New York dispatch. [volume], June 13, 1886, Page 2, Image 2

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you see, and it answers very welt so far. I
love him better every day, and I think he
would tell you something ol the same sort
about me.”
But Mrs. Edgcombe gave the slender white
fingers that crept round her own no responsive
pressure—she was shocked, scandalized. This
calm, unenthusiastic way of looking at marriage
In the very glow of the honeymoon seemed to
her atheistic, French, diabolical. Doris’s calm
demeanor throughout her engagement she had
praised and upheld as well-bred; but this cold
blooded acceptance of the possibility of her get
ting gired of her husband and of his getting
tired of her was carrying good breeding a little
too far. , , , .
“I suppose this is the modern, fashionable
way of looking at marriage, Doris ?” said she,
gravely. “At any rate, I never heard anything
like it before. It sounds very clever and very
shrewd to be talking already about the time
when you won’t be quite so young and so hand
some and so loving as you are now; and, of
course., I know quite well that married people
can’t be so enthusiastic about each other when
they have grown old and selfish as they are
when they are in their bloom. But Ido think
I like the old, simple fashion of talk better,
when a young wife used to think her love was
etrong,enough to keep them always young, and
the young husband, even if he knew better, at
least said nothing about it, and tried to think
so, too.”
Doris felt remorseful for her frankness when
she saw how deeply her words had pained her
grandmother ; and she said quickly:
“It is only a new way of talking, granny
dear ; we feel ,ust the same as you and grand
papa did when you were first married; only
lust now it is the fashion to be cynical and to
hide one’s feelings away as if one were ashamed
of them.”
“But you need not surely try to hide them
away from me. And I don’t think you could,
my dear, if they were as strong as you say.
However, I suppose I must be content with
what you choose to show me. When is this
new-fashioned husband of yours coming back ;
or does it depend on what attractions he can
find in Paris whether he leaves you to spend the
rest of your honeymoon alone or not?”
“It is not quite so bad as that yet,” said
Doris, laughing. “He will be back to-morrow
in time for dinner, and he will bring Charlie
Papillon down with him, 1 hope.”
But Mrs. Edgcombe’s patience was exhausted.
“ Charlie Papillon I” she exclaimed sharply.
“ To stay with you lor a week or so and prevent
your feeling dull, I suppose? A very proper
person to choose I I should think, if he does
not succeed in persuading you both that the
duty of married people is each to go his own
wj# and pay no attention whatever to the tie
winch binds them, nobody could.”
Poor Doris saw her mistake, but hardly knew
what to say in defence of her bright little favor
ite Charlie which would not dfcaw down a fresh
storm of indignation upon that easy-going phil
osopher’s head. Her fondness for him had long
been a sore point with old Mrs. Edgcombe,
whose principles, though not more rigid than
those of an elderly lady ought to be, were buck
ram indeed to Charlie’s. She had been in con
stant dread of his persuading Doris to marry
him, and she was now quite ready to consider
him the evil genius hovering about the young
household, eager to wreck their domestic hap
piness by his Mephistophelian suggestions and
influence. She had not thought however,
though she had come down prepared with a
word of warning against him, that he would
begin the work of ruin so soon.
“It was my suggestion that David should
bring Charlie with him, not for a week, but just
for a day or.two,” said Doris diffidently. “ You
see, grandmamma, when you and I came down
here every Summer and had the house full of
people, the boy used to come down here as a
matter of course whenever he liked; and I
think he must miss his rowing and lawn-tennis
and the nice people we used to have here. It
seems rather selfish of David and me to keep
the dear old place all to ourselves, when there
are half a dozen unused rooms that people
would be glad to come and fill, and the fruit is
getting ripe for nobody to eat, and the boats are
Falling to pieces in the boat-house with nobody to
null them. 1 hate to go into the billiard-room; it
iQoks so desolate now there are no cues lying
about and no boys quarreling round the table.
I don’t even en oy the flowers on the river so
much as I should if there were a lot more peo
ple here to them too. I think, and David
thinks too, that when one finds oneself in pos
session of nice things that lots of other people
would like to have, it is wrong not to spread the
enjoyment of them as far as one can.”
“ Well, I should admire your unselfishness
more if I could only persuade myself that it was
genuine, my dear. But Ido think that if your
love for each other were a little stronger, you
would not have quite so much to spare in gen
eral philanthropy.”
“ But I am philanthropical only to the per
sons I like, you know. lam longing to get poor
Hilda Warren away for a little change from the
nasty hot theatre, just from Sunday morning to
Mondav afternoon. That is not unselfish, be
cause i like her and she amuses me.”
This was another unlucky speech, for Mrs.
Edgcombe tolerated the girl only for the sake of
her old acquaintance with Hilda’s mother, who
was still alive, but who was living uncomforta
bly in furnished apartments since the death of
her husband. That event, which happened just
after Hilda’s final return from school in Paris,
when she was seventeen, had changed the whole
course of the girl s life. From large houses,
pleasant lawns, handsome dresses, many friends,
she descended at once to two rooms, as many
gowns, about as many friends, and one pot of
flowers in the window of the dingy sitting-room.
Instead of an introduction into society, balls,
concerts, amusements of all kinds, and the ad
mirers which her pretty face would surely have
attracted, she plunged at once into an existence
of hard work for the necesvaries of life, teach
ing children in the morning, studying design at
night, with tea at the pastry-cook's in the com
pany of two or three more girl students as her
only recreation and the awkward attentions of
their ill-bred brothers as the only homage her
fair face could now hope to attract. An ordi
nary girl would have sunk gradually into the
faded and industrious hack-artist, or the well
mannered but affected governess who will never
allow her employers to forget that their position
is nothing compared to that her father filled.
Hilda Warren was not an ordinary girl, and
after three or four years of dreary, ill-paid
work, she gave up teaching and went on the
stage, not making herself the laughing-stock of
the critics at a morning performance in some
important and difficult part, as she would have
done in her ignorance bad she been able to af
ford that incompetent display, but speaking two
lines as a servant in a modern comedy—speak
ing them well, too, so that a good many among
the audience could hear them. For more than
two years she had now been at the same thea
tre, earning a salary that she could almost have
lived on had she been by herself, but which was
not enough to support her mother upon without
the necessity of spending most of her daylight
hours poring over her old work of designing.
When Doris by accident found out this girl,
whom she had often met at children’s parties
when they both lived in the same circle, she was
struck by what seemed to her the heroism of the
S actress and by a deep sense of her own
•rity to her. Mrs. Edgcombe, on the
other hand, was struck with astonishment and
some disgust with Hilda’s choice of a profes
sion, and looked upon the girl, with her some
what masculine freedom of speech and open
preference lor men’s society, as a most unde
sirable companion for her own granddaughter,
whom she already considered rather too inde
pendent in manners and in mind. Doris would
not give up her friend, however, especially as
Hilda’s sensitive pride made her society a
pleasure not too easily got, and the young
actress had been among the guests at her wed
ding.
Mrs. Edgcombe was just wise enough and
just simple enough to look upon actresses as
the sworn foes of newly-wedded wives, and the
introduction of one of them into the scarcely
launched household at Fairleigh was just the
one thing wanted to make Doris’s willful sacri
fice of her own happiness complete.
“Ah,” said she, when Doris had remarked
that Hilda would amuse her. “And she will
amuse your husband, too, I dare say.”
“ Hilda amuses everybody,” answered Mrs.
Glyn, without taking any notice of the sugges
tion implied by her grandmother’s tone. “When
she and Charlie are together, one can do noth
ing but laugh.”
“Is Charlie growing fond of her?” asked
Mrs. Edgcombe, less stiffly, scenting a ro
mance.
“ Oh, you know Charlie is fond of every pret
ty girl he meets. I think Hilda shares his very
best affection with about two others, though.
He is really very much attached to her. Last
time she came to see me in town they were in
separable.”
“ Then why doesn't he marry her ?'*
“ Why, he couldn’t afford to, even if she
could ! You see, if they were to marry, she
would be spoiled for an actress, and he would
be spoiled for a—butterfly. Each has a mis
sion, whi h each fulfills perfectly, to amuse and
please everybody they meet.”
