New York dispatch. [volume], June 13, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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EMPTY r, HA I RS.
BY W. J. bb'NGAN.
look around my r *oru at home,
The room wbero th? children played.
I Bee the chairs they used so oft.
The chairs where they knelt and prayed.
I call to mind t .eir h ippy lives,
So full of their rmrtb and glee,
1 see them in their m-rry games.
And I hear their lau o hter ifce.
Four little empty chairs at home.
Stand lonesome a»a use the wall,
Seeming to wait for those to come
Who wiil never coin* ac all.
Tour little lives, so tree from care,
For this world of sin, too pure,
<God took them to himself again.
To an endless home secure.
Tour little empty chairs at home.
Bring such saddened thoughts to-night;
They call to mind lour little forms,
Long since buried out of sight.
J fain would put these chairs away,
Out of my sight at borne,
They seom to mock me waiting there,
For the children do not come.
JButno, I still will let them stand.
So lonesome against the wall.
They bring to mind e ;ch passing day,
Some sweet mem’ry of them all.
J think sometimes that they’ll come back,
Those four Lttle lives, so dear,
And fill again those empty chair* —
They seem still to be so near.
So let them stand, four little chairs,
Where the children knelt to pray.
Where Virgie, Bush and Mary Mead,
And Laura used to play.
Yes, let them stand, though empty now,
And when e'er we bow in prayer,
We’ll ask to meet them all above
Where there is no empty chair.
rji SI 113
THASTOI OF THE LAKE.
BY EDMUND MITCHELL, M. A.
My profession is that of a barrister; but a
comfortable private meome and devoted love
ior the seclusion of my library have conduced
o keep me out ot the madding strife of the
aw courts,
My residence is in London, and when I am
pot in chambers, I am to be found almost cer
tainly at Eastwood Hall, a dear old bouse lying
in a beautifully wooded park within a few
.aoura’ journey from the metropolis.
Eastwood Was the home of my boyhood.
Mrs. Armitage, who was then its mistress, was
my aunt, but throughout my orphaned youth
she was to me as a motuer. Her two sons,
though some ten years younger than myself, I
always looked upon as my younger brothers,
and as such loved them in my own quiet way.
Their father, Colonnl Armitage, after a long ill
ness, contracted during foreign service, had died
when Charles was about three years old, and
Norman was beginning to think about cutting
his first tooth.
When the great sorrow of her husband’s
death fell upon Mrs. Armitage, I was only a
boy myself. Unlike her own sons, however, I
was old enough to realize what death meant,
Mid the griet-striokeu widow, her young mar
ried lile blighted almost at its outset, turned to
me for such sympathy and consolation as a boy
can give. From that hour, when the long ex
pected end had come and she flung her arms
around my nteck, sobbing as it her heart would
break, a new bond oi affection seemed to unite
us. I have always thought that in the years
that followed, something of her chastened sor
row passed into my lie, making me thought ul
beyond my age. Be that as it may, as I grew
toward manhood I came to be m'y aunt's ad
viser and counsellor in all matters relating to
the boys and the property.
The years rolled by, the lads grew to man’s
estate and Eastwood ceased to be my home.
But my rooms were always kept ready for me
at the Hall, and whenever I chose to make my
appearance, there was awaiting me a warm wel
come from my cousins and their mother.
Nor did 1 ever lose the position ot family ad
viser. No step ol auy consequence was taken
without my being consulted. Many a trivial
little matter for discussion was made the ex
cuse for a pressing invitation to run down to
Eastwood, and was accepted by my conscience
as a sufficient justili.ation for breaking for a
spell from my studios and literary work. I
was unfettered by the trammels of wedlock and
was free at any moment to go whither my soul
listed.
My mind often travels bank to one special
occasion on which I was bidden to Eastwood.
My visit this timo was for a good and sufficient
reason. Charles’s regiment was ordered rather
unexpectedly to India, and he had leave of a
few brief days at home before sailing, Ot
course I bad to be at once telegraphed for, as
there were a hundred and one things to discuss
and arrange.
My poor aunt was in great distress at the
prospect of a long parting from her son.
