New York dispatch. [volume], June 13, 1886, Page 6, Image 6

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6
GALATEA.
BY LULAH RAGSDALE.
I found a woman white and pure and cold;
So cold I said: " She has no human heart.
A statue this, which some delt hand of old
Cut irom lair marble with a cunning art.”
Yet shone this chill, pale being’s yellow hair
As wintry sunshine o'er a world ol snow.
Such crimson were this woman’s lips—as rare
As some December’s burning sunset glow.
Perfect each rounded limb and dimpled arm;
Each chiseled feature with no fault to mar.
Great steel-blue eyes that did not melt or warm,
But glittered each like some far, brilliant star.
And yet I loved this statue woman’s face.
Her cold, white brow, her smiles like moonlight
gleams.
Her every chilling, scintillating grace,
Was more to me than others’ sunny beams.
1 went anear this woman, where, like stone,
She stood mute, moveless, frozen in her place;
•'I love you, pure, cold marble”—wild my tone —
A sudden transformation warmed that face.
My hand to those loose-bended fingers strayed,
And felt their pulses quiveringly start.
My lips full on that sculptured mouth I laid;
I heard—ah I wonder rare—a beating heart.
And now that statue lives and breathes and loves!
And flushes to pink, marble brow and cheeks,
Wfieue’er with stately grace she near me moves,
j jQr when with tender lips to mo she speaks.
N. o.Times-Vemocrat.
LOW’, TH PILGRIM.
A STORY OF THE AFFECTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
ASLEEP.
The first day of Spring I The sun was shin
ing, the birds were singing, there was the stir
and rustle of awakening life lor such as had
ears to hear. Out in the country people said,
W;th unconscious poetic hyperbole, that you
“could see the things grow,” and even in the
towns there seemed a difference in the sun
shine, and aso it thrill in the air. In Oxbridge,
which had all the advantages of a town without
either noise or dirt or ugliness, and much of
the beauty of the country without the burden of
solitude or the danger of lowered aims and nar
rowed lives, the loveliness ol the day was mak
ing itself felt in a hundred gracious touches.
The vanes and crosses on spire and tower
and dome glittered brightly in the sun; the
grass in the college quads showed a fresher
green; the flowers in the fair old gardens glow
ed into deeper gold. The college elms were
alive with the cawing of rooks, and the lesser
trees and the gray old eaves were full of the
twitter of birds.
“ What a beautiful day I” was on every one’s
lips, and if some of the fellows and prolessors
shivered by the fire, and talked of the east wind
and rheumatism, there were enough young
hearts under undergraduate gowns to throb
responsive welcome to the Spring. But what
ever young hearts might do, no one who looked
at Professor Fletcher would expect responsive
welcome from him to anything that meant bright
Dess and hope and, perhaps, love. It is said, in
deed, that nowhere in the stony wilderness of
London can you walk half a mile without find
ing a tree, and we may hold it true that no hu
man heart exists in which the flowers of love
may not bud and grow, however unlikely the
soil, but there is no rule without an exception,
and any one might have been forgiven for class
ing Professor Fletcher as the exception rather
than the rule.
The dryest and coldest and most unsocial of
men, he was liked neither by undergraduate
nor don, and though his lectures were crowd
ed, and his reputation as a “ coach ” brought
him more pupils than he knew what to do with,
his relations with them were of the most for
mal and purely professional nature. For him
they were by no means complex organisms .
they were simply human polypes with a brain
instead of a stomach, into which he had to pour
as much information as they could hold. His
liking lor them was in direct pro-portion to the r
power of receptivity, and lor any relation be
yond that of crammer and crammed, they had
for him absolutely no existence. It had been,
therefore, a doubly unpleasant experience when
the least receptive of the polypes walked into
the professor s room, and in a manner at once
modest and manly asked Mr. Fletcher for his
niece’s hand. That a polype should unexpect
edly develop a heart was perplexing enough,
but that an undergraduate should desire to
establish not merely human but very close rela
tions to himself was absolutely astounding.
"Why, if he acceded to his request, th s curly
haired, blue-eyed, empty-headed young man,
who spent his time at lectures in making carica
tures of all those in authority over him—Pro
fessor Fletcher included -and would never even
take a pass degree—would be his nephew ! The
hair under the pro essor’s cap seemed to rise at
the thought; .but there were other objections to
the proposal, that were stronger still.
Beside the personal aversion to matrimony
which a disappointment in love is apt to pro
duce in even the most logical of men, Professor
Fletch/r had more than his share of distrust
and jealousy with which the parents and guar
dians of well-dowered maidens are inclined to
view suitors not rich in this world’s goods.
Charles Bellairs had just said, frankly enough,
that he had his ortune yet to make, and no one
knew better than the professor that his n ece
would be a rich Woman some day. She was the
only near relative he possessed, and all Ox
bridge knew that Edmund Fletcher was a
wealthy man, and that Clare would inherit his
wealth.
To do young Bellairs justice, this was the
least of Clare’s attractions in his eyes, but per
haps it was not wonderful that a man of Fletch
er’s nature should assume that it had been one
of the most powerful, The professor scarcely
concealed his belief that his niece’s wealth was
the unconfessed basis of the young man’s offer,
and had allowed himself to sneer at the re ected
suitor’s poverty, even while he was ruthlessly
demolishing his hopes.
“My niece may many,” B'rid Mr. Fletcher,
drawing down his lip, and calmly looking at
Charlie, who could not help wincing and frown
ing at the unpalatable suggestion—“ My niece
may marry some day, and probably she will.
If she takes my advice, she will not; but 1 ad
mit the probability that she will not take my
advice. lam not a tyrant ”
“ Are you not ?” thought Charlie Bellairs, and
the thought was so plainly expressed in his in
genuous countenance that the elder man smiled,
though in grim enough fashion.
“No, I am not a tyrant,” repeated the proces
sor, “and when a smtable candidate for Clare’s
hand appears, I shall not inter :ere with her in
clinations. It is no part of my duty to make a
woman wise against her will; it is only my duty
to see that she does not throw herself away on
needy adventurers.”
“ Sir !” cried the young man, starting to his
feet, “you might refuse my offer without insult
ing me.”
“I have no wish to insult you,” said Mr.
Fletcher, quietly. “If the facts suggest insult,
whose fault is it—yours or mine ?”
Charlie Bellairs strode away, too indignant
to reply, and Professor Melcher smiled sarcas
tically and returned to the work that had been
bo unexpectedly interrupted. He had no doubt
at all of the correctness of his own judgment;
eell-interest and greed were, he considered, the
mainsprings of most human actions, and
as for love I Ihe corners of the professor’s
mouth went down in a still more synical smile,
and if he remembered that there was once a
time when quite other motives had informed
his own life, he remembered it only to smile at
the long-past weakness, and tore oice that such
folly was no longer possible to him. “ A sharp
cure, but sure,” he muttered now, as he turned
himself to his desk. And then he plunged his
pen into the ink and settled to his work.
But once more the professor was interrupted,
and once more his niece was all unconsciously
the cause.
CHAPTER 11.
“ HIS WARM YOUNG HAND.”
Clare was a dutiful niece, and seldom intrud
ed on her uncle’s solitude. She had her own
apartment in a diilerent part of the house,
where, with her books, her music, and her
flowers, she led a life that might be lonely, but
that had never seemed dull since Charlie Bel
lairs had met her at a mutual friend’s. That
was in the first days of Lent term, and now the
flowers were out, and Spring was actually here.
Clare'had no fear of East winds, or rheumatism,
and she opened her windows to the sunshine,
as the nowers opened their petals, and sang as
the birds sing, lor pure gladness of heart. She
knew nothing of Charlie’s ill-fated mission, or
the downfall of their hopes. Mr. Bellairs had
been too crushed to go and tell her of his dis
missal at once, or perhaps he was young
enough to dream of melting the obdurate
uncle’s heart. So Clare dreamed happily at her
window, and the thought of Charlie only gave
an added brightness to the sunshine, and a
subtler perfume to the flowers. She thought of
him, and a smile stole to her lips, as she looked
at the blue heavens, and fastened a cluster of
violets in her dress. And then she sat down
to the piano, and struck a few soft staccato
notes, and began to sing in a voice that was
fresh as the Spring-time, and whose delicate
phrasing made every word distinct—
“ Every day a pilgrim blindfold,
When the and morning meet,
Entering the slum’ring city,
Stealeth down the silent street;
Lingereth round some batter’d doorway.