“But isn’t their own happiness to be consid
ered ?”
“ Yes; and that is just what we all consider
best when we encourage them to wander about
at their own sweet will, and get everybody’s af
fection and liking, in return for being bright
and sweet and irresponsible in the midst of us
dull, staid old married people. I don’t myself
think you consider people’s happiness best by
tying them up in twos just at the age when they
most enjoy their own liberty.”
Mrs. Edgcombe looked hard at her grand
daughter; but Doris was looking so sweet and
bright that she could scarcely think these words
were dictated by a feeling that she had given up
her liberty too soon. Both ladies began to feel
that it was time to turn the talk to other sub
jects, since the chance of their agreeing upon
points of domestic interest had evidently grown
slighter than ever since the marriage of the
younger one, and before long they left the
house to enjoy the early evening in the shade of
the trees on the lawn.
The elder lady returned to town before
luncheon the next day, unwilling to meet cither
the g. and son-in-law whose departure had so
much displeased her or his evil genius, Char
lie Papillon. She said no more warning words
to the young wife; but the last look sh’e gave her
as she bade her good-by at the station was elo
quent with anxiety and foreboding which made
Dons smile when she was alone.
“ l oot grandmamma I She won’t believe I
am happy. As if a woman could help being
happy with David I”
CHAPTER IV.
“ WHERE WILL THIS EHD I”
Doris took all pains in her room that after
noon to look her very best. She put on an em
broidered India muslin gown of palest yellow
tint, and fastened dark red roses on her breast
with a diamond brooch. She was too handsome
and too young to need much aid from dress,
and she disliked elaborate toilets which inter
fered with her freedom of movement. But the
simple stylo she preferred showed off her grace
ful figure, and as the flush of expectancy rose to
her cheeks while she wandered about the house,
restlessly unable to occupy herseli with any
thing until her husband’s return, she looked
unspeakably lovely.
He had not told her, in the letter she had re
ceived from him that day, by what train he
should come, but had said he should be at Fair
leigh as early as possible, so that she could not
go to the station to meet him, but had to con
tent herself with listening tor the barking ot the
dogs, which would surelyahuounce their mas
ter’s approach.
But at the last he came upon her ail unex
pectedly, as she was standing on a chair in the
path outside the drawing-room window nailing
up a straggling branch of a climbing rose-tree.
She sprang down at the sonnd of his tread,with
her face sparkling with pleasure.
«It has seemed such a long time to me 1 Has
it seemed long to you, David ?”
“Very long, mydarling—long enough for you
to grow much handsomer than you were before
1 went away.”
“Ah I you see solitude agrees with me,” said
she saucily. “ Where is Charlie ? Haven’t you
brought him ?”
Charlie had lagged discreetly in the hall, busy
disposing ot his hat and his umbrella, and he
now came sauntering through the drawing-room
and stood on the steps at the door with an air of
much modest diffidence.
“ I haven't seen you since you have attained
the dignity of wifehood, Mrs. Glyn, and you
look so much more commanding than you used
to do that I stand quite in awe of you.”
“Yes, you have. You saw me at the wed
ding.”
“Ah I that didn’t count. Then you were only
a bride, and looked awfully ashamed of your
self. You wouldn’t have me stand in awe ot a
bride I Everybody could see you were sorry
you had not chosen me; I heard people remark
upon it, and say how much they pitied Glyn. So
did I.”
“If you have quite finished ail the absurd
and tedious romances you have been carefully
making up all the way from town, you may come
down those steps and take in this chair lor me,”
said Doris gravely.
“ I will; and then I'll make love to you while
David gets himself ready for dinner. How
glad you must be, David, of an opptfifunity for
a wash, after your loug journey I" said he, so
licitously.
“ And leave the destroyer of my domestic
Eeaoe in lull possession of the field ?” asked
'avid, in his sweet, soil voice, laughing.
“ Yes; 1 will fight you to-morrow morning be
fore breakfast, if you like to get up early, and
we’ll choose pistols, because 1 know I can shoot
better than you. Or we’ll settle it with boat
hooks out in the creek, if you prefer noveltajl”
he called out in an obliging tone, as Glyn dis
appeared into the house.
“ And now that the hated tyrant is no more,”
continued Papillon, easily, “we’ll go and sit un
der the trees and flirt.”
And they strolled across the lawn to a group
of garden seats and chairs under a walnut tree,
from which they could see the smooth water of
the creek and watch the boats and the rapid
little steam launches on the broader stream of
the river outside.
Then, when they had loaned for a few min
utes on the iron railing which ran along the top
of the bank at Hie edge of the water, and Char
lie had scolded her for spoiling her dress, and
they had contradicted each other rudely as to
the'distam e from where they stood to the op
posite bank of the creek, he said, refleotively:
“It is against my principiea to praise’the
husbands of pretty and charming women to
their wives; but what a dear old chap David
is 1”
Doria laughed, very much pleased.
“He really is, you knqc&, I don’t wish to
prejudice you, but I must repeat it. As we
were coming down in the train to-day, touting
about one thing and another, I couldu t help
thinking that, if ever a girl had a good excuse
for throwing herself away, it was you, Doris.”
“ Very neatly put. I am sure David would
shed tears ot gratitude it lie could hear you.”
“My dear, I don’t expect gratitude. What
disinterested good comes in my way to do in
th s world I do, leaving it to chance to get paid
in a better one. But to hear him prose on in
his sweet, grave way about the people he kfcbws,
and the beet way of showing them kindness, as
u'he were a benevolent old man at the other
end of life, instead of a handsome young one at
this, made me feel quite sentimentally toward
him—it did, really ”
“ He is awfully kind-hearted,” said Doris, her
mouth softening. “Whom does he want to be
kind to now ?”
Oh, he talked about Mrs. Edgcombe’s lone
liness now she has lost you, and about young
Hill’s failure on the Stock Exchange, and even
spoke as if he was sorry for that silly young
Melton, who was BO rude to him after you had
accepted him.”
“ Oh, what has become of the boy ?”
“He is in very low water, I believe.
Things really have gone rather hardly with
the boy lately. To begin with—two months
ago he thought there was only a cousin of his
between him and a large property; now the
cousin has suddenly come back from America
or one of those places with a wife and a
whole boat-load of children. Of course Melton
might have expected his cousin to marry, for be
is quite a young man; but still it was incon
siderate of the other fellow, when onr friend
Augustus was ip debt, too I And now hia mo
ther is ill, and I believe, when she dies, his in
terest in her money ceases ; it is an annuity, I
suppose, or an allowance of some kind.”
“Then, why doesn’t he do something ?•’ asked
Doris, indignantly.
“ What is he to do? If he were a mechanic’s
son, he might drive a plow, or a water-cart, or do
lots of things; but there is very little a gentle
man can do without any training.’
“ I should think Gussie could drive a water
cart”
“ No, he couldn’t,” said Charlie, impatiently.
“Now, how should I look driving a water
cart i”
“ Well, then, he might cut pencils and rule
paper in an office like you.”
“Oh, you must have interest to get into a
Government office. Even your Charlie didn’t
get there by the unaided light of hie natural
genius. David spoke of introducing him to old
Bramwell; he might do something for him, if
Melton would go into the city.”
“He ought to be glad to go anywhere, in
stead of wasting his time,” said Doris, severely.
“ Mrs. Bramwell is going to give a garden
party ; Til get him to send Gussie an invita
tion.”
“ Oh, don’t let her forget me, too ! I like
Mrs. Bramwell’s garden-parties. I know a
path in her garden that everybody but me
thinks leads to nowhere; but there is a seat
at the end close to a sweet-briar bush and right
under a wall covered with apricots. I’ll take
you there, and we’ll stay there all the after
noon, and Go away, David I I don’t know
where you have been brought up; you might
know that it is not manners te come and inter
rupt. Go away, I say ; we’ll we ll talk to you
presently.” Then, turning his back upon his
host, who had sauntered up them just as the
dinner-gong sounded, he continued to Doris,
more effectually than ever, “ And you shall tell
me all your troubles, just as you have been do
ing now ; and then I’ll comfort you, and we’ll be
so happy.”
“ 1 snail really have to put yon into the creek,
Charlie,” said David.
