me, my dear.” "How so, my pre cious ?” •• i have but one fool.” Mr. Jenkins made no further inquiry. Superintendent—“ Children, this is the liev. Dr. MacSuorter, from Gowanus, who will address you a few brief remarks. Children, he has come all the way to try and save your souls from hell. You are not paying attention. Now, can any little boy or girl tell me where this gentleman is from ?” Chorus of children —“ From hell.” Pa—“l do not like that young man and wish he would keep away.” Daughter—" He does not come very often.” Pa—" Very often I He is here nearly every evening and sometimes in the afternoon.” Daughter—" But, pa, he never comes in the morning.” Pa—"No, I wish he would,” Daughter—" You do? * Pa—" Yes. if he could once see you in the morning he would never come again I" “ We feel,” a Western editor is quoted as writing, "that an apology is due to Widow Grimes, in our issue of last week wo stated that she had eloped with an eighteen-year old man. The truth is that she was thrown from an eight-year-old mare, which she was riding in a lope, and which slipped and fell. Mistakes will happen in the best regulated newspaper-offices, and we are confident that when we state the item was sent over a tele phone wire, no other apology will be needed.” Not long ago, as an elderly couple were out walking, a lady on the opposite side of the street slipped and fell down. The old gentleman rushed across the street, raised his hat, and offered to assist her in any possible way. His wife followed him across at a slow pace, and witnessing his devo tion to the stranger, shook her fist at him. "It’s all right—it’s all right 1” he whispered. " Yes, I know it is I” she exclaimed, hotly. " Here’s an unknown woman hurts her toe, and you plow across the street to eat her up with kindness. The other day, when I fell down-stairs, you stood and laughed, and wanted to know if I was practicing for a circus.” HUNTING A LOVER. A SWEDISH GIRL’S PERSISTENT AND SUCCESSFUL SEARCH. (From the Omaha Republican,) About eight months ago there arrived in this city a very pretty Swedish girl, direct from Stockholm, bearing the name of Christine Olson. The young woman could speak but little Eng lish, but her charming appearance and winning manners won for her many friends. She was in this city but a very short time before she was employed by a lady on South Sixteenth street and given a situation. The girl was bright, and showed an aptness to learn which encouraged her mistress to teach her English. Her pro gress was rapid, and in a very short time the girl had acquired considerable knowledge of our language, which is considered especially hard to learn by foreigners. Along with a knowledge of the English language the lady taught the pretty servant to cook and perform many household duties that were new to the young foreigner. As Christine became more acquainted with the English language, she grew to love her mis tress until, neediug some one in whom to con fide, she chose her mistress as her confidante, and told her the history of her lite. The history was not filled with pretty women and valiant knights; on the contrary, it was a pastoral poem in prose. She stated that she was born in Stockholm; that her father was a toy-maker and owned a neat little shop on one of the prin cipal streets; that he employed a number of workmen, among them a young man named Hanson. The young man was not handsome, but he had a kind, big heart, and he won the love of his employer’s daughter. Hanson was an honorable fellow, and feeling that his em ployer would never give his consent to a mar riage with his daughter, he thought the. next best thing would be to leave the country and try his fortune in America, about which he had heard so much. To think was to execute, and it was but a lew days after that the young man bid good-by to bis sweetheart and set sail for the unknown arcadia, with assurances that he would send for Christine in a lew years. Han son was not a spendthrift by any means, and when he landed at Castle Garden he had a few hundred dollars left by which he might start a little business for himself. He had learned cigar-making while in the old country, and felt that a fortune was in store for him in this busi ness. Everything went well with the young man for two years. He wrote regularly to his sweet heart in Stockholm, telling of his triumphs and misfortunes. He spoke encouragingly of the time when he could send for his betrothed and in every way made the burden Christine was bearing as light as possible. But Hanson found that the country was not what it had been painted by interested emigra tion agents. That instead of sitting down wait ing upon fortune to overtake him, he had to be up and doing to overtake the fickle guide. He grew despondent, and finding nothing to do in New York, joined the great army of tramps “ looking for work.” His money was soon gone, but during all the time he was tramping up and down the country he wrote to the little woman at home asking her to be of good cheer, as ho soon would send for her. Sixteen months ago he ceased to write to Christine. The girl not knowing what to make of the silence, waited for nearly a year and then resolved to seek her lover in America. Her father and mother had died in the meantime, leaving the girl about S2OO after all debts wore paid. With that little pittance she left her old home and came to the United States in search of the man whom she believed to be dead, or perhaps what was still worse, married to some one else he had met in his wanderings. When Christine arrived in New York she met a cigar maker who remembered Hanson as a good fellow, but thought he was in San Francisco. Christine bought a ticket for Frisco and started to find the truant lover. When Chicago was reached she met a confi dence man who induced her to sell her ticket and buy one to Omaha, stating that he knew Hanson well; that he was in this city saving money to send for a little woman whom he had left behind in Sweden. The girl believed him and who would not, under the circumstances. She believed the man, and did exactly as ho told her. Her new-found friend then robbed her of her money, leaving her only her ticket to this city and $5. Broken-hearted and in a strange land, not knowing what to do, she got off hero, and having met a country-woman, who told her she better go to an intelligence office for work, which she did, and was engaged by the lady on South Sixteenth street. Christine, as she told this story, would often cry, bemoaning her fate and lamenting that she had ever come to America to search for a man who no doubt had forgotten her long ago. But the love was not dead, and try as she would she could not make herself believe that Hanson was untrue to her. She saved her wages and about ten days ago, having heard that Hanson was in Kansas City, gave notice to her mistress to get