Leaves, unblest, some portal grand,
And the walls w here sleep the children,
Toucheth with his warm young hand.
Love is passing ! Love is passing ! passing while
ye lie asleep.”
Who does not know Hamilton Aide’s sweet,
fanciful song, and Blumenthal a tender, sug
gestive music ? As Clare sat there in the
bpring sunshine, with soft braided hair, and in
a robe of fine brown stuff, cunningly wrought
with broidery a tone or two lower in color, the
white throat swelling with song, and the large
brown eyes dewy with emotion, one knew
well enough that her’s was not a portal at which
the rosy-fingered pilgrim had knocked in vain.
She looked like the embodiment of love and
sonq; and, indeed, was there not in Charlie
Bellairs’ folio—Charlie was an artist spoiled, as
all the world knew, except Professor Fletcher,
who only knew yesterday that he was a polype
with an exceedingly limited allowance of brain
bag, and that he was a sordid and
scheming — was there not in Char-
lie’s iolie- a entitled “ Santa Filomena,”
that was just a brown-rohed maiden, with a
face that was curiously like Clare’s, while a
nightingale sang on a bough without in friendly
rivalry ?
Out into the sunlit square went the clear, pur®
tones of Clare’s voice, with that wonderful thrill
of youth and happiness and love in the crystal
tones, and the birds sang all the sweeter tor it,
and the children stopped to listen as they passed
the window in their walk round the square.
One little fellow, a mere baby of three or four
years, with a cherub’s face framed in clustering
rings of gold, and a wide white forehead with
the full temples that musicians know, stood
quite entranced, his soft cheeks pressed against
the iron railings, and his eyes fixed on the open
window, till the song ceased. His nurse and
his sisters had gone on, not noticing or not re
garding his absorption in the song, but Johnnie
was too intent even to miss them or to wonder
where they were. What he wondered was whore
the song had gone, looking from the open win-*
dow up to the blue skies, as if he thought it had
perhaps flown straight to heaven. Suddenly he
heard it again, Tor Clare was going up-stairs,
and the ball door stood open. He ran up the
steps, and into the hall, drawn out of shyness
by the sound. Something brown was flitting up
the wide staircase, and the retrain he loved
seemed to rise with it, and float away he could
not tell where.
'• Love is passing—passing while ye lie asleep.”
Johnnie followed the sound, toiling painfully
up the stairs that were too many and too steep
for his short legs and tiny feet; but long be-fore
he had climbed half-way the song was out of
hearing and the singer out of sight. A door on
the first landing stood invitingly ajar, and John
nie, in whose veins ran the spirit of adventure
that runs in the veins of most boys, pushed the
door gently open the peeped shyly in. Perhaps
the singer was here, he thought, and he smiled
as he saw a brown-robed figure at the desk by
the window, and went fearlessly up to it. Pro
fessor Fletcher’s old brown coat had figured in
many an irreverent caricature in Charlie Bel
lairs’* note-books, but there was no irreverence
in JohnnJe’s gaze, nothing but eagerness and
satisfied desire.
“ Will you sing it adain?” ho asked, pulling
gently at the old coat that was glorified by his
young imagination into something like a ser
aph’s robe.
The professor started and stared, as well he
might. He had not seen the door open, and he
did not know what to make of this golden
haired apparition gazing up at him with such
artless confidence. Prolessor Fletcher was not
fond of children, and the few he knew recog
nized the fact with instinctive sagacity, and
avoided him with frank aversion. Little John
nie was too fully possessed with the thought
that he had chased the song to its source to do
either. He was one of the happy little ones to
whom rebuff is strange and repulse absolutely
unknown, and as the prolessor stared at him in
blank amazement, he repeated with baby im
periousness :
“Sing it adain, man ! sing it* adain.”
“Sing what?” asked the bewildered pro
fessor.
“ The song,” said Johnnie, briefly, folding his
hands and composing himself to listen in an at
titude of patient satisfaction.
The situation wis too comical for even the
professor’s gravity. That he, who had never
sung a note in his life, should have a song de
manded of him in this imperious fashion by an
unknown infant who, for'all the professor knew
of him, might have dropped from the moon I
“ My good chiid,” he said, with a short impa
tient laugh, “ 1 don’t sing, and 1 don’t know
what song you want.”
“It goes like tills, ’’ said Johnnie, whose quick
ears had caught the refrain accurately enough :
“Love is passing—passing while ye lie asleep.”
Till he sang them himself, Johnnie had cer
tainly thought more of the music than the
words, but now they seemed to wake a vague
touch of wonder in his mind.
“Did he pass, and did you see him?” he
asked, and the professor’s lip went down again
in his most cynical smile,
“Ay, boy ! I saw him once,” he said, hardly,
knowing i; he were mocking at himself, or at"
the wide-eyed wondering child —“I saw him
once, and 1 never want to see him again.”
“Wasn’t he nice—wasn’t he dood?” asked
Johnnie.
“No,” said the professor emphatically, “he
wasn’t nice, and he wasn’t good, if he ever
comes your way, you’ll have nothing to do with
him, if you’re a wise little man.” The professor
was looking his sternest, and frowning porten
tously, but something in his face made Johnnie
draw closer to him.
“ Poor, poor 1” said Johnnie, stroking his new
friend's hand. The soft little touch recalled the
professor from the barren past to the decidedly
puzzling present.
“ Where do you come from, child ?” he asked;
“ what is your name, and how did you come
here ?”
“ I tummed up the stairs,” said Johnnie, an
swering the last question, and ignoring the
others, as a child always does.
“ But what is your name ?” persisted the pro
fessor.
“Johnnie.”
It was not informing, and the professor was
considering what he should say next, and how
he should get rid of his embarrassing visitor,
when the question was solved for him.
Johnnie had been missed, and as an organ
grinder who irequented the square, and recog
nized the music-loving child, had seen him go
into Professor Fletcher’s, he was soon traced
and inquired for. His nurse was waiting for
him now, (lare said, coming to her uncle’s
room, alter searching the rest of the house in
vain, and finding, with no little astonishment,
that the ob.ect of her search was here.
“Dood-bye, man,” said Johnnie, putting up
his lips for a kiss, with entire confidence in the
acceptability of the caress, and even Professor
Fletcher did not know how to refuse. He bent
his face awkwardly enough to the child’s soft,
red lips, and wished him a grave good-bye.
“ Dood-bye,” said Johnnie once more, as he
stopped at the door to kiss his fat little hand—
“ Johnnie turn adain—Johnnie likes man.”
The little figure disappeared with its hand in
Clare’s, but the echo of the lisping voice seemed
to linger in the rqom. How long was it since
the soured and lonely man had heard words of
spontaneous affection—how many years since
he had given or received a kiss ?
CHAPTER 111.
“ HIS NAME WAS JOHNNIE.”
Professor Fletcher’s household had never
been a very cheer.ul one. but after the dis
missal of Charlie Bellairs it was gloomy indeed,
clare wept herself pale and thin, and went
about with a face of mute reproach, and Mr.
Fletcher shut himself up in his own room more
rigorously than ever. Clare had promised to hold
no communication with her forbidden lover, but
her submission caused no softening in her
uncle’s feelings. “ She knows better than to
quarrel with her bread and butter.” thought
the man who had brooded over one woman’s
broken vow till he had ceased to believe in
truth or goodness, in loyalty or love.
Clare’s voice was very silent in these sad
days. Johnnie did not forget his promise to
come again, but he heard no more the song
that had first attracted his roving feet. Johnnie
came now not to hear singing, but to see the
pro essor, io whom he had conceived one of the
curious fancies that imaginative children some
times take. Little Johnnie’s parents lived in the
same square, and made no objection to the
rather odd friendship when once they were as
sured that the little boy’s visits were not con
sidered troublesome; but, indeed, the professor
seemed te reciprocate the child’s affection in his
own queer and ungracious fashion. He never
went to see Johnnie, nor did he even stop to ask
after him if he met his parents in the street,
but he let him come up to the study as olten as
he pleased, and if the little feet did not climb
the long staircase two or three times a week,
Clare notied that her uncle grew restleas and
morose. The curious friendship became, one of
the jests of the term, and Mr. Bellairs-who
might be excused lor a little bitterness—drew a
highly successful caricature of the pair as “Ye
Cgre and ye Childe he did latte,” and predicted
that Johnnie’s name would be found some fine
morning under the heading, “Mysteriously
Disappeared.”