“ Oh, not till after dinner 1” answered Papil
lon, with gentle remonstrance, as he gave his
arm to Doris, and they.all went indoors.
The three had a cosy little dinner in the great
room which would hold thirty; and at the close
of a very happy evening Papillon found himself
installed for the first time in one of the beat
bed-rooms. In the old days, when he had
been one of the crowd of visitors whom Mrs.
Edgcombe and her granddaughter entertained
all through the Summer, he had had, as an in
significant bachelor, to content himself with all
sorts of impromptu couches, very near the
roof. He leaned out of the window, rejoicing in
his promotion, and smoked a cigar in the moon
light.
Presently he heard footsteps softly descend
ing the stairs, and the stealthy unfastening of
the drawing-room window below him; and
then he saw that the midnight disturbers of
his peace were his host and hostess, who had
stolen out for just one more stroll in the
sweet Summer night-air. They sauntered to
gether up the path on the left-hand side of the
lawn, and disappeared behind the shrubs and
trees at the end. He waited at the window un
til they reappeared from among the tall hedges
of yew and guelder roses, and watched them
as they slowly returned toward the house,
feeling quite poetical. They were such an ideal
pair. He was so tall and well built and moved
so easily ; she was |a woman of ideal beauty ot
face and iorm. Half-way down the path the
shawl she bad thrown round her slipped from
her head, and her husband stopped to draw it
again into its place so tenderly that Papillon
turned away hie head, excited to enthusiasm
and something like worship.
“ Where will this end ?” thought the philoso
pher presently. “ They can’t go on like that in
this groveling wicked old world of ours. They
are too pure, too perfect. They’ll die, and slide
off to heaven just as they are, without any
cnange to all—except just the wings.”
CHAPTER V.
“l HAVE AH OBJECTION TO HER BEING DROWNED.”
It was in the very last days of July that Mrs.
Bramwell’s garden-party came ofi. The weath
er was perfect, the grounds, which were next to
Fairleigh, were among the most beautiful on
that part of the Thames, and all the arrange
ments made for that particularly dull form of
entertainment were complete. There wae lawn
tennis fer the energetic, there were little tents
and arbors with seats for the lazy, there were
boats, there was a band, and there were two
marquess for refreshments.
Papillon was there. Having instantly secured
an introduction to the prettiest girl on the
ground, and having taken her down his favorite
paths and satisfied himself that her conversa
tional merit was not equal to her appearance, he
had generously given way to a rival and taken
himselt ofi in search of metal more attractive,
carefully avoiding his hostess, lest she should
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 13 1886
pounce upon him and make him do duty at the
side of some elderly youug lady whose appear
ance was not equal to her conversational merit.
Charlie was not a useful young man ; he utterly
declined to bestow his devoted but valueless
attentions upon any ladies but those most
sought after.
Mrs. Hodson was there, attracting more at
tention and even more admiration than the far
lovelier and younger Mrs. Glyn. She wore a
dress of some light silk covered with lace, and
a daring hat trimmed with loug white feathers
and exquisitely-made artific al flowers. She
carried a sunshade the lace ou which was worth
more than all the lace Doris had ever possessed,
mounted upon an ivory handle on which her
monogram was carved among delicate trails ot
ivy and sprays of lilies. Her husband was not
with her ; he would come by-and-by, she said,
on his return from the city.
“He is such a slave to that horrid city,” she
said, with a pretty frown of petulance, to Mrs.
Bramwell.
And her hostess condoled with her on the
fearful fate of having a husband who was a
slave to the city : but the matrons near, whose
gowns had not come from Paris and whose
monograms weienot carved on anything, smiled
lightly to each other and wondered how the poor
man ever found time to come home at all when he
had such extravagance as that to support. That
a woman of thirty-five or more -even these
severe judges could not add to her age, she
looked so much younger—should dress like a
duchess and take the attention of the young
men away from the girls, their daughters, in
stead of submitting to be placed on the shelf,
was a scandalous thing. And what were Mrs.
Hodson's own daughters doing while their
mother was enjoying herself and flirting like a
young girl ?
But these indignant dowagers overshot the
mark when they passed this ceusure upon Mrs.
Hodson’s flirtations. She certainly did flirt, but
it was with the easy assurance of the matured
beauty, and not with the shy tentative coquet
ries of the young girl. She attracted more ad
miration, sbe got more attention than the very
fairest of girls whose cause the elder ladies took
up so hotly ; but sbe could scarcely be said to
have robbed them of homage which would have
fallen to their share if she had not been there.
For pretty and bright girls will get tbeir meed
of soft words and tender looks, and plain or
dull ones such share of attention as must al
ways suffice them in a throng, whatever the
charms of the sirens who enter the lists with
them may be. But much-maligned Mrs. Hod
son, who bore the sarcasms of her compeers
with great equanimity, fulfilled a social function
to which the loveliest of debutantes would have
been unequal; her brilliant presence and sunny
manner gave life to the whole assembly, she
broke up ths knots of listless young men who
would have gathered round the refreshment
tents and remained there ; she paired off chatty
old gentlemen with tattling old ladies; she
spied out neglected girls and provided them
with partners from the ranks of her own body
guard of submissive youths; she flitted about
over the lawns and among the paths, pretty,
gracious and charming, ensuring the success of
the affair by taking half the burden of entertain
ment upon her fair plump shoulders, and earn
ing the deep gratitude of Mrs. Bramwell, who
had indeed reckoned upon her valuable aid at
the outset of the undertaking. Dangerous Mrs.
Hodson might be, as less brilliant women did
not scruple to call her, but her danger was not
for the multitude, not in a throng.
Doris, in sateen of pale tints ot pink and gray,
took admiration less by storm but more surely ;
face, figure, dress and movement satisfied every
demand of the most critical taste. She had ob
tained invitations for Hilda Warren, whose
slight figure was conspicuous by the quaint
simplicity of her dress, and for Guss:e Melton,
a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking young
man with a single eyeglass and vacuous expres
sion, who lounged with a kindred spirit just
outside one of the refreshment-marquees, in a
listless and sulky dissatisfaction with the enter
tainment provided lor him; he had failed hn an
endeavor to get a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Glyn, but
be could not keep his eyes from wandering in
her direction.
Mrs. Hodson, who saw everybody, saw him,
bad him introduced to her, swept him off in her
train, and he presently had the satisfaction of
finding himself in a group of which Doris was a
member. She was talking to another lady about
a horse-show at which they had both been pres
ent.
“ Did you get the pair of chestnuts you took
such a fancy to, Mrs. Glyn ?”
“ No. I haven t got over the disappointment
yet. David forgot all about it till it was too
late, and somebody else had snapped them up.”
“If you know who bought them and would
trust me with the matter, 1 would see if it is not
possible to get them yet, Mrs. Glyn,” said young
Alelton, interposing eagerly.
“ Oh, thank you 1 It is very kind of you, but
I really don’t know who did buy them, and 1
have resigned myself by this time to doing with
out them I”
“But 1 have no doubt I could find out who
the buyer was, and I should be delighted,” he
persisted, with rather too much empressement.
Doris cut him short.
“ You must not tempt me, Mr. Melton. It is
an extravagance I am glad to have been saved
from.”
It was the very mildest of snubs, delivered
with a smile that had no unkindness in it; but
Melton drew back sharply, as if stabbed, and
instantly devoted elaborate attention to Mrs.
Hodson.
It was later in the afternoon when Mrs. Bram
well suddenly remembered a promise she had
made to send for a little boy, the son of a young
mother too recently widowed to be present her
self at any assembly ot pleasure, “ to see the
pretty ladies and hear the music.”
“ Shall I go and fetch him, Mrs. Bramwell ?”
naked Doris, with whom little Willie Hillier was
a favorite.
“ No, we can’t spare you, Doris ; I must find
some good-natured person who won’t be
missed.”
“ But I won’t be long; I should like to go.
He lives up by the lock, doesn't he ? Well, I
will get somebody to row me up, and combine
business with pleasure. Who will row me up
to the lock ?”
Half a dozen young fellows of all degrees of
incompetency volunteered eagerly, and a iair
baired lad who just knew one end of a boat
from another made a rush for the bank. David
interfered.