another girl as she was going to quit. No amount of per suasion on the mistress’ part could change her mind, however, and she left Yesterday the lady on Sixteenth street received a letter from Christine saying that she had found Hanson, that they wero married and the future looked very bright for them. Could there be anything stranger in fiction ? THE FALLS NOT RECEDING. Niagara Will Not Reach Buffalo for Three Million Years. (From the Pittshurg Dispatch.) Time and again I have related through the press ot the country, and discussed before sci entific bodies, how the United States Engineer Corps measured the depth of water in the can yon, and ascertained the rapidity of the cur rents, the amount of volume of water, and the probable annual wear of the rock and recession of the falls. Some of these facts lead to others which I wish to relate. •• When will the falls reach Buffalo ?” is the most common query. “Never while Buffalo exists to witness the ar rival,” I reply. " Well 1 but the falls are mov ing backward several feet per year,” is the re sponse. “ Pardon ; they are not moving several feet, nor one foot, nor several inches, nor on. inch, nor any perceptible amount annually.” It is true that at one place—the Horseshoe—the recession is visible. This only indicates that the falls are swinging around Goat’s Island, and will make that a truly wonderful natural structure some day, with perpendicular walls and a roaring, circular canyon around it. In order to reach Buffalo, the tails must displace about twenty-five cubic miles of the hardest limestone rock—a rock that looks as if it had actually been melted and poured into its place. Twenty-five cubic miles of rock would be suffi cient to construct all ol the buildings on earth, and then rebuild them several times. The face of the entire tails is about one mile long and about font hundred feet high above and below the low water. If we accept the average wear along the entire face of the falls at one-half inch per year, we have an annual displacement ol 88,01 X) cubic feet of rock—an amount enormous ly too large. At this obviously too great annual rate of recession, the falls have been over 1,700,000 years in arriving at their present po sition, and will require over 8,000,000 years to get to Buffalo. It has always been a mystery to me why the great whirlpool of Niagara is seldom or never visited by the public; it is not spoken of in guide-books, or advertised by railways. The public has been made to lose sight of this most wonderful maelstrom in the world, by the cun ning of the men who control the view of the Whirlpool Ilapids, and with whom the guides and hackmen are in collusion. The latter is directly under and below the cautalever bridge of the Michigan Central railway. The maelstrom is located something over a ; acres of space which may be called a hump rather than a bend in th a river. Into this bump the river enters on ona side, is whirled round like a top, pressed down thousands of feet, brought to the surface by counter currents, and hurled out on - the lower side. The bodies of men which go over the falls are regularly found on the lower side ot this pool nine days after their plunge over the cataract. Here, it is said, is the long-sought subterra nean outlet of the great lakes. If so, where is the great surface exit or spring ? There can bo no cause without an effect. If lakes of water are emptied through this hole, the lakes ot water must bubble up through some other hole. Gen tle reader, this malstrom was dug by the falls several or more years ago—and it took a mil -lon years to make the excavation. Further, the projectile at the water hurled at the rate of a mile per minute through the canyon is a cube, the lace ot which is 100,6.10 loot s fuare. Is not that volume of water quite'sufficient to keep the vast St. Lawrence busy, and to do away with the necessity of a subterranean outlet for the lakes? I strolled down to the edge of the cra ter ot the maelstrom through the deep snows ot the Sth of this month. THEIuiLROAD IRA IN. SOME OF THE MINOR MISERIES. Considered as an instrument of torture, the modern railroad train deserves all that can be said of it. Looked upon in that light it is doubt less a big thing. The adjectives incomparable, matchless, and amazing, would apply to it; es pecially to those trains whereupon the burning of soft coal is practiced, would the description be applicable. Among the minor miseries which beset you after you have really gotten yourself seated in thia much-lauded vehicle, is the want of anything to breathe. A person accustomed to the free air ot heaven gasps in the red-hot air, if it be in Winter, and instinctively places his handkerchief to his noso as the combined smells of the place strike upon his sensitive nostrils. Then the swaying motion, added to the lack of oxygen, soon produces a desperate and deathly feeling which no other combination of earthly circumstances can really induce. It is exaggerated, however, when your neighbor opens a lunch-basket, as car-neighbors invaria bly do, and feeds the six strong and lusty chil drod seated near you. How they eat—the wonder will never cease I Eat straight on through the contents ot that lunch-basket with out flinching ! Ham-sandwiches aro " Like snow falls on a river, "One moment white, then gone forever.” The bones of ancient and respectable fowls are picked up and flung away, and greasy dough nots are sent to their long home, and still the insatiable monsters eat on. The repast proper is followed by apples, can dy, and pop-corn—ad infinitum, ad nauseam— still they are not appeased. They look hun grier than ever—their jaws still seem in good condition. You desire to recommend to them a whale or two as likely to be satisfying, but the ravenous crew still eat on. You try to open your window, but of course it is of the kind that doesn’t open. This fact probably saves yon from pneumonia and an early grave, but it is nevertheless hard to bear at the time. You turn your face away and produce your cologne bot tle, while the mother brushes the crumbs onto the floor and secretes the bones under the cush ion ; you groan, but to no purpose. You aro in for twenty-four, or thirty-six, or forty-eight hours of this, as the case may bo, and there is no such thing as relenting on the part of des tiny. Nothing but a great American smash-up can save you. OO PROF. CHS. LUDWIG VON SEEGER, Professor of Medicine at the Royal University;. Knight of the Royal Austrian Order of the Iron Crown; Knight Com mander of the Royal Spanish Order of Isabella; Knight of the Royal Prussian Order of the Red Eagle; Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, Bfc., 4*c., says: “LIEBIG CO.’S COCA BEEF TONIO should not be confounded with the horde of trashy curo alls. It is in no sense of the word a patent remedy. 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