Charles himself was in high spirits. A soldier
by birth and disposition, he longed for change
and adventure. Alter three or four busy days,
the hour of parting came, and on Charles’s part
no less than his mother’s the farewell was a sad
and affecting one.
Norma® And I accompanied him to Ports
mouth and saw the “ Malabar’’ sail. The two
brothers were deeply attached, and poor Nor
man seemed afraid to open his lips, lest he
Tbould betray tears in hia voice. There were
ove and gratitude in Charles’s grasp as he
wrung my hand for the last time. We watched
ike vessel steam away, the young soldier stand
ing on the deck with his comrades, his hand
again and again waving an adieu. Then we
turned sadly away, our laces set homeward.
I accompanied Norman back to Eastwood
and remained there a few days, comforting the
mother’aanxions heart as best I could. At the
end ot a fortnight, when I went up to London,
Mrs. Armitage bad begun to speak cheerfully
and hopefully of her absent boy.
Six months passed by, and Norman, too, had
gone from the home neat, having entered the
diplomatic service and become attached to a
foreign embassy. Wo hoard regularly from
Charles in India; he wrote long letters to bis
tnpther, and these, by previous arrangement,
were sent by her to Norman, and by Norman to
me. Thus we all had the foil benefit of his
news, and in return hardly a mail passed with
out each ot us giving him a letter.
It was now midsummer—Charles had sailed
early in the year. I had not been out of Lon
don for more than a month and the weather
was oppressively hot and sultry. For some
•days I had felt overcome with ennui and disin
clined for work of any kind.
At last, one morning when I looked forth and
•saw that we wore in for another baking day, I
gave in, escaped from the hot streets and
glaring pavements, and found myself speeding
through green fields and over bubbling brooks
toward Eastwood.
The warmest of welcomes awaited me. Now
that both her sons were away, Mrs. Armitage
felt her life dull and cheerless, and she was
grateful when I announced my intention of
Staying with her for at least two or three weeks.
Our tete-a tele dinner that evening was a pleas
ant one—our con- creation all in regard to the
absent ones and their letters. An Indian mail
Was almost due and the news it would bring
Was eagerly canvassed.
Shortly after ten o’clock we retired to rest.
My rooms, on the ground floor, in one of the
wings had French windows opening on to the
lawn. On reaching them I flung the windows
•wide, and lighting a shaded lamp, set myself to
road, with the cool night air caressing my
forehead.
But somehow that night I could not fix my
thoughts on my book. At last, after one or two
vain efforts, 1 rose, lit a cigar, turned down the
lamp, and drawing the windows so;tly behind
foe, sauntered forth into the park.
One of the groat attractions of Eastwood is
the lake; in breadth it at no point much exceeds
.•a stone's throw, but, as it winds about, its length
ifixtonds to beyond a m’lo.
From earliest boyhood the lake had been re
iplote with memories of boating, fishing, swim
xning and seating. Thither that night I bent my
footsteps, sauntering slowly along. A quarter
Of an hour sufficed to bring me to the wooded
path that followed the windings of the water.
At last I came to the boat-house, in front of
•which the lake was at its broadest. I seated
anyself on a bench, and having finished my cigar,
■gave myself up to the luxury of meditation.
The moonlight streamed upon the water, the
surface where its silvery sheen fell in bright
contrast to the dark shadows thrown by the
trees and by the scattered shrub-clad islets. A
balmy zephyr blow down the valley, faintly rust
ling the leaves and rippling the water at my
feet.
Boated there, I felt like one of the Lotophagi
of old, filled with perfect present bliss, forget
ful of time past and unmindful of time to come.
I heard the ripple of water and the rustle of the
loaves. I had the faint consciousness of the
distant chiming of the clock in the village
church tower. Ever and anon, also, the splash
of a trout rising to a moth broke upon my ear,
otherwise not a sound invaded the perfect still
ness of the night.
A full hour mav have passed thus, when I was
roused In a second from this state of half-dream
ing trance. I leaned forward, eagerly listening.
It was a strange sound to hear on a midsum
mer night, yet my practiced ear could liken it to
nothing but the rhythmical ring of a skater
sweeping in long curves over an ice-bound sheet
of water.