“ I can’t let you go with any one who doesn’t
know the river well, Doris. The light is going,
and you will have to pass the weir. Let me see
—who is the best waterman here ? Ah, young
Melton knows the river, doesn’t he ?”
Of all the men who had heard pretty Mrs.
Glyn’s speech, he alone had not stirred in an
swer to her appeal. Of course her husband
bad not noticed this, and paid no attention to
her murmured objection. Melton himself caught
her low remonstrance, however, and when Da
vid stepped up to him and said, “ You will take
care of her, won’t you?” he said, stiffly :
“ Er-perhaps-er—Mrs. Glyn may not care to
avail herseli of my services.’ 1
“ Don’t you want to go then ?” asked David
simply.
“Of course—l should be delighted. I am
only airaid Mrs. Glyn may have some objec
tion.”
“ Nonsense I” said David quietly. “ I have
an objection to her being drowned, and I know
you can manage a boat.”
Melton was making his way to the boats with
stiff ungraciousness, and languidly unbuttoning
the one glove he had on, when Doris made a
movement toward one of the other men, as if to
secure his services. With sudden eagerness
Melton sprang forward and offered his hand to
help her into the boat David had chosen from
the rest, as looking the most comfortable and
the safest. Two or three rashly officious hands
from among the group on the bank unshipped
the rudder in giving her the ropes, splashed
her dress in helping to push off the boat, and
made their presence felt in similar ways. She
thanked them good-humoredly, but felt glad
when the boat was fairly under way and she was
out Of reach of their zealous hands.
(To be Continual.!
•‘BY GUM I”
<7-
HE WAS FAT, BUT HE WAS
CHEERED.
The boat was just casting off from the pier
when a man in citizen’s clothes, who appeared
to be greatly excited, rushed up the gang-plank
and shouted to the captain to wait. Three or
four minutes later it was understood that a des
perate robber was ou board, and that the excited
man was his victim. None of us remembered of
seeing “ a ragged, desperate-looking chap ”
come aboard, but the man was sure of it, and
we began a search. Nobody wanted a robber
and a desperado aboard, and the search went
on with a will. After about ten minutes the
man who had rushed aboard uttered shouts of
exultation. He had discovered the arch villain
hidden under some furniture on the lower deck,
and the mate produced a revolver and ordered
the fellow to come out er take the consequences.
“Be prepared—look out for him!” cautioned
the excited individual, and three or four more
pistols came into view, and others secured bolts
and bars.
The desperado came forth. He was a boy of
fifteen, ragged, dirty and frightened. He had
something wrapped up in a newspaper, but he
had no weapons.
“ He’s the one who robbed me—there’s his
plunder 1“ shouted the victim, and three or four
more closed in on the lad.
The package was taken from him and opened.
We expected to see bonds or money or jewelry,
but instead of that our eyes rested on a half
eaten loaf of bread.
“ I hadn’t'anytbing to eat for two days I” said
the boy as he looked from ftioe to face, and his
big blue eyes filled with tears and his chin quiv
ered.
“ He’s a robber, and I’ll send him to State
Prison!” exclaimed the man, as he seized the
boy by the collar.
"By gum I” growled a voice from the gang
way, and a fat, red-faced man, who had armed
himself with a heavy stick, threw it down with
a crash and pushed into the crowd and asked :
“Boy, who are you?”
“ Tim Williams.”
“ Where’s your homo ?”
“ N-nowhere I”
“Did you rob this man of that loaf of
bread ?”
“ I-yes, sir; but I was starving.”
“ Oh I you young villain. I’ll stop your thiev
ing and robbing I” shouted the loser of the
broad. “ Some one help me get him ashore I”
“By gum I” said the fat man, as ho felt in
his pockets.
He fisbed up a nickel, handed it to the baker
and continued :
“By gum I I guess not I There’s your
money and 1 stand by the boy! les, sir—by
gum, sir I”
“ Ho b a thief !’•
“Can’t help that, sir! He’s a boy, and he
was hungry and had no other means to get
bread. I’m bis friend, sir -by gum, sir ! Any
body who lays a hand on that boy has got to
climb over me—by gum 1”
Fifty men (Sheered the fat man and groaned
the baker, and the latter gripped his nickel and
walked ashore.
“Captain,” said the fat man, “give this boy
a chance to wash up and I’ll hunt him up some
clothes. I’m going to give him a show, air—by
gum, sir I I was kicked and cuffed and stepped
on myself when I was a boy, and I can feel for
this chap, sir -by gum, sir, yes, sir, and I’ll
probably take him home with me. Come, Tim—
by gum; but there’s nothing desperate about
you, and we’ll have a talk and see how wo can
belter your fortunes. Yes, sir—by gum, sir I”
And as the boat moved away ev-arybody gave
three cheers for “ By Gum 1” and Tim.
MimVl’S THIMBLE.
BY ETTIE ROGERS.
“The new tenants have sent their first load,”
said Minerva Lemoine, glancing casually
through a curtainless window of thecdismantled
drawing-room, from which a brawny truckman
was just conveying the last articles of furui
ture. “ And our things have all gone—we are
leaving nothing behind ns except my thimble.”
Miss Lemoine was not like the Minerva of
the legend and the marble—she had no place
ol majesty, no panoply of power, no resplen
dent buckler, no marvelous gifts from the gods I
She was only a slim girl with a fair, pals face
and innocent, sad brows; she was only a sort of
factotum to a somewhat pretentious young kins
woman, and her most prized possession was a
simple thimble—a dsinty bijou of gold-edged,
with a lauoilul rim of sapphires as blue as her
own sweet eyes.
There was a little romance associated with
the pretty thimble—it was the gilt of one who
had once been her dear lover, of one who was
still her faithfully beloved, although he had
passed out of her life and gone his unknown
way in mystery and silence; of one in whose
truth she still believed, despite all the .time
and change between them. This little gift was
the ever vivid reminder of the happy days gone
by; it was the magic circlet which brought back
the bright visions and blissful dreams, the ten
der promises and fond assurances of their
shadowed love; it was the talisman which re
pelled all fears and doubts and kept faith
quickening where even hope had perished.
“ Ours is the love of a perfect trust,” Cyril
Grosvenor had said to her at parting. “Though
the whole earth might lay between you and
me, still I know you would be true, my darling,
and remain mine only. And though I might
never again look upon your face, my dearest,
still should I belong always to you and never
to any other.”
But her treasured little souvenir was no
longer in her possession.
In the turmoil and disorder of packing and
moving it had been mislaid or lost, and so sud
denly and unaccountably had it disappeared,
that even the wise Minerva of old, with all her
acumen and her marvelous methods ot re
search, might have despaired finding it.
“ You can buy another, I suppose,” was the
indifferent remark of her young kinswoman—a
haughty, showy young lady, who stood taking a
final and rather lugubrious survey of the
empty drawing-room. “I declare, Min, you
are more disturbed about that worthless thim
ble than you are about leaving the handsome
old bouse. You haven't a bit of sentiment,
Min, nor a bit of sympathy for anybody either.
1 myself positively feel hysterical now 1 begin
to realize the house is actually sold and is to be
occupied by strangers.”
“They have brought some elegant new furni
ture-rose plush and ebony—and some ex
quisite statuettes in alabaster,” Min said with
out the slightest concern for the imminent hys
terics.
“Don’t toll me what they are bringing,” was
the pettish response. “ They are rich, of
course, or they could never have bought such a
house as this. If there hadn’t been a dreadful
mortgage or something, papa wouldn’t have
sold the place. But his difficulties have only
just begun, I suppose; we shall be getting
poorer and poorer—l am sure of that! This
year we can afford to rent something tolerably
stylish and to keep our carriage; next year we
shall come down to apartments and hired cabs,
and the next will ba an attic and destitution, I
don't doubt,” sbe added, more iu wrath of
present evil than with real apprehension for
the future, perhaps.
“ 1 shouldn’t borrow trouble, Julie, if I were
you,” Min returned gently as she followed the
other down the brown stone steps of the abdi
cated mansion. “There are losses more sor
rowful than those of riches, you know.”