It was a prophecy that came true in a sense
its author had not anticipated. Johnnie’s
visits to the study suddenly ceased, and the
professor was inconsolable; or perhaps it would
be truer to say that he neither sought nor per
mitted consolation. He made no remark on the
child’s absence, he told no one of the yearn
ing he felt for the sound of the lisping voice
and the touch of the small soft lips. He be
lieved that his little friend had deserted him,
but he bore this grief as he had borne grief all
his life—in a stern silence that brooked no sym
pathy. He made no inquiries, and uttered no
complaint, but he set his door carefully ajar,
and listened with a strange sinking at his
heart for the little footsteps that never came.
He bought a transparency, a gaudy semblance
of a coat-of-arms, whose heraldic inaccuracies
offended the professor’s instructed eye, but
whose gorgeous colors he hoped might attract
Johnnie s, and hung it in the window—but in
vain. Johnnie came no more, and the professor
told himself b.tterly that eves this child was
“like all the rest.”
He resolved to put Johnnie out of his mind,
and went on with his work with redoubled en
ergy, but only himself knew the effort it cost
him. His pupils found him a harder task-mas
ter than ever, and even Clare, absorbed as she
was in her own troubles, saw that her uncle
was depressed and out of spirits, and tried to
make talk lor him at their silent meals.
“Do you remember little Johnnie Hall?” she
asked one day. “ I mean the little boy who
used to come in here sometimes.”
Her uncle nodded coldly. Jonnie was noth
ing to him now, or at least he thought so.
“I saw Mrs. Hall this morning,” pursued
Clare, with the with which we an
nounce other people’s troubles, “ and she told
me that Johnnie has been ill all the month. He
has scarlet fever, and the doctors don’t think
he will get through the night.”
All her life CUre Fletcher never forgot the
strange cry her uncle gave, or the look in the
stern dark face. He got up like one distraught,
and walked straight across the square to Hall’s
house and rang tne muffled bell.
“ I want to see Johnnie,” he said, in a hoarse
peremptory voice, and when the servant de
murred and said she would ask her mistress,
the unauthorized visitor strode after her up the
stairs and into the sick child’s room.
“I know he will see me !” he said withan
odd sort of sob in his voice.
And indeed, as Johnnie saw him, a sweet
sudden smile lighted the wan little face.
Mrs. Hall made way for the professor, with a
grateful look.
“ Be baa asked lor youjjlten,” sb© said, “ but
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 13, 1886
we did not like to trouble you—and it is infec
tious, you know.”
The professor’s answer was to kneel down
and take Johnnie’s head upon his arm, and
draw the frail little figure to his breast. And
whether it was, as Mrs. Hall always insisted,
that Johnnie’s contentment in his recovered
friend soothed the fretted nerves, or, as the
doctor suggested, that the medicines had be
gun to take effect at last, certain it is that John
nie fell into a sleep sweet and deep as only lit
tle children know—a sleep the waking from
which would be life and not death.
The dawn was rosy in the east when the pro
fessor went home. All through the night he
had knelt by Johnnie’s bed. with the fair little
head pillowed on his arm. And now he was
go ng home, with a strange sense of joy and
thankfulness in his heart, of peace, and of
something deeper, and better, and holier still.
the withered heart, and wasted lite, had
come the Divine gift of love, a gift that a child’s
hand had brought in its small pink palm, but
whose source was higher than the professor
thought, and whose course would be wider
than he knew.
Already Clare, meeting him in the golden
light o: the Spring morning, and hearing how
he had passed the night, was wondering if this
could be the stern, unloving uncle she had
known—or not known—all her lite. Already
her sympathy in Johnnie’s danger, her rejoic
ing in Johnnie’s safety, was moving her uncle
to a sympathy and affection for the orphan girl
he had never felt before.
By the time that Johnnie could climb the
stairs to bis friend’s study again, the professor
had withdrawn his objections to the engage
ment, on which he found that Clare’s happi
ness depended, and when Johnnie, with an in
valid’s privilege, demanded the song he loved
so well, Charlie’s voice blended with Clare’s
as they sang:
“ Love is passing—passing while ye lie asleep.”
“ Only he didn’t pass,” said the professor,
stroking the golden curls. “He stopped and
came in, and will never go away any more.”
“Did he ?” said Johnnie, staring at this new
version, “ I wonder what his name was ?”
“ I don’t know what his name was to other
people,” said Professor Fletcher. “ I only
know that when he came to me his name was
Johnnie.”
elDfeON'S TRAP.
BY LUOY FARMER.
CHAPTER I.
SOWING THE WIND.
I was not sorry when the Martyn-Henrys left
the Manor, for 1 felt rather ashamed of my sus
picions. They never knew all I had fancied.
Autumn went and February came round, but
the year left us a legacy in our village, one
Gideon Grasper, an agent for Captain Henry’s
mining business ; a half-sailor man ; hard,
business-like, powerful and bold ; yet so crafty
that he had m less than lour months managed
to win Miss Kate Canton, of the Hill farm.
What I have to tell now concerns tiris man and
Miss Katie,
When Captain and Mrs. Martyn-Henry left
us, the family came hack to Cardewe Manor.
Mrs. Cardewe was just as kind to Charley and
me as ever. Mrs. .Jones, the housekeeper, did
not know what 1 had said about the Martyn-
Henrys, and Fanny promised to keep my se
cret. Therefore I soon got better, and it’s well
I did, else the business about that Gideon
Grasper would have killed me, I verily believe !
This is how it happened:
One February night we were all roused from
sleep by the sound of a cannon. Our house was
by the cliff, and the wind carried the sound
bang against our little windows. They shook
and Tattled more than ever, though the wind
had nearly tugged them open many a time.
“ What’s that, Charley ?” I cried.
“ A gun, I expect,” he answered, sitting up.
“ Why, whoever would be out poachin’ to
night ?’ r I exclaimed. “Is it likely—this time
o’ year, too ?”
“ it’s a ship in distress out yonder. She’ll
be on the Deadman’s Sands,” cried Charley,
jumping up. “ Poor creatures !”
He was soon dressed and out of doors. I
could not sleep, so I rose and looked outoi the
window. It was five o’clock in the morning,
pitch dark, raining and “ sleeting ” at times,
though the wind was west, and blowing half a
hurricane. I dressed and went to the gate.
Such a roaring in the trees 1 never had beard
before; and when the lull came now and then,
the roar of the sea was as plainly heard down
far below. \\ hen I ventured to the edge, where
the slope was railed, the salt spray was carried
up the cliff into my face like wet steam.
A flash ! then a boom—there was the ship 1 I
could see nothing but the white foam as the
tremendous waves came rolling in. What those
broken waves were on the Deadman Sands I
could guess 1
Then 1 saw lights on the beach. Then a cheer
came up to me. The lights swung about for
awhile, but as I couldn’t see anything else I
went back, and lay down in bed waiting till
Charley came home. I suppose I went to sleep,
for when I woke with a start I found him stand
ing beside the bed like a ghost, all wet and
draggled, and blown about like a fisherman.
For a second I half fancied it was not really
Charley. But when he laughed at my scared
face I sat up, and said, “ Why, Charley, what
ever have you been about?”
“ Out in the lifeboat, Lucy ; savin’ a few o’
them poor fellows. We had a rough time, but
we got nine out of ten, and the one lost was
only a boy.”
“ Only t Charley I His mother, maybe, thinks
different. He may be an only son.”
“ Ah, well! we couldn’t help it,” replied
Charley. “He jumped short and fell into the
sea. Nothing could have saved him. Even
Captain Cherton tried.”
“ The lifeboat captain ? Was Grasper there ?”
I asked.
“ Yes, and yes. Grasper was all there. He
would have left the men and looted the brig, I
believe, had we consented. But the captain
stopped him. Between you and me, Lucy, some
o’ these half-fisher chaps care more for loot than
lives !”