The sound for a brief space faded without dy
ing away. I had heard the same effect a hun
dred times before, when on Winter nights I had
outstripped .Charles or Norman, and had waited
for them at the boat-house until they rounded
the bend some hundred yards farther up. As
this thought flashed through my mind, the
sound again gradually grew upon my ear, and
now I could distinguish the sharp clang of the
steel as it mot the surface of the ice and the dull
-swish of the succeeding stroke.
Almost involuntarily I strained my eyes to
ward the bend, which was overshadowed By
lofty trees and bathed in inky blackness. My
trained ear followed and interpreted-every mod
ulation ef the sound, and my heart murmured,
“ Now ho is round.!’
At the same instant there shot out from the
dark shadow on to the silvery surface of the
■proonlit water what in all truth seemed to be the
form of a skater advancing with rapid, bold
Sweeps. Fascinated and tor the moment dead
to other thoughts, I watched every graceful
ipovement. In a brief second the figure was
almost abreast of the boat-house. There was a
sUadvwy indistiuctuess about u, Lut ii seemed
that of a young man of noble bearing, wearing
a broad-brimmed hat, a dark cloak muffled
round him.
Soon the skater had shot up almost opposite
to where I stood. Then, without warning, the
arms are flung forward, there was a faint cry of
alarm, and the figure seemed to sink into the
water.
At the moment the boughs of the trees around
me bent as if before the wind, and a wintry
blast swept past me, whirling it almost seemed
snow-flakes in my face and chilling me to the
bone. I was conscious ot a succession of wave
lets leaping up and dashing against the sides of
the boat-house. Then all was still, and when I
sdook from me the feeling of horror that froze
my very heart’s blood, the soft, balmy midsum
mer night breeze was playing upon my cheek,
and the waters of the lake were rippling peace
fully and almost imperceptibly at my feet.
So realistic had been the vision I had seen
and the sounds 1 had heard, that my first im
pulse was to take a boat and push out to where
the figure disappeared. 1 rushed to the boat
house door, forgetting in my eagerness that it
was always locked except when some one was
rowing on the lake. When I realized that I
could not get at the boats, I paused to reflect.
While my mind had never given the subject
anything but casual and momentary attention, I
had always refused belief in the so-called super
natural. I came now to realize, however, that
this night I had seen something undreamed of
before in my philosophy.
As I turned from the boat-house, and made
my way homeward along the tree-lined path, I
felt my blood still chilled with fear. 1 had al
ways considered myself a fairly strong-minded
man, and incapable of conjuring up imaginary
alarms, but more than once I started at my own
shadow, and it was with a feeling of relief that
I regained my rooms.
My sleep that night was fitful and broken, and
by seven o’clock I had risen worn out and unre
freshed. Breakfast at the Hall was at nine
o'clock. About eight I strolled forth, to see if
an hour’s walk would restore my spirits.
For a moment I hesitated between the path by
the lake and the avenue. I chose the latter.
I had reached the main gates, and was stand
ing looking along the high-road, uncertain whe
ther to retrace my footsteps or prolong my walk,
when a gig drove up rapidly from the direction
of the village. It soon reached the spot where
I stood, and the man who was driving dropped
the reins and jumped to the ground. lat once
recognized him as the village postmaster. I
saw that hie face was pale, and then I caught a
glimpse of an ominous yellow envelope in his
hand.
“ What is wrong, Mr. Scott ?” I almost gasped.
Thank heaven I’ve met you, Mr. Hawthorne.
I took the message myself off the wire the mo
ment I opened the office, and came straight
here.”
“ What is it ?”
And I took the envelope from his hand and
tore it opon.
The message was from Calcutta, and was very
brief. It was addressed to Mrs. Armitage by
one of Charles’s brother officers, and told her
that her son had died from fever after a six
hours’ illness.
That was all. “Details by mail,” wore the
closing words.
My heart sank within me. For one minute
everything seemed to whirl round about me.
Then I realized the terrible task that lay before
me. In a few seconds I had made up my mind.
I jumped into the gig beside Mr. Scott, and he
drove me rapidly into the village. I at once
dispatched this message to Norman in Paris :
“ Come home at once; let nothing delay
you.”