“ The loss of a memento thimble, or of an in
constant admirer, you mean, I suppose,” Julie
said with a peculiar and not altogether agreeable
smile flickering around her thin lips.
Min was silent; she could not discuss the
one memory which she had kept sweet and
sacred in the bleak and toilsome desert of her
lite.
” 0,1 know all about the affair,” Julie con
tinued with her haughty eyes turned for a
second furtively upon the fair pale face, which
bad flushed almost painfully. “ Cyril Grosve
nor made me his confidante, of course I And I
think he really did admire you Min; but 1
wasn’t a bit jealous, I assure you.”
“No?” Min murmured half unconsciously,
as the flush suddenly changed to a startled
pallor. .
“ Indeed, no! Why should I have been ?”
Julie said with a little laugh which sounded
cruelly jarring. “ The fancy may stray though
the heart is fixed, you know; and he was always
frank enough with me about his small follies,
He was charmingly candid about the interest
ing events ot the Summer spent in your de
lightful village.”
Min walked on, slim and erect, her eyes
strangely brilliant, a crimson flame wavering in
each soft cheek, although she seemed almost
as undisturbed as ths serene May skies above
her.
But she was not as composed as she seemed.
Though she might live a hundred lives, she
would never live to forget the sickening, suffo
cating pang of that one brief moment. She saw
neither sky nor earth; neither the wails o
brick and mortar around her, nor the pave
ments beneath her feet; she did not hear the
noises of the busy day, nor even ot ths heavy
vans rattling past her down the stony street.
She saw instead, the village home which had
been hsr’s until bereavement and misfortune
had forced her into a toilsome dependency upon
her haughty relative. She saw again the shady
paths and the rippling lake where in moon
light and sunlight, two happy lovers had walked
and talked or drifted with the breeze and tide;
she felt again the clasp ol clinging hands and
the touch of clinging lips; sbe beard again the
whispered promises, gladdening the sorrow of
a parting which she had deemed would be
brief but which had been so mysteriously pro
longed.
“ Ours is the love of a perfect trust. Though
I might never again look upon your face, my
dearest, still should I belong always to you and
never to any other,” he had said.
And she had believed him; she had faith in
his truth; and so she would have always to the
end. That perfect trust had soothed the pang,
and calmed the trembling heart, and in a brief
moment Min was herself again.
“ 1 never doubted that you and Mr. Grosve
nor were the best of friends, Julie,” she said
at length with a manner gently non-committal.
“ We were a great deal to each ottier,” Julia
declared with an expression intended to imply
much more than the declaration itself. “ I
think Qf him constantly, though I have never
liked to speak of him to yoq—l thought you
might be sensitive about that foolish Summer
flirtation, you know 1 I suppose you will
scarcely care to see him now he has returned
from Europe ?” ■ j ' ~ 7
Again Alin started; the crimson flame Again
kindled in her cheeks, and her lips quivered
wifh ihe eager question she was too proud to
utter.
“He is likely to call in a few days,” her tor
mentor pursued with another furtively search
ing glance at her proud, inscrutable face, “ al
though of course you are not obliged to see
him unless you wish. But 1 daresay he will
scarcely remember you—Cyril has such a hap
py knack of forgetting the partners of his flir
tatious follies ! He has a generous nature,
though, in spite of his little faults; if he had on
ly come back sooner we might not have been
compelled to sell our handsome house; as it is
I suppose when we are once married he will
help settle all poor papa’s financial difficulties,”
she concluded as it she had finally communi
cated everything necessary to a pleasant under
standing of the situation and would prefer to
dismiss the subject.
And at the moment they arrived at the door
of the new residence—a house scarcely less ele
gant than the handsome old residence in the
more fashi-mable avenue a few blocks away.
“ There is something left behind after all,
Min ! —was there ever anything so careless ?”
Julia exclaimed as she abruptly stopped at the
top ot the steps. “ I left my bunch of keys—
the keys of my writing-desk and bureaus—on
the mantel in my old room ! You must go back
instantly—l am quite too fatigued myself I But
then you won t mind, Min—you will have anoth
er chance to look for your invaluable thimble,
you know.”
Minerva turned back without demur; to be
commanded and to obey had been her lot lor
all the weary years which she had spent be
neath the sheltering roof ot her none too bene
ficent relatives I
“ And 1 may find my keepsake thimble alter
all,” she thought as she walked back through
the soft clear sunshine, and again ascended the
steps ot the old familiar hoase and so at length
entered the chamber designated. “I was us
ing it last in this very room, and it may have
dropped in some crevice or ether.”
Bhe had secnred’the bunch of keys from the
mantel, and just then she espied a glitter of
something amid a pile of fragmentary papers
which had been deposited in the grate.
The glitter was that ot the missed souvenir
indeed, and as she delightedly seized it, she
chanced to draw forth something else—a sealed
envelope inscribed with her own name !
The penmanship was that of Cyril Grosvenor
and a letter was within the envelope, which was
quite intact.
The girl trembled from head to feet, and her
face became white as death. Instantly she di-
vined what had been the sorrowful mystery
which had sundered her from her dear lover
and shadowed their perfect love.
“Julia hints you are but trilling with mo,”
she read as she unfolded the letter, which shook
and rustled in her startled grasp—“ that there
is a prior attachment which precludes the pos
sibility of your caring earnestly for mo I lam
incredulous; I believe in your truth as I believe
in Heaven; I cannot believe my, love was only a
Summer pastime for you I And yet, my dar
ling. I should like you to send me some sweet
assurance to dispel the doubts which at times
beset me. ‘The Prince awaits his Lady’s call,’
but he cannot come again, unbidden, to be the
target of your merry scorn I I await one sweet,
assuring word be.'ore I leave forever the ”
She could read no further; everything was a
blur before her sight; almost unconsciously
she thrust the letter within her bosom and
turned away.
She felt chilled and blinded as she faintly
descended the stairs and again into the street.
A huge furniture van at the instant had
clashed against the curb; some black projecting
object loomed perilously close to her drooping
head; but she saw nothing; neither did she
hear a sharp warning, shouted too late.
For just than the black object toppled from
the van and crashed down against her; she felt
a thrust and a shock; and then all was blank*
oblivion.
When she regained her senses, she was lying
upon an improvised couch of Persian rugs in
the dismantled drawing-room, and a solitary
watcher was kneeling by her side, one arm ten
derly pillowing her head, one anxious hand
holding some reviving draught to her lips.
Her eyos unclosed wonderingly, and closed
again dreamily as she beheld the taco so near
her own.
Surely she must be dreaming ! one of the dis
torted, chaotic dreams which always haunted
her slumbers now I There had been no inter
cepted letter discovered among the litter of the
grate ! Julie was harsh and haughty but not
wicked ! He could not be Cyril; his could not
be the arm pillowing her bewildered head, his
could not be the face so warm and tender close
to her own.
“ And he was true—true as my own heart.
Ours was the love of a perfect trust,’’ she mur
mured.
And with the murmur she again unclosed
her eyes, now in complete and comprehensive
consciousness. Then she uttered a faint little
cry of wondering surprise, of unbelieving joy.
He was indeed her own Cyril; and his were
the arms which impetuously drew her closer
and yet more closely to him.
“And I should have remained true always,
my darling; that perfect trust long ago con
quered the doubts which distracted me for a
time,” he whispered as he kissed the fair face
upturned to his own.
“ But it was the fateful thimble which brought
me here to you,” Mm smiled through her happy
tears, when their explanations had presently
been effected.
••It was certainly the mngic thimble which
unearthed the letter,” he said with a responsive
smile.
At the moment a little gasping sound diverted
their attention; and both turned to perceive
Julia standing by the open door, her attitude
and expression suggestive of chagrin and dis
comfiture, no less than of amazement.
“I desired to know what had happened to
Min,” she began, in a tone of curiously com
mingled confusion and petulance.
“ Several things have happened to her, I be
lieve,” Mr. Grosvenor said with a mischievous
little laugh and a fond glance at Min’s blushing
face. “She has been nearly annihilated be
neath an avalanche of carpeting; she has
found a somewhat edifying letter which you
neglected to mail for me more than a year ago;
and the list of accidents and discoveries is to be
completed by a wedding. Miss Minerva is to
be installed as mistress of your old home, which
was purchased for me by my agent, as I sup
pose you are already aware.”