“ Hush, Charley. Now let me get up, and I’ll
soon have some breakfast.”
After breakfast we saw the “Deadmans” all
covered with foaming breakers ; the stump of a
mast was sticking up about three feet above
water—that was all that was left visible of the
wreck. The sea was still rough, but when the
wind went round again we had a spell of fine
weather; and there the wreck remained, the
mast in the air as a warning.
One evening Captain Cherton came up to our
little place, and who should accompany him but
Gideon Grasper. I didn’t like Gideon ; he al
ways seemed to me underhand and cruel. It
was instinct, I suppose ; but he’s gone now, and
it’s not for me to judge I
Still, he had a great influence on his mates.
Even Tom Cherton, the captain's son, was un
der Giddy’s thumb—all the lifeboat men obeyed
him as much as the coxswain himself—the cap
tain, I mean. Gideon was brave, reckless, and
aspiring; a man who wanted money, and to
make a “ splash,” as he called it. He did
make a splash in away he little expected,
though.
He wanted to marry Kate Canton, a very
Pretty girl, whose father was a contractor near
us. She was a dark-eyed brunette, with a nice
figure of her own—shape and money too—beau
tiful, slim, soft hands, as seemed as if they
could do—not much—but were only made for
fancy-work.
That is why Gideon wanted money. He
loved money, and was fond ol Miss Kate, who
liked him, I believe, for he was a presentable
man, and shared in two smacks, as well as the
agency.
Yet he was cruel. lam sure the soft-handed
Kate would never have been happy with him,
lovable as she was. She was very lovable, but
it was not quite so easy to make her love. She
would be “ great friends,” but I think her
heart was not so much affected then.
Well, the coxswain and his mate, Grasper,
came in and sat down.
“ Fine weather, ma’am,” sa : d Mr. Cherton.
“ Yes, indeed. What a storm that was,
captain !” I replied; “and the poor ship is there
still I”
“ Ay, ay, there she’ll be as a beacon and a
warnin’ unless the Board pulls her up I”
“ I’ve gone shares in her hull,” says Gideon.
“ You have !” exclaimed the captain; “ why,
I never knew yoii were in it.”
“ Well, I am, then,” retorted Grasper. “The
wreck is ours—mine and nine others. There’s
ten of us, ma’am, has bid for the wreck,” he
said, turning to me.
“No good will ever come of ft,” said the
captain. “ 1 never knew any good come to
them as bought a wreck off the Deadmans, and
I’ve seen some there, too.”
“ That can’t be anything but accident,” said I,
to cheer him, for he seemed low.
“ Wrecks isn't all he muttered,
and then Gideon broke in :
“ Come, this is doleful talk—eh, Mrs. Farmer ?
Me and some of our men are goin’ out to the
Sands to-morrow afternoon for a sail; would
you and Mr. Farmer, here, go with us ?”
“ I can’t,” replied Charley, looking at me;
“ but my wife can, I dare say.”
“ I dare say ; and leave the child, Charley ?”
I said.
“Oh! take the child,” said Grasper. “The
sea’s like a pond. 1 wouldn’t ask you else. I’ll
answer for you.”
So I consented, and, as the captain was going,
too, we.made the agreement.
When we got to the beach, there I found most
of the lifeboat men—those who generally went
out—and fine fellows they were. They had
saved near a hundred lives, these men had,
and got plenty of money by it in presents, and
rewards, and salvage. So they wouldn’t have
let the boat go without them. As to the cap
tain, he was a fine old fellow ; and Charley, too.
had often wished to go out. He did sometimes
—when a hand was wanted—a thing I dreaded
most of all.
This time there seemed something wrong.
Gideon and the captain had been having some
words, for the latter looked proud and scornful,
and Grasper was “ dark ” and “ sneery.”
“ I won’t have any hand in it,” the captain
was .saying. “I have not been on this coast,
man and boy, for nigh sixty years, to go de
stroyin’ land-marks and water-marks. No,
Gideon Grasper, go your own way, not with
me I”
“Why, where’s the harm?” exclaimed the
other. “We only want to cut away that mast—
below the water-line. We’ve been and bought
the timber, and can take it home, I suppose ?”
“Don’t talk to me !” exclaimed the old man.
“Can’t ye let it alone? It’s known now, and
can be eeou > but suppose a smack rune over
the etump, or a schooner touches it at high
water, where is she ? The Sand’s bad enough
in stormy weather, without your wishin’ to
make it worse in the calms. Something will
run on it, and ”
“ And then we 11 run out and get the salvage,
eh, mates ? The bearings of the wreck are laid
down, and no proper pilot ought to ruu in so
close. They must take their chance. Come
along, lads.”
“ Well, I protest,” replied the captain. "Come,
Mrs. Farmer, we won’t stop your pleasuring for
the sake of an old mast of a wreck. And, after
all, in rough weather it makes no difference.”
“We must take the rough with the smooth,”
muttered Gideon, with a smile—" eh, mates ?
The next ‘ fish ’ that comes will, mayhap, pay ail
our insurances.”
It was a lovely day. The sun was bright, the
wind was warm, March though it was. The
month had come in like a lamb ; it would go out
like a lion, we thought, and said so.
The wreck was not far away, and I enjoyed
the sail very much. Little Charley was asleep
all tbo time, wrapped in my shawl. We reached
the wreck, and Gideon began cutting away the
stump of the mainmast.
“ You might have cut it lower had you waited
till the last of the ebb,” remarked the captain,
who was busy taking bearings of the placp.
Gideon smiled, but made no answer. Was he
calculating his chances of reward ?
I looked at him, and he averted hie eyes. He
cut away the stump, and the ragged andijagged
remains, with one eharp point, looked up from
the depths of the rippling waters.
“ Well, I hope 1 sails over here on the flood,”
muttered the captain, "and then I’ll give it a
wide berth, “it’s out of the track of most ves
sels, that’s a oom ort 1”
“Of course it is 1” replied Gideon. "We all
know that.”
But lam sure he didn’t hope so. From that
moment I pitied Katie Canton, and hoped she
would never marry Gideon Grasper, bhe was
too pretty, too dependent, too trusting, to be
left to his “ tender mercies,” which, 1 was sure,
were cruel.
All the rest of the day Gideon shunned my
eyes, and when I got safe on shore I promised
myself I would never go in a boat with him
again. I never did.
And now, when I look back on that after
moon, I wonder, knowing what I now know,
that the calm, shining, rippling water did not
swallow us up, guilty and uot guilty alike, and
rock us to sleep in its bosom, to death I
CHAPTER 11.
HEAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
The weeks passed on without anything un
usual happening. No wrecks occurred, and we
visited Cardewe Manor House as usual, as Mrs.
Cardewe was still there. But one afternoon the
housekeeper said, "Lucy, have you heard the
news ?”
“ What news ?” I asked, naturally enough.
“ Miss Katie is going to be married to Gideon
Grasper.”
“Im sorry for her,” I said. "She’s too good
for him."
“So I say,” replied the old lady, in a low
tone, “ but you mark my words, Lucy Farmer,
the wedding will never take place.”
“ Whatever do yon mean, ma’am ?” I asked.
She was so mysterious, I was rather fright
ened.
“ You mark my words. He’ll never marry
Kitty Canton.”
“ She won't marry him, you mean ? ’
" No, it’s the other way, He*h well enough
off and well enough himself, but he’s doomed.
I know it—l see it in his face 1”
Thia figurative language puzzled me more
than enough, and Charley agreed with me that
as we didn t like Mr. Grasper, we needn’t see
much ot him; but with Kate we did get on.
She was very friendly.
Every time I met the girl I could not help
thinking that all the preparations for her
wedding were useless. But sfte did not
think so. She had made up her mind to
marry Gideon, and her father had not said
“ Nay,” though I do not think he quite liked the
match.
March had nearly gone, when one evening a
vessel was seen approaching the coast. It was
a bark, not a lull-rigged ship—a clean-looking
bark, too; “ taut and trim,” as our old captain
might have said.
Gideon Grssper, and pretty Kate, with her
sister Rosiua, were up at our house that even
ing. Gideon asked for the telescope, and watch
ed the vessel closely.
“ Who is she, Giddy ?” asked Rose.