Then I got Scott to drive me back to the park
gates. My last words to him were :
“Remember, not a whisper of this must roach
Mrs. Armitage till Mr. Norman s return. The
secret, meanwhile, lies with you and ms."
I was a little late for breaklast. Heaven
knows how I got through the meal. I excused
my absence of mind and my inability to con
verse on the plea of a sick headache. After
rising from the table, I withdrew to my room,
and eagerly consulted Bradshaw. I found that
Norman could be here at six-thirty ths next
morning.
The day passed like a restless dream; I
moved about and spoke mechanically. I was
afraid to shut myself up m my room, for I
wanted to be near my aunt in order that I might
guard against the bare possibility of the terrible
news breaking on her unexpectedly.
I was thankful when night came, and she re
tired to rest. As for myself, the succeeding
hours were spent in sleeplessly walking to and
fro. How the night dragged its slow length
along I
At last daylight broke. By five o’clock I was
at the little roadside station. An hour later the
kind-hearted postmaster joined me. He offered
to apologize for coming, but—“ You see, eir, I
couldn’t help it.” His voice spoke his sympa
thy, and without one friend to consult I was
grateful for his company.
The train arrived to the minute, and Norman
sprang on to the platform. His face was pale
and anxious.
“ What is wrong, Harry ?” he asked, eagerly.
“Is it my mother ?”
“No,” I faltered.
“Charley, then ?”
In another moment he knew all.
We started for the Hall, Mr. Scott undertak
ing to look after the luggage. I took him to my
own rooms, gaining admittance by the French
windows, and no one in the house knew that
Norman had come home.
By eight o’clock he had recovered from his
first shock of grief and was able to discuss with
mo the dreaded duty that awaited us, ot break
ing the news to hie mother.
1 will not attempt to describe the scene that
followed. When Mrs. Armitage entered the
breakfast parlor, my faoe must have told her
that some terrible trouble had fallen among us.
I faltered out Charles’s name. Thank God, I
had Norman at band for her to fold to her
heart With him left, she had still some one to
live for.
It was several months ere I ventured to speak
to my aunt in regard to the vision I had seen on
the lake the night before receiving the terrible
news that Charles was dead. From the first
the two events becakne associated in my mind,
but I feared to mention the subject. But the
day came when we could converse calmly and
resignedly about him that was gone.
'1 hen I learned tor the first time the story of
the Phantom of the Lake. It was based on a
family legend that several generations back the
youthful owner of Eastwood Hall had gone out
to skate the very night before his marriage. It
had been a severe Winter, and the ice was per
fectly sale, so that his friends did not seek to
prevent his going, though no one felt inclined
to accompany him. But on the lake that after
ternoon a portion of the ice had been broken to
allow swimming room for the swans. No eye
saw the accident; no one was at hand to render
help. But next morning the body was found,
and the young maiden who that day should
have become a bride, lost her reason when she
beheld her lover’s lifeless form.
Hence grew the legend that never an Armit
age dies a sudden or violent death but some
member of the family sees the phantom skater
on the ice and hears his last bubbling cry across
the waters.
Colonel Armitage had imparted the family
etdry to his wile, and both agreed that it would
bo better to let the weird legend fade into
oblivion. He himself had passed away after a
long and lingering illness, and there was no re
port of any supernatural manifestation to mark
the event. So the strange story had died out,
carefully concealed by the one or two who knew
it, and not till now had it reached my ears.
Well, time advanced with inaudible and noise
less step, and another five or six years rolled
over our heads. Norman was rising in the di
plomatic service, and bid fair to be a future
statesman. Mrs. Armitage was still with us,
and reigned as mistress of the Hall. 1 spent
many months of each year with her.
Once again I was bidden to Eastwood in re
gard to a family matter of importance. Nor
man was coming home from Berlin to get mar
ried. He would start for England in about a
fortnight’s time.
The news was not unexpected, hut it created
qmte a stir in the household. The next two
weeks were spent in busy preparations for Nor
man’s welcome home, and also for the event
that was to follow when he would bring a bride
to the old Hall.