Julia, however, had not been aware of that
fact; and the information did not lessen her
embarrassment and mortification.
“Everything always does go wrong on a mov
ing day,” she soliloquized peevishly, as she
wended her disconsolate way back to her new
hired residence. “ And only for the losing and
finding of that wretched little thimble, things
might have ended very differently.
p
WHICH THEY THINK NOT CRUEL
NOR VINDICTIVE.
Judical punishments in Persia, says the cor
respondent of an English paper, without doubt
appear to us extremely cruel; nevertheless the
most enlightened governors in those parts will
not allow that they are in any way vindictive. In
fact they aver that they are necessary, and only
used to discourage crime by fear.
To take the instance of one of the Shah of Per
sia’s brothers, the governor of the province of
Tabriz, he used constantly to point out that he
had shed less blood from ’ the beginning to the
end of his rule than any of his colleagues, while
the division of the country under his control
was free from crime.
“I,” he once said, “take the great criminal
red-handed, and punish him then and there in
such away that his punishment will not be for
gotten, and that his fate will be a terror to evil
doers. Unlike you Europeans, I don’t keep the
man shut up for years; I have no grudge
against him. My punishments are the secret
art of governing a nation. I commence my
governorship by strict measures toward crimi
nals, so that they may see what sort of person
they have to deal with. It is true I then exe
cute some of them without mercy, consequently
crimes of violence cease while I am in office—
there are no more dangerous roads, no burglar
ies. Murders—generally done without design—
there certainly are, and always will be, in every
country. I execute these people in a simple
way—so do Europeans.”
The usual punishments in Oriental countries
are the bastinado, fines, maiming, imprisonment
in irons (the chain-gang), imprisonment, simple
confinement, death.
The bastinado is dispensed on the soles of the
bare feet Unless by the Sultan or Shah’s ex
press order, it is not in these times so often car
ried so far as to cause death. The ordinary ap
plication of the bastinado means very much
what we would call a “ good hiding,” and noth
ing more. In the eyes of Eastern peoples there
is nothing to lower them in having “eaten stick.”
The bastinado is, as a rule, given to all small
offenders who are not fined by order of the cadi;
just as our metropolitan police magistrates give
a prisoner a month’s hard labor without the al
ternative of a 40s. fine
Those who join in any way in a plot with the
criminals are usually bastinadoed till they con
fess all they know. Where lesser criminals are
concerned, who have not done anything very
heinous, they are lightly bastinadoed, receiving
fifty er one hundred strokes, and allowed to go
away. The sticks used in Turkey are usually
heavy staves ; in other countries thin rattan
canes, ending in a fine tapering point. The best
proof of the value of bastinadoing may be gath
ered from what a Persian soldier once said
when asked his choice of having either this pun
ishment or losing a month’s pay -equivalent to
7s. 6d. of our money—“ Why, the heating, of
course 1”
When ordinary criminals are given their
choice as to their punishment they, too, almost
invariably prefer the bastinado. It does not
really cause them so much pain as a European
would imagine. From the fact that the lower
classes in the East always go about everywhere
barefooted, their feet become, as it were, case
hardened. To a European, of course, this pun
ishment would be very awful. As many as
2,000 sticks have been broken over the feet of a
criminal—that would mean upward of 6,000
blows. Yet the man lived and thrived after it.
Fines vary in the East according to the posi
tion of the offender. Simple imprisonment is
usually reserved for burglars or those who owe
money; imprisonment in irons is the lot of
those who commit acts of violence. Maiming is
carried out ordinarily only on professional
thieves. The method of indicting this punish
ment is generally by cutting off the joint of a
finger for the first offense, and the hand for the
second Sometimes & mail Is lamed by taking
away a part of his Achilles tendon. Blinding is
sca?Cely ever resorted to, Occasionally the
ears are c'dt the criminal in as in other
cases, being taken tnroUgh the larg'd CFOWu Cl
gazers in the bazaar to the pladd of execution.
Surgical amputations in the East are objected
to by the authorities because of the loss of caste
which attaches to those who are judicially mu
tilated.
The simple punishment of death is the special
privilege of murderers, as well as those guilty
of high treason, or even highway robbery. It is
inflicted in most cases by simply cutting the
throat of the wretched prisoner, much in the
way that a butcher slaughters an ox. In cases
where men of high rank have been brought in
guilty of crimes of violence, the sentence of the
law is carried out, as a rule, by poisoning or
strangling.
There are, of course, exceptional punishments
in the East, notably that of being blown from
the cannon’s mouth, or from a mortar, or cruci
fixion. Then, again, there is burning alive and
burying alive. For women, the capital punish
ment employed is usually strangling, or being
jumped upon when wrapped up in a carpet.
Condemned women are also liable to be thrown
down from precipices, or drowned in a well or
running stream.
One man in Persia three years ago went
through the valley of the shadow of death twice
when led out for execution. He was taken to
be fflown rom a gun after seeing a fellow cul
prit put to death in this way. The executioners
prepared to lash him to the muzzle of the piece;
but, in consequence of his being short of stature,
stones had to be fetched for him to stand on.
Then, all being arranged, the order was given
to fire ; but the gun did not go off. It was dis
covered that the artillerymen, in their hurry,
had forgotten to load it with powder. But, al
though urgent requests were made to the gov
ernor, he refused under any circumstances to
spare the man, who was temporarily unbound
while they loaded the gun, and then finally
blown aw y. Such are some of the terrors
which criminals in the East have to go through.
Crucifixion is carried out usually against a
wall. The unfortunate culprits often do not
die at once; indeed, they sometimes linger for
several hours or even a day. One man was not
long ago executed in this way for having stolen
some article of value belonging to the govern
or. His,crime was considered as equivalent to
high treason.
A large gang of h'ghway robbers in Persia
were buried alive in i• 4 bv being wall -<l up
inside brick pillars. Even burning to du th is,
at the present day resumed to s anetimes. Ac
Teheran, the fchah nowadays docs o; appe r
in person when an execution takas place, though '
rt was the custom, up to his time, for the Shah
(or governor in other cities) to preside at all •
executions. All criminals condemned to death
are, as a rule, kept in prison, with their doom
hanging over them, from day to day, till every
farthing has been got from them, as well as
from their friends, and from everybody belong
ing to them. Alter all this prolongation of ag
onv they are finally executed.
Groat criminals are now and again executed
in prison, and the.r bodies thrown out into the
public streets or squares. In cases where this
is not done, they are said to have died a nat
ural death I
Curiously enough, it in no way impedes a
man’s advancement in the East to have been a
criminal. Indeed, at least one instance is
known where a man was at one time a highway
robber and once under sentence of death, yet
he contrived to become a deputy governor for
one of the provinces, and to the time of his
death held a high office at court. “Backsheesh,”
of course, that royal road to success in Oriental
lands, distributed lavishly, was the key of his
success. Much as money is said to do in the
West, it does far more in the East.
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRE33 FIEND.
CLEARED OF METAPHOR.
In the Malden, Mass., High School, not long
ago, the principal asked the class in rhetoric to
clear the following sentence of metaphor :
“ The sanctity ot the laurn should be pre
served.”
The class set their wits to work, but no one
seemed wise. The principal exclaimed:
“ Can no one answer the question ?”
A bright lad of fifteen threw out his hand.
“ Well, Master S.Jyou seem to be the only one
in the class to answer. What is it ?”
Amid profound silence Master 8. said :
“ Keep off the grass I”
TOO SARCASTIC.
First Dude—* 1 Ole fellah, what do you think
of Miss Commonsense ?”
“Second Dude—“ Well, ma deah boy, me
opinion of her is not vewy fwattwing.”
First Dude—“ Thath bad. Wat’s the wesson
you don’t wiko her ?”
Second Dude—“ Too dused sahcastic, don’t
ye know. W’v, the other day we were out wid
ing, she and I, and we passed by one of these
donkeys, a miswable animal, you unnerstan’,
and I asked her the difference between that
beast and myself. I thwought she would say
she didn't know, and I would tell her that the
donkey dwew loads and I dwew pictures. Ye
know I am a sowt of an ahtist, and that would
be a fwine joke, bah Jove.”