“ I believe she’s the ‘ Sandymouut,’ ” he said.
“If so, as I know Jasper is aboard as pilot, I’ll
go down.”
“There’s no hurry,” said I. “She’s miles
off yet. The wind’s light; the sea is calm
enough. She’ll run up to Cpperstown, and he
to till the tide turns?
"Not she,” muttered Gideon, who looked
flushed and, for him, excited. “ Not she; she’ll
make the river here.”
" She's a fool, or the pilot is a fool, if she
does,” remarked Kate, tersely.
“ I'ou know nothing about it,” retorted
Gideon. “ She’ll come in here. Jasper knows
what he’s about 1”
“Who’s Jasper?” I whispered to Rose,
whose bright eyes looked up wirrmngly as she
replied:
“ Giddy’s partner, or one of them. I hate
him
"My dear child, hush 1” I said. But a ter
rible lear was in my heart.
“Well, I'm off.” said Gideon suddenly. “I
want to hurry down. Come, girls I”
“ Why, they’ve had no supper yeti” said I.
“Nevermind. I can’t wait. Now, Kate, no
loitering. 'Love, honor, and obey,’ is your
motto. Be smart, or I’ll leave you behind.”
Kate had a spirit, and answered, but gently :
“Very well, go on. We will stay to supper and
go back alone.”
“ Don’t be a fool I Now, Rose, do as I bid
you ! Come.”
“ Not a step,” replied Rose. “Go by your
self, Giddy.”
He muttered an oath and seized Kate by the
arm.
“ You shall come, anyway,” he cried, angrily.
“ I can't wait. Be off 1”
“ Mr. Grasper,” I said, “ these young ladies
are here at my invitation and il they like to re
main they can. My husband will see them
home.”
It was falling dark and something darker was
on Gideon Grasper’s mind, for he turned and
said :
“Very well, ma’am 1 If you like to separate
two lovers, you can do so. Kate, come, I com
mand you; or stay away—altogether 1 I’ll
have no rebellion I”
Kate’s eyes filled with tears. The man's true
nature was peeping out. Rose looked alarmed;
Kats resolved. Kindly, but firmly, she said :
“No, thank you, Gideon. I will wait with
my sister. You are not yourself to-night.”
“Good-by, then,” he retorted. “You may
whistle lor me next time you want me. This is
all your doing, Mrs. Lucy Farmer, and 111 pay
you out. I’ll wash my hands of you all. You’ll
never see me again I”
He flung out of the house, banging the gate.
I was glad when he had gone.
Kate burst into tears and hid her face.
“ Oh, Mrs. Farmer I have I done wrong ?
But I could not really go. He was so strange,
I was frightened. He’s been like this nearly all
day.”
I tried to comfort her, but my heart was as
heavy as lead. A dread suspicion had crossed
my mind, and a terrible fear lay at my heart. I
wished Charley would come home. He was at
the Manor, helping.
We had supper, and still Charley did not
come. So, when ten o’clock struck, I put on
my hat and said I would walk, at any rate, part
of the way. Our little servant could be trust
ed, now baby was asleep, so I had ho tear. At
a quarter past ten we started.
It was nearly d rk, but fine. There was a
goodish breeze, but nothing much to mind. The
clouds came up and the young moon went down
as we descended the cliff.
We kept wondering what Gideon had been
about and why he had turned so “ crusty.”
Then the conversation came round to the bark
and the pilot, Jasper Midding, who was a bad
associate for Gideon.
As we reached the Manor gates Charley met
us, and, putting the young ladies under his
care, I returned home, for the wind was rising
a little, and it was a good step back for me, not
being very strong just then.
I put the supper things aside for Charley, but
eleven o’clock struck, and he did not come.
This was strange.
As I listened lor his step there came a sound
like a gun. I ran to the door, and I declare
there was a rocket swooping across the sky—a
signal of distress, but, fortunately, away West
of the former wreck.
I breathed more freely. That guilt was not
on Gideon’s soul, but tbe pilot must have been
out ot his senses to bring the vessel so near at
low water 1 Even I know that the current sets
round the headland like a sluice, and may easily
carry a light bark, in ballast, on the West Dead
man. With a wind setting in the thing was al
most a certainty.
Another rocket, and another. Now I knew
why Charlie had not come.
“ Can you mind baby for an hour, Sarah ? I
want to go down to the beach
Off I trudged, well wrapped ep. It was as I
♦fancied. But Charlie had not gone in the life
boat this time. I Was so thankful.
The boat disappeared in the darkness, and
Charley came home with me. We heard more
guns ; but, after awhile, they ceased, the wind
blew harder, and, perhaps, the vessel had lifted
with the tide.
This was the case. When we looked out in
the morning at six o’clock the bark was no longer
there. There was a crowd on the beach, though;
but we didn’t much mind, until the still-room
maid from the Cardewes’ came up the hill and
“flopped” into one of the chairs in the kitchen.
“ Oh, Mrs. Farmer, ain’t it awful ?”
“ Isn’t what awful, Susan? What is the mat
ter ?” said I.
“Haven’t you heard? Mrs. Joues told me
to come and tell you ; she said she was sure of
it.”
“Ot what, you silly ? Go on. What has hap
pened ?”
“The boat—the lifeboat,” she stammered.
“ Well, has it saved the crew ?”
“No. Oh, its dreadful! They’re nigh all
ot them drowned. Only the captain and his
son Tom and John Cattley’s saved, they say.”
By degrees I elicited her news. The liteboat
had been swamped, and almost the whole crew
had been nearly if uot altogether lost.
It was terrible.
“ Is Gideon dead, too ?” 1 asked.
“ Yes,” said the girl. “So they say. Well, I
must go. Mrs. Jones, she sent me up, and I
must return, ma’an?,”
I kept pondering over the catastrophe which
had happened on a calm night in Spring—a dis
aster unparalleled. Seven men were drowned.
Five wives and families deprived ot support in
one night in our little town—and poor Kate, too!
It was terrible, if true 1 But it wasn’t all true.
Charley told me the real facts when he came
home to dinner.
“The lifeboat went out soon after midnight,
about low water, and made lor the vessel. The
water was smooth, and all pulled with a will.
Suddenly old Captain Cherton cried out:
“ ‘Steady, lads, let me haul aft the sheet a
bit; we’re goin’ to free. We shall pitch into
that wreck in a few minutes. Let me get the
bearings.’
“ The night was very dark, but the old man
knew where he was ; and Grasper grumbled at
him, as the coxswain lilted up the sail to see
how she lay.
“ ’ Pull away, mates,’ he said. ‘ We’re many
a yard to windward of the wreck. Never mind
him. The vessel’s what we have to mind.’
“The men pulled hard. The wind helped,
but before you could say ‘Jack Bobinson,’ a
crash was heard. The boat stopped dead short,
the mast went over, carrying the sail with it; a
great point of wood stuck into Gideon’s ribs ”
“They had struck the old wreck, Charley 1” I
exclaimed breathlessly.
“ That’s just it,” replied my husband. “Gide
on’s trap caught himse f! Whether he will ever
get over it is a question for the doctors. The
Captain, who had protested against the cutting
of the mast—lor, bad it been left standing, the
accident could not have happened—was the only
one really unhurt. It was a mercy all were not
drowned !”
“How did they escape ?” I cried, as Charley
paused.
“ Old Cherton, he seized an oar and put it
under his sou’s arm. ‘ Hold on. Tom,’ be said,
‘ I’ll cast about.’ Then he caught the boat and
two more oars, and each man helped the other.
‘l’m goin’, father,’ says Tom, alter a while, ‘I
can hold no longer. I’m so cold.’ But a smack
was cornin’ out. The master had seen the acci
dent, and helped them aboard, after a while,
near dead.”
“ And the bark, Charley ?”
“She’s off; half full of water—cargo all dam
aged. It seems the pilot made a mistake—
whether by accident or on purpose is no matter
now—but when be saw the lifeboat, the smacks
men said he shouted, ‘ It’s a judgment 1’ But
for what, he never told, though he is Gideon’s
partner band and glove.”
“ What do you think of it, Charley ?”
“Well, it’s not much matter -either way what
I think, for I’ll say nothing. Gideon is at
death s door. Even if he recovers he’ll never
be the same man again.”
the Detroit'solomon.