First Dude—“ And what did she say ?”
Second Dude—" She said the onwi difwouce
she could see was in the length of the ears.”
STRUGGLE FOR PRINCIPLE.
A rainy day had housed us up in the cabin of
a Tennesseean, and about nine o’clock in the
morning a man. who was addressed by our
host as Uncle Billy, came riding up through the
steady pour on a mule. The animal was placed
in the stable, and as the two men entered the
house, our host observed :
“ Well, Uncle Billy, how’ll you trade mules ?’
“ Oh, ’bout three dollars tew boot,” was the
answer.
They returned to the stables and talked until
noon. Then we had dinner, and they talked
until four o’clock. The rain let up a bit then
and we went out to see a cave, leaving them
talking mu'e. We returned at six and they
were still at it We had supper, and the inter
rupted conversation was resumed and kept up
until nine o’clock. We went off to bed with
Uncle Billy saying:
“Tell ye what I’ll dew. I’ll trade fur three
dollars tew boot.”
It thundered about midnight and I woke up
and heard that mule talk still going. At six
o clock 1 got up. Uncle Billy was just riding
away.
“ Well, how did you come out?” I asked of
our host.
“ Beat him down to two dollars and three
bits,” he replied.
“ So you saved two shillings ?"
“Exactly, though I wasn’t working for that.
It was the principle of the thing I looked at.”
IT WAS CLOSED.
The postoffice was very properly closed on
Decoration Day, and the fact that it would be
was generally advertised. At noon, however,
an eminent citizen entered the corridor,
marched np to the curtained stamp window
and took a door key from his pocket and tapped
on the shelf.
“ Postoffice is closed, sir,” observed a man
who came in.
“What! Closed?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ What for ?"
“ Decoration Day.”
“ Humph! Closed without notice, eh ?”
“ I think all the papers gave notice.”
“ Well, I didn’t see it, and I want to inquire
about the postage to the Canary Islands.”
He rapped in a most vigorous manner, and of
course no one came.
“ It is certainly closed,” remarked the other.
“ Then it's an outrage, sir, to dose this place
without notice.”
“ But notice was given.”
“It wasn’t given to me. I can't be expected
to hunt over all the papers in Detroit for fear
the postoffice will close on me. I demand that
this window be opened at once 1”
He started the key going again, and kept the
racket up for five minutes, during which time
seven or eight people passed by and informed
him that the office was closed. By and by the
eminent citizen turned away with an awful
growl, slammed one of the swing doors open,
and as he stood on the steps he gritted his teeth
and exclaimed:
“ If this country isn’t going to the dogs on a
gallop then I can’t read the signs of the times
aright I”
“ She’s closed,” said a bootblack on ths walk.
“ Us fellers orter have locked boxes, and then
we could git our girl's letters nights and Sun
days and holidays. I know how you feel, but
she’s closed on us.”
PHRENOLOGY AFLOAT.
BY M. QUAD.
I can't just now recall his name, but he was
registered at the hotel at Elk Rapids as from
the Chicago Inter Ocean. There wasn’t any
thing singular in two newspaper men making
up to each other—not when they were both
away from home. I liked his looks from the
start, and when he realized it he brought out a
chart of bis head which Prof. Fowler had given
him. According to the chart his leading traits
were:
1. Extreme liberality.
2. Utter absence ot selfishness,
3. Strong friendship.
I was glad that the chart confirmed my own
private impressions, and our friendship was
cemented with the blood of the Revolution, for
which the landlord charged ten cents a glass.
On the fourth day we went out together in a
skiff on the bay to fish. He insisted on paying
for the bait and in rowing the boat, and that
agreed exactly with trait No. 1. We were a half
mile off shore, and still going ahead, when the
skiff banged against some unseen object, the
bottom was stove in, and the next moment she
filled to the gunwales. The oars floated away
as we floated out, and we settled down to busi
ness with the wreck floating full of water and
he hanging to one end and Ito the other. It
was only then that a suspicion crept into my
mind that Fowler hadn’t felt of that chap’s
bumps in dead earnest.
“ You did it—you infernal idiot—you did it !”
be yelled at me as he got Little Traverse Bay
out of his mouth.
As Fowler hadn’t included Truth in his lead
ing traits I felt free to deny the allegation, but
he repeated it in a vigorous manner, and add
ed:
“I’ve got a revolver, and if you don’t let go
of this boat i’ll shoot you I”
“ For why ?” says I.
“Because it won’t float both of us, and I’m
going to save myself at any cost I”
That was his “ utter absence of selfishness,”
as recorded on the chart, and I was surprised
and grieved to think Fowler had been so taken
In. I 19 r a little grace, and he replied:
“ Give you just two minutes to say your pray
ers.”
I wanted twenty, and he Wouldn’t even com
promise on six. That was more of his “ ex
treme liberality.” When I saw that he was in
clined to hurry the funeral I bounced the boat
around and prevented him from getting at his
weirpon, which had stuck fast in his wet pock
et. Pretty soon he tried another lay. He said:
“I am a married man, and have four chil
dren. All you've got is a wife, and she’s half
dead at that. Have some reason about you.”
I offered to argue the case, each side being
limited to five minutes, and he charged me
with cold-blooded selfishness. If the circum
stances were only reversed, he’d die for me in a
minute ; but, as we couldn’t reverse’em, he had
another proposition. If I’d let go and die qui
etly and decently, he’d raise at least SIOO for my
widow if he was ed, and would give me a
column notice in the Inter-Ocean, describing
the details of my heroic act, and winding up
with the paragraph :
“ We are certain that the public will not let
his grave remain unhonored by a fitting tab
let.”
I wanted to know what sort of a tablet, the
cost, etc. ? I had seen so many cheap tablets
that I felt like holding out for a Scotch-granite
monument with an angel on the apex. He got
so mad at the delay that I had to bounce the
boat again to keep the pistol in his pocket.
When he had calmed down he appealed to my
generosity and manly honor. He had just had
his salary raised. His father-in-law had just
come to appreciate him for what he was. He
was the president of a Chicago literary society,
and a leading member of a debating club. His
future was full of the biggest kind of water
melons, and the whole world would miss him.
I hadn’t any salary worth mentioning—no
father-in-law at all—no hopes beyond fourth
floor rates. Wasn’t it better to die a hero than
to live on like a thistle by the roadside ? I
asked him to put his language in the form of a
motion, which he did, and a vote wap |akeu—it
wrs a stand-off. His side only got OHO yqte,
and that w a half-full o' water.
I never saw a chap so full of motifs ind
resolutions aa he was for three-quarters of an
hour, and 1 never attended a caucus wnere the
opposition was so determined to vote them all
down. Ho had app rently exhausted his stock
an 1 waa hunting for something new, when he
lost hia on the wro?k and went down-
down—down—about four feet, where he rested
solidly on a sand-bar. The water for fifty teet
around was Irom two to four feet deep, and t
was the end of a sunken spar which had
wrecked us. He camo over to me and held oit
hia hand, but I waded away from him in a dig
nified manner. He said he waa only in fun, and
he offered mo three fishhokes, a jack-kni.'e, a
ball of string and a big hunk ot Petoskey maple
sugar to resume friendly and confidential rela
tions. In vain. A fisherman came out and took
us off the bar, and we never spoke again. A
man whose bumps deceive a phrenologist is no
fellow to tie to.
WHAT SCIENCE SAT s.
The “Fearful and Wonderful ” Mechan
ism of the Human System Graphically
Portrayed.
[ln the editorial columns of the New York Analyst,
H. Lassing, M. D,. editor, writes the following beau
tiful description of the laboratories of the human
svstem. We think we have never read a finer or
more trustworthy one.]
“ Man is the greatest of all chemical labora
torios. Magnify the smallest cell of the body
and what a factory is spread before the eyes —
countless chambers in which are globes of air.
masses of solid matter, globules of dying liquid;
a flash comes and the whole is consumed and
needful heat is carried into every part of the
system. Electrical forces also generate and are
conveyed to the brain, the muscles and the va
rious nerve centres.
“ In another set of a million chambers we sea
various gases and vapors. By chemical action
these are changed and purified in the lungs and
the skin. The blood we often say is a great liv
ing river. In its curreut are masses which the
air in the lungs did not affect; blocks of chalk;
slabs of tartar; pieces of bone-ash; strings of
albumen; drops of molasses, and lines of alco
hol. How are these waste masses disposed of ?
Begin where you will in this great stream you
must come to the purifying places of the sys
tem. Here is all activity and an invisible force
reaches out into the stream, seizes and carries
this mass of waste into vast trenches, thence
into a smaller reservoir, and finally into a larger
reservoir, which regularly discharges its con
tents.
“ Illis separation of lime, uric acid and other
waste material Irom the blood without robbing it
of a particle of the life fluid, passes human com
prehension. In health, this blood purifying pro
cess is carried on without our knowledge. The
organs in which it is done are faithful servants
whose work is silent as long as health remains.
“ People strangely wait until pain strikes a
nerve before they will realize that they have any
trouble. They do not know that pain concerns
chiefly the exterior not the interior of the body.
A certain set of nerves connect these blood
purifying organs with the brain. They may not
gnaw and bite as does the tooth-ache or a
scratch, but they regularly, silently report.
When these organs are lading these nerves in
dicate it by drawing the blood from the face and
cheek, leaving the lip and eye blanched, by
sending uric acid poison into the smallest
veins, the skin then becoming gray, yellow or
brown. They also prevent the purification of
the blood in the lungs and cause pulmonary
difficulties, weariness and pain. Who envoys
perfect health, especially in this land where we
burn the candle in one mass ? The athlete
breaks down in the race; the editor falls at his
desk ; the merchant succumbs in his counting
room. These events should not have been un
expected, for nature long ago hung out her
“lanterns of alarm.” When the “accident”
finally comes, its fatal effect is seen in a hun
dred forms ; either as congestion, chronic weak
ness, aa wrong actios, as variable appetite, as
head troubles, as palpitation and irregularities
of the heart, as premature decay, as dryness
and harshness of the skin, causing the hair to
drop out or turn gray, as apoplexy, as paraly
sis, as general debility, blood poisoning, etc.
“Put no faith, then, in the wiseacre who says
there is no danger as long as there is no pain.
Put no faith in the physician, whoever he may
be, who says it is a mere cold or a alight indis
position. Ho knows little, if any, more than
you do about it. He can neither see nor exam
ine these organs and depends entirely upon ex
perimental tests, that you can make as well as
he.
“If the output is discolored or muddy, if it
contains albumen, lymph, crystals, sweet or
morbid matter, is red with escaped blood, or
roily with gravel, mucus and froth, something
is wrong, and disease and death are not far
away.
“These organs which we have described thus
at length, because they are really the most im
portant ones in the human system, the ones in
which a large majority of human ailments
originate and are sustained, are the kidneys.
They have not been much discussed in public,
because it is conceded that the profession has
little known power over them. What is wanted
for such organs is a simple medicine, which
can do no harm to the most delicate but must
be of the greatest benefit to the afliicted. Such
a remedy, tried and proved by many thousands
all over the world is Warner’s saiecure. With
those in whom disease is deep seated it is the
only specific. For those in whom the seeds are
sown and the beginning of illness started it is au
unfailing reliance. It may be recommended to
the well to prevent sickness and the sick to pre
vent death. With its aid the great filtering en
gines of the system keep on in their silent work
without interruption; without it they get out of
gear and then disease and death open the door
and cross the threshold.”
Such writing ought not only to please but to
carry conviction that what Editor Leasing,
M. D.,—so high an authority—says is true, and
that his counsel is worthy the attention and
heed of all prudent, right-minded people.
TAMING A BULLDOG,
AND HE MADE A GRAND SUCCESS
OF THE ATTEMPT.
(From the Detroit Tribune.)
When Mr. Fred Justlikailalns, ot Columbia
street, reached home from the office a tew even
ings ago, he looked very much as if ho had
been dallying with a young but healthy West
ern cyclone, or had just been run through a
large-sized corn-sheller. He was decidedly tat
tered. That part ot his ooat where the tail
usually hangs resembled nothing more than
lambrequin fringe of new and peculiarly eccen
tric design. His shiny beaver hat had lost its
shine, and looked like a tin can which had been
bandied about by sportive boys in the royster
ing game of “ shinnyonyerownside.” The lower
part of his left trouser leg had renounced alle
giance to the upper part, just below the knee.
There was a stellated daub of mud as large as
the new comet on his usually immaculate shirt
front, and his cuffs seemed to have been en
gaged in a spirited rivalry to see which could
contract the greater quantity of dust and dirt in
a given time. Under one of his eyes was a
dado of dirt, and the other eye bore the blue
mark of violence. There were scratches on the
back of one hand that evidenced the somewhat
hasty removal of patches of cuticle, and ths
other hand hud apparently been trying itself at
the popular pastime kuown as baseball and got
badly left—it was the left hand, anyway.
When this sorry spectacle, almost spectre, of
the personally neat and trim Mr. Justlikallaius,
appeared at the door of the pretty little homo
on Columbia street, in the doubtful half light of
the waning day, young Mrs. Justlikallafus, who
happened to be in the iront parlor at the time,
gazed at it just long enough to take in the hor
rible reality that it was in fact her husband, and
then threw up both her delicate white hands,
uttered a dainty melodramatic skriek, and
fainted. It took fully one hour to restore her to
consciousness. All the help applied restora
tives, several neighbors were called in, a doctor
summoned, and poor Fred himself danced
around among the rescuing party with an ago
nized look on such portions of his face as were
not covered by the daubs and blotches of mud.
It so happened that, when Mrs. Justlikallafus’
eyes finally struggled open again with returning
consciousness, the first object on which they
alighted was Mr. Justlikallafus, still in bis be
draggled and battered state,
“Oh, Fr-r-ed-die 1” she gasped, “wha-a-t”
—-but the rest of the remark was lost in the
feathers of the pillow in which she buried her
head, preparatory to another lainting fit. The
prompt attention of the attendants prevented a
renewal of her attack, however, and Fred knelt
down by the bed and in tones of touching ten
derness implored her to calm herself and speak
to once more.
‘‘O-d i vb l F;f-!re-ed-die!” she moaned at
length, without Again raising her head, the
words coming from the pillow in muffled sylla
bles. “ H-how c-can I-I e-ever look at you a
gain ?”
“ Why not, my darling, why not ?” cried the
unfortunate Justlikeallafus, frantically.
“ O-oh, F-lreddie I You’ve been drinking, I
know you have 1”
“No!” exclaimed Fred, with an emphasis
that reached clear across the street. “ No, my
darling I I swear I have not touched a drop
to-day.”
“ Then you’ve had a disgraceful street fight!”
“No, no! my beloved, how can you believe
such a thing ? Look up, my life’s life, look up
into my face once more.”
Mrs.'Justlikallafus raised her head with a
shudder.
“ Oh, Fred, what have you been domg then?”
she exclaimed.
“ Calm ymirself, pet,” he said. “ It’s noth
ing serious.”
“ How can yon do so ? It looks serious
enough; your clothes almost torn off your body,
and—and yonr face and hands—vh, b-r-r.
[Another shudder.] But how did it riappen ?”
Fred looked the picture of despair painted in
mud and trimmed with rags, as he fumbmd in
his vest pocket and finally pulled out a small
clipping from a newspaper.
“ Read that,” was all he said.
Mrs. Justlikallafus took the clipping and
read :
“ The power of the human eye over the dumb
brute creation is wonderful. Any one can keep
at bay the fiercest dog by simply gazing steadily
into the eye of the animal. The dog w.Il at
length go away completely tamed,"
“ I tried it on a bull-dog,” said Fred, dole
fully.
“ Oh, yes, I tamed him—at last,’’ said Fred.
Then he added : “But it was not simply by the
power of the human eye. He resisted till i got
hold of a rock and smashed his head. But I
tamed him all the same.’’
“ Mr. Jones,” said little Johnny to the
gentleman who was making an afternoon call,
"can whisky talk?” “No, my child; howev-r c n
you ask such a question ?” “Oh, nothing! Only
ma said whisky was beginning to tell on you. "