"Kyser, Don’t You Want to Buy a
Dog?”—A Sensible View—Mistaken
Identity —ln His Line.
"KYSEB, DON’T YOU WANT TO BUY A
DOG ?”
“ I like to know if you haf some lawsuit for
me ?” he asked, as Mr. .Stebbins left him on the
mark.
•• Is your name Peter Kraft ?”
" Dat vhas me.”
“ You are the man who threw stones at the
driver of a baker’s wagon ?”
“ Der worry same.”
“ Then I have a lawsuit laid up for you. Pe
ter, you are charged with disorderly conduct,
and 1 am free to say that the case has a serious
look.”
“ I like to tell you all about it. I vhas in dis
country six years, und ”
“ Never mind how long you have been in the
country.”
“ Vhell, I haf two brudders in Shermany und
sometimes—
“ Never mind about your two brothers in
Germany. Why did you throw stones at the
baker’s wagon ? ’
“Vhell, I goes up Clinton street und I haf my
dog along by a rope. Dot drifer comes along
und sings at me.”
“ What did he sing?”
“ It vhas aboudt Kyser, doan’ you like to buy
some dogs, und he laughs like he vbas tickled
to death.”
“ is your name Kyser ?”
“Of course not. I neffer hear of sooch a man
tn Detroit.”
“ Then what did you pay attention to him
for?”
“ Vhell, if somebody calls you a liar und you
vhas no liar, what makes you hit him mit your
fist?”
“ I am asking questions of you. Did the
driver do anything further ?’’
“ j doan’ see him, but I doan’ like somebody
to make fun of me.”
“ But you mustn’t assault people in this way,
Peter. I shall fine you $3.”
“ Who pays ?”
“ You do.”
“When?”
•* Right off—now.”
“ Dot vhas some more ahokes on me. I doan’
haf no tree dollar for two weeks past.”
“Then it will be twenty days.”
“Twenty days be ore 1 pay ?”
“Twenty days in the Workhouse. I hope it
may cool you off.”
“1 pays leefty cent.”
"No, sir.”
“ I pays one dollar.”
“ Fall back.”
“ Two dollar.”
" Take him away I”
“ Vhell, I pays it all; but if I goes along mit
my dog again und somebody calls mo Kyser, I
shall ”
“ That will do. You just go right along about
your business. If you are brought here again
you won't get off so easily.”
A SENSIBLE VIEW.
“ I am inclined to look this thing square in
the face,” observed William Cullom, as he
looked over the desk.
“ The charge is drunkenness.”
“ Exactly; and I’m guilty. How long will it
take to send me up ?”
“ About ten seconds.”
“That’s promptness and dispatch. Make it
thirty.”
“The clerk will so record it.”
“ And I’m obliged to both you and the clerk.
As long as a man is guilty, and has got to go
up, what's the use of tooling around and taking
up your valuable time ? If I come again, and
I probably shall, I will be greatly obliged if
you will just call out ‘sixty days’ on me as I sit
in the cell. That will save all this walking to
and fro.”
MISTAKEN IDENTITY.
“ I doan’believe I’ze de pusson you want,”
said Moses Skinner, as he faced the music.
“We seldom make mistakes, Moses. You
were picked up in an alley, and the charge is
drunkenness.”
“ Who said I was drunk ?”
" Here’s the officer to swear to it.”
“ How does he know I am de pusson ?”
“He remembers your face.”
“Jedge, dis am all a mistake. I’ze got a
twin brudder in Toledo, and he’s de man vou
want.”
“ This twin will do for us. I shall make it
thirty days.”
“ Jedge, doan’you do it. I’ze a sober, hard
workin’ man, while my twin brudder am a tuff
case. He’s de identical pusson you want to get
bold of.”
“ The sentence is recorded and you will re
tire.”
“ Say, Jedge, if you war’ ’rested in place of
another fellow would you like to ”
“I don’t think I should. Remove the pris
oner and give him a front seat in the omni
bus.”
IN HIS LINE.
“ Is this Thomas Reed ?”
“ Yes.”
“ Drunk last night ?”
“I was.”
“ Plead guilty ?”
“ I do.”
“Wish to urge extenuating circumstances ?”
“ No. It’s in my line to get drunk. I’ve got
drunk about once a month tor the last twenty
years, and I shall probably keep it up lor an
other twenty. How much is it ?”
“ Thirty Says.”
“ That’s the usual dose, and I have no com
plaints to offer. Good-by, Judge—l’ll come
again as soon as convenient.”
—aw—
Inflammation in Eggs.—There is a
condition of the egg, little known, which con
siderably impairs its sanitary value as an article
of food. Soon after it became the practice to
transport eggs in large quantities and to long
distances by railway trains, it was found on
their arrival that adhesion had taken place be
tween the membranes of the yolk and those of
the shell, so that the yolk could not be turned
out of the shell unbroken. On examination by
experienced pathologists, this was found to be
the result of true inflammation; the material of
the adhesion was found to be precisely the same
as that of the plastic exudation in inflammation
of the lungs or bowels. It will at first seem ab
surd to speak of inflammation in such an un
formed mass as an egg; but this arises from
our forgetting that, structureless and unorgan
ized as it seems, the egg, even when fresh laid,
is a living being and capable of disease from
external causes. The cause of this inflamma
tion is undoubtedly the shaking and friction
from the motion of the cars, and it cannot but
render the egg more or less unhealthy, as the
products of inflammation can never be as salu
tary in food as those of healthy growth.
Cremating Garibaldi’s Remains.— A
remarkable controversy is being fought out
over the body’bf Garibaldi. It will be recol
lected that when the hero and patriot died, his
last will was found to confirm his expressions
in life in favor of cremation. He required his
executors to see that his body should not be
buried, but be burned. The feelings of some
of the members of his family, and not a few of
his friends, were adverse to such a treatment
of his remains. From that time to thia the
present head of the family, the Deputy Menotti
Garibaldi, has been entreated again and again
by his father’s admirers to carry out the great
patriot's last request. Menotti, however, has
always steadilly resisted these appeals. The
whole business has now been put into the hands
of the Milan Cremation Society, which is about
to take legal proceedings against Menotti Gari
baldi, in order to compel him to lay aside his
personal objections and comply with the direc
tion of his father,
Pockets.—Pockets are the long result
of time. Any scholar who tries to think of the
Greek for “pocket” will at once see that the
Greeks had not acquired this apparently simple
resource of civilization. It was not that they
had nothing worth stealing, still less that they
were too honest to steal. The Latin word p ra,
borrowed directly from the Greek, is as near
“ pocket ” as the classical races could attain to ;
and the Romans had not even the pera till they
copied it from Greece. The pera, which is often
mentioned by Homer, was no proper pocket,
but a leathern scrip or bag hung from the
shoulder. In such a scrip did Odysseus store
his broken meat when he was disguised as a
beggar. The scrips of the disciples are men
tioned, as every one remembers, in the New
Testament. The Greek, like our Teutonic an
cestors, had to carry a wallet, or make what use
he might of the fold of the chiton which fell
over the girdle. Herodotus speaks ot the fold,
or kolpus, in this sense; and Theocritus, when
the Alexandrian public would not buy his
poems, complained that they held their hands
tight under their kolpoi. where, no doubt, they
rattled their drachmas in a vulgar and irritating
manner. To such resorts was pocketless man
compelled, and he was obliged to make separ
ate sheaths or cases for articles of common use.
He had a case hung by a belt for his pens, knife,
and ink-horn. He did without pocket-handker
chiefs. He carried a bag at his side with his
money in it, like Isaac, the Jew of York, wheso
bag, it will be remembered, was snatched away
by Prince John. So long was man pocketless
that in Firholt’s Glossary of English o>stume.
the word “ pocket ” does not occur at all, though
we find “ poke ” and “ pouch.” “ With that he
pulled a dial from his poke,” says Shakespeare;
and this poke was probably a wallet worn at the
side, or from the shoulder. Pockets cannot
harve been much earlier than breeches. A man
in pocketless breeches would be a miserable
uninventive animal. Breeches, in the modern
sense, came in under Queen Elizabeth. Nor
have we long to wait for pockets after this bene
ficent invention ot breeches. In The Ram Alley,
an old play of 1611, we read, “ His breeches
must be pleated as if he had thirty pockets.”
By 1658 pocket-holes were worn half the breadth
of the breeches. But, so slow is evolution,
scrips were worn at the waist even after breech
es were an accomplished triumph of invention.
As soon as we meet the original form of the
modern coat, we find the second Charles wear
ing a coat with pockets in the flaps. From that
hour the pocket was a firmly-established insti
tuiron, developing, in special conditions, the
obsolete fob.
A Boy Who Can See in the Dark.—
Says the Chicago Journal: Mrs. Quinn returned
from a visit to England and Ireland two days
ago and is living at No. 471 North Wells street.
She took her little boy across the Atlantic to
have his eyes examined by celebrated oculists,
who stated that they had never beheld such a
phenomenon before, although surgical litera
ture recited solitary instances. Yesterday Mrs.
Quinn visited the Eye and Ear Infirmary, a
State institution on Peoria street, and showed
the child to Dr. Charles F. Sinclair, who was so
much struck with the case that he at once
called in four other eye specialists and interro
gated Mrs. Quinn at some length. They agreed
that the case was a most unusual one, no other,
in fact, than a congenital absence of the major
portion of the iris in both eyes. The ins is the
grayish circle in the centre of which is the
pupil of the eye. In the case m question a
portion only of the iris is visible, upon the
outer side of each pupil, presenting a remark
able appearance and an interesting study of
specialists and the profession at large. The
medicos asked Mrs. Quinn to accompany them
into a darkened room where tests and examina
tions are made, and arrived there it was seen
at once that the little lad’s eyes were similar in
nearly all particulars to those of the feline.
There was an immediate expansion, and the
eyes blazed in the dark like balis of fire. Mrs.
Quinn said that eminent practitioners in Eng
land had told her that nothing could be done,
and in this the gentlemen of the Illinois Eye
and Ear Infirmary concurred. Tbe child sees
better in a subdued light or darkness, as too
much light blinds him, and he distinguishes
objects at a distance much more readily than
when placed few a feet from his face. It is a genu
ine case of photophobia and many eye special
ists of Chicago have requested permission
to call upon Mrs. Quinn with a view of ex
amining the pretty boy, who is a bright, healthy
infant, with no other peculiarities.
How to Make Strawberry Ice Cream.
—A genuine strawberry ice cream is made as
follows: Sprinkle sugar over the berries, wash
them and rub them through a fine sieve to sep
arate the seeds, then set aside until the custard
is ready. Take one pint of milk, one cup of
sugar, two table spoonfuls of flour, one spoon
ful of salt, two eggs, one pint to one quart of
cream, as you can obtain it, one-half a cup to
one cup of sugar. Boil the milk, mix the sugar,
flour and salt; add the whole eggs and beat all
together. Add the boiling milk, and, when well
mixed turn them into the double boiler and
cook twenty minutes, stirring constantly until
smooth, after that occasionally. When it is
cool add the cream, the sifted strawberries,
allowing one pint of the fruit to two quarts of
cream, and sugar enough to make it quite
sweet. It should be a iittle too sweet, perhaps,
as the freezing seems to take away something
of the sweetness. Freeze and keep well packed
until serving time. Or you may make the
cream and freeze it partially, and when it is
about half frozen add whole strawberries, then
finish the freezing process. Either way will
make a delicious ice cream. For a strawberry
sherbet, the fruit should be prepared as in the
first rule lor making strawberry ice cream —
that is, the berries should be sprinkled with
sugar, mashed, and, when the sugar is dis
solved, put through a very fine sieve to free the
pulp and juice from the seeds. Use in the fol
lowing proportions: One pint of berry juice, one
pint of sugar, one pint of water, the juice of two
lemons, and one tablespoonful of gelatine.
Soak the gelatine in half a pint ot cold water
for ten minutes, add half a cup of boiling wa
ter, and, when the gelatine is dissolved, add
the sugar, the berry juice and the juice of the
lemons. Strain as soon as the sugar is dis
solved and freeze.
A Scotch Economist.—lt is related in
Kay's Edinburgh Portraits, as illustrative of
the peculiar economy of Lord Dunsinnan, of
the Scotch judicial bench, that he had only one
bed at Dunsinnan beside those occupied by his
servants, thus to preclude the possibility of be
ing put to the expense of entertaining visitors.
It so occurred that the late George Dempster,
of Dunnichen, one of the most intimate of the
very few friends with whom his lordship asso
ciated, paid him a visit at Dunsinnan on one
occasion, and having tarried a little later than
usual, a violent storm arose, which induced
Mr. Dempster to think of remaining all night.
Dunsinnan, unwilling to admit the inhospitable
arrangements of his mansion, evaded the propo
sition by every possible means, in the hope
that the storm might abate. At last, finding
there was no likelihood of this, he sallied forth
to the stable to order his friend’s coach to the
door, as tbe only effectual hint to his guest; but
Dempster’s coachman was not to be so caught—•
he positively refused to harness the horses in
such a night, especially as the roads were so
bad and dangerous, preferring rather to lie in
the stable, if he could get no other accommoda
tion, till daylight Lord Dunsinnan, thus
driven to extremities, returned to his guest
and made known the dilemma in which they
were placed. “George,” said be, “it you stay,
you will go to bed at ten and rise at three, and
then I shall get the bed after you.”
Murder of a Sailor by Brigands.—
Details of a terrible tragedy reach us from Cor
sica, the traditional nursery of red-handed
crime and black revenge. On the 14 th in st. a
small Italian coasting vessel put into the harbor
of Port Vecchio, on the southeast coast of the
island. Alter the anchor had been cast two
sailors went ashore for wood. It was then about
eight o’clock in the morning. Scarcely had the
men landed and moored their boat when they
were accosted by two Corsicans armed with
muskets, who had issued frem a neighboring
thicket, and who turned out to be two brigands.
These ruffians ordered one of the sailors to re
turn to his vessel and ask the skipper for a sum
of £l2 as a ransom for his companion. Unless
the money were promptly forthcoming to the
last farthing the hostage was to be shot. The
sailor went on board and recounted his perilous
adventure and its threatened consequences un
less the money were forthcoming. There was
not, however, a sufficient sum on board the ves
sel to pay the ransom, and as a last resource the
alarm signal was hoisted to attract the attention
of the military guarding the entrances to the
harbor and town. At this juncture the brigands,
who watched every movement on board the
coaster, brought down their hostage where he
could be seen by his companions, and one of
them, placing the muzzle of his rifle against the
poor fellow’s left ear, fired. The sailor fell dead.
Boils and
Carbuncles result from a debilitated, im
poverished, or impure condition of the
blood. They are a source of great suffer
ing, and are liable to appear in large
numbers, unless overcome by the use of
some powerful alterative. Ayer’s Sarsa
parila cures these painful tumors, and also
prevents them, by removing their cause.
One year ago I suffered from Boils and
Carbuncles, and for nearly two months
was unable to work. I was entirely
Cured By
taking two bottles of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla.
— Leander J. McDonald, Soley street,
Charlestown, Mass.
For some time past, until recently, mv
blood was in a disordered condition. I
was covered from head to foot with small,
and very irritating, blotches. After using
three bottles of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, I am
entirely cured. — C. Ogden, Camden, N. J.
I suffered with Boils every spring, for
years, until I began taking
Ayer’s Sar
saparllla. A few bottles of this medicine
effected a permanent cure. — E. F. Lund,
Portsmouth, Va.
Prepared by Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Maea.
Municipal Home Rule in Germany.—
A striking feature of the German municipal sys
tem is its entire independence of national
politics. No issues but those arising out of
municipal questions are allowed to influence
the city elections. Every male inhabitant,
twenty-four years of age, has a right to vote on
municipal questions, provided he have his own
household and is not dependent upon father or
mother; that he has not received alms from the
public funds within twelve years; that he has
paid all municipal diu-H that he occupies a
house or pursues a trade with two employers;
that he pays an income tax or a class tax. Under
one or another ot these live conditions all in
dustrious persons in the it,y are- included. That'
all voters should count c -ually is regarded as
unbusineas-like. Tbe arrangement adopted to
meet this po nt of vi -w is this: Voters are
divided into three classes, each of which elect
one-third of the city council. To the first class
are assigned so many o» the largest taxpayer®
as pay one-third ot the taxes assessed; to the
second so many as in the aggregate pay the
second third ot the taxes; to the third clas®
belong all not included in the first and second.
Each of tbe three classes elects forty-two them—
bers of the council, its influence upon ques
tions of finance being kept in strict equality with
its tax payments. The city council of Berlin
has long been conspicuous :or the educational
and financial standing of its members. Elec
tion to it is accounted an honor to which the
ablest men of the city asp re.
Artists’ Models in Paris.—A curious
bit of statistical lore has list come to
seems that in Paris there is an official list kept
ot artists’ models, and that their number for
the present year amounts to 671. All nation
alities are represented in this document, but in.
ptoport Ous that seem at first sight surprising.
The Italians head the list. Of the whole 671
they constitute about a third. Paris herself
only supplies about on • half what Italy sup
pies. Of French mod 1 .in the Paris studios
there are but 12 >. T.e (termans are strong at
80; and then there are >( Swiss, 50 Spanish girls,,
the same number of Belgians, 45 English, 30
Americans, 4 Aus.rians, z lortuguese and 1
Irish girl. Tbe statisri- s supply not only na
tionality but age. Of the 671, 130 have passed
their ma ority. All the rest are young girls
from 18 to 20. Of course they do not gain their
livelihood exclusively by their sittings. Most
of them are ballet girls - or, to adopt their own
definition, dramatic artists. There are 40 dress
makers, 80 manufacturers of artificial flowers,,
and the same number of milliners, while a
large margin have no occupation. Unfortu
nately the o ticial record goes further. It seems
that of the 671 at least a third are familiar with
the insides of the prisons as well as of the
studios. There are two sittings in each day- a.
morning and afternoon The morning is froin
eight to twelve, tbe evening from one to five, or '
from two to six ; and these sittings range in re
muneration ;rom 21. to 50f.
Successful Every Time.—Says the'
Baltimore Sunday Herald: A wharf commis
sion man has found a new way to dispose of
dead chickens. A day or so ago when he
opened his store he lound about two dozen
dead ones in the stock t;»at had been left over.
He didn’t know wnat to do with tfeim. He
couldn't throw them m the back yard, and while l
he could have thrown one in the street (unob
served), that action would not have disposed of
the lot. He c-lled his colored drayman into
consultation and asked him to take the chickens
on tbe dray and drop them in th® street at in
tervals of a square. The drayman said: “ Boss,
I’se got er better scheme en dat; you jes’ turn a
bar’l upside down in front o’ de sto’ en put dem
chickens on top’n it en i’ll ’gage dat dey’ll be
gone in de mornin’.” Ihe gcheme was tried
and it worked well. There were no chickens on
the barrel when the sun rose next day. The
merchant has been disposing of his dead
chickens in that way ever since, and the dray
man who was the originator ot the plan’is
seriously thinking of applying for a patent on it,.
A Sure Exterminator.—The other
day Samuel Streepey, of Slateford, Pa., discov
ered that his currant bushes were covered by
the destructive currant worms. He treated
them to doses of insect poison, but found that
the worms seemed to thrive all the better,.
Streepey, then made up bis mind to try a new
experiment. He sprinkled a bush with sulphur,,
and then poured gunpowder from a flask over
the sulphur. Striking a match, he applied it to
the powder. The bush was enveloped in sul*
phurous flames m an instant. At the sam®
time the flask, which Streepey held in his left'
hand, went off like a cannon. With it wenfr
most of Streepey’s hand. The sight of one eya
was also destroyed. The bush was shriveled
up as if frost had settled on it. But the worrftA
on that particular bush were exterminated.
An Affectionate Dog.—Judge By
bee, ot Portland, Oregon, has an Irish setter,
and between the Judge and the dog a very in
timate friendship exists. The other day th®
Judge went to San Francisco without consulting
the setter. As soon as the dog missed his mas
ter he went moping about, and refused to b$
comforted. The next day he grew moodier, andi
when three days passed by, and still no master
was visible, he laid down in the closet where
the hunting traps were kept and refused all
caresses, an 1 for five days would not take a
particle of food. Finally he wandered off to &
livery stable where his master’s horse was
kept, and would not to be driven away. Once a
day he went back to the house for food, and
kept up tbe programme until the absent one re
turned.
Numkbous Puts. —“ I called on a
queer family in Alua recently,” said a Batb
(Me.) doctor. “They have no children, but
they have altogether too many pets to suit me,
The woman opened the door and let in a cat.
Then the old man let in a dog. Pretty soon I
heard a pecking at a window pane and a weird
voice saying, ‘Cold, cold.’ The woman hastily
raised the window, when in flew an old black
crow. The crow could sty several words with
much distinctness. I had not seen all the fam
ily yet. in a short time two white mice ap
peared on the floor. They were anxious to
make my acquaintance, it seems, for they
crawled up my legs and inside my coat until I
shivered, and the old man took them and kissed
them.”
A Laugb Diamond.—The large dia
mond of 407 karats, found in South Africa flu
1884, has now been cut, and weighs about 200
karats. The Kohinoor weighs only 106 karats,
the Regent ot France 136% karats, and the
Great Mogul 279 karats, but it is a lumpy
stone, and not cut in proper brilliant form, like
the Cape stone. There is also a Portuguese
stone, the Br ganza diamond, but it is doubt
ful if it is a diamond at all, and not merely &
fine topaz. If it is a diamond, it is by far the
largest known. There are othpr diamonds of
great value, but the new stone is expected'to go
far to eclipse them. Jt is the property of a syn-?
dicate at present, but probably it will find a.
purchaser in time.
The “ Weed ” in Bcrmah.—lt is com
monly asserted that the Burmese all smok®-
and that Burmese babies cry for a cigar inste&J
of crying lor the moon. Th s is not so. Bur
mese children never smoke before they cap
walk; but, as so n as they can do thatj they
start with cigars that might do as walking
sticks for them. It is unite common to see a>
lot of little boys and girls in the streets making
m id pies and puffing clouds with equal enthu
siasm. Burmese cigars are very big, nearly aw
inch in thickness, and they round a young
lady’s mouth a little too much perhaps. But
they smoke them all the same ; and the usual
present a Burmese belle makes to her favored
swa n is a bundle of cigars rolled by her own
fair hands.
To Restore Fad’d Ink.—A discovery
has been made by which the faded ink on parch
ments may be so restored as to render the wri
ting per eutly legible. The process consists in
moistening the paper with water and then pass
ing over the lines in writing a brush which has
been wet in a solution of ammonia. The wri
ting will immediately appear quite dark in
color, and this color, in the case bf parchment,
it will preserve. On paper, however, the color
gradually fades again, but it msy be restored at
pleasure’by the application of the sulphide.
Riches a Small Part gf Life.—The
monumental mistake of the age is, that the man
who does not get rich is a failure. The truth
is, in most cases our rich men furnish the most
signal examples ot failure. They neither get
happiness for themselves out of their wealth,
nor make it useful to others. And the most
striking fact in their obituary notices is, that
they died worth po much money. Too often
their death is a gain rather than a loss to the
communities in which they h ive lived their
selfish lives.
Carbuncles
For years I was afflicted with Car*
buncles on the back of my neck. They
were a source of much suffering. I eom.
menced taking Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, which
cured the Carbuncles, and has since kept
me entirely free from them; my appetite
has Improved, and I am in better health
than ever before. — 0. Snell, Lowell, Mass.
I was troubled, for a long time, with a
humor which appeared on my face In ugly
Pimples and Blotches. By
Taking
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla I was cured. I con
sider this medicine the best blood purifier
in the world. — Charles H. Smith, North
Craftsbury, Vt.
I had numbers of Carbuncles on my
neck and back, with swellings in my arm
pits, and suffered greatly. Nothing re
lieved me until I began taking Ayer’s
Sarsaparilla. This medicine restored me
to health. — Selby Carter, Nashville, Tenn.
By taking a few bottles of Ayer’s Sar
saparilla
I have been cured of a troublesome skin
disease, caused by nnpuie blood. — Wm.
O. Vanever, Battle Creek. Mich.
Sold by all druggists, Price *l, .lx bottles, €&•■■