Every arrangement had been made, and we
were now expecting his arrival almost hour by
hour. His last letter had stated that he would
leave at the earliest possible moment, but he
could not say definitely to a day when he would
bo released from his post.
It was early Autumn, and the weather was
close and sultry. The cool of the evening was
the most enjoyable part of the day, and I loved
to spend it on the lake, where there was nearly
always a gentle breeze blowing down the val
ley. Not that the place was without saddest
memories. I never found myself on the water
but 1 thought of the fate of Charles. Many a
time since then, In the falling shades of night
had I stooped and listened for the ring of the
phantom skater speeding along the ice. I had
never heard it again.
We had been all day on the tiptoe of expect
ancy, but the last train from London had ar
aived without bringing Norman. Having a
number o! important letters to write, soon alter
dinner I bade my aunt good night and with
drew to my rooms. It was ten o clock before I
had completed my work. Rather late for a row
on the lake, I thought, but I felt fagged with
the heat ot the day and tired with writing. So
I got the key of the boat-house and started for
the waterside.
Among the boats was a pretty racing gig,
some twenty feet long. I got her out and start
ed for a good pull. Bending to my oars, I
made the little craft fly through the water, leav
ing behind a long white track that sparkled in
the bright gleam of the harvest moon. ■
I soon reached the head of the lake, and
started on the home journey at a more leisure
ly stroke. When I had accomplished the dis
tance, and just as I approached the boat house,
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes past
eleven.
I was in the act of raising one oar to turn the
gig round at right angles to the b£uk, so as to
shoot her into the boat-house, when every
muscle ot my body seemed to become rigid.
There, away in the distance, borne faintly on
the breeze, came the rhythmical ring of skates
speeding over the ice !
I listened, frozen with horror. At times the
sound died away, then rose again, and I seemed
with my mind to follow the phantom skater as
he rounded each bend or passed each clump of
trees.
Now, however, the ring of the skates was
sh ip and clear, and on it came, nearer and
nearer, mercilessly approaching.
Attest ins ligU-0 1 La— seen years Lalors
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 13, 1886.
I shot round the bend and glided toward me
■ along the glittering surface of the water.
I For a moment I was paralyzed. But at last
; mind and muscle acted together, and with one
sweep oi my still uplifted oar I turned the boat
i broadside to the lane, right in the way oi the
advancing figure.
I moved my lips, but for a time they refused
to utter a sound. At last, with a supreme ef
fort, I managed to shout out:
“ Holloa 1 holloa I”
I heard mv voice echoing down the valley,
and I hardly recognized its terror stricken
tones.
At the sound, the speed with which the ad
vancing figure advanced seemed to slacken,
and I could hear the grinding sound tnat is
caused by a skater endeavoring to stop when in
lull career.
Twenty yards from the boat the figure came
to a standstill.
“ Holloa ! holloa I” 1 again cried out, incapa
ble of uttering any other sound.
Wor a moment the phantom gazed at me, my
long boat barring his path; then he turned
slowly round and skated away in the direction
whence he came. He disappeared round the
bend, and the ring of the skates died away in
the distance.
I cannot tell how I managed to get ashore. I
knew where brandy was kept in the boat-house,
but my trembling hand could hardly raise the
glass to my lips. It was not for myself I feared.
I thought ol Norman.
Till break of day I watched in the boat-house,
and listened with straining ear; but not again
did the dreaded ring of the iron skates break
upon the silence ot the night.
In the gray oi the morning I slipped back to
the Hall.
I changed my clothes and endeavored to calm
myself. By six o’clock I was in the little vil
lage post office, having roused Mr. Scott fully
two hours before his time.
I telegraphed to Berlin, to Norman’s address,
to ascertain whether he had yet started for En
gland, and sat down in a state of sickening
agony and suspense, determined to await the
reply.
Some fifteen minutes afterward the clicking
of the instrument showed that a message was
on the wire. I started to my feet, never think
ing that it was impossible for an answer from
Berlin to have reached me yet.
“ It won’t be for you, sir, ’ said Mr. Scott, ad
vancing to the instrument.
1 pressed close behind him.
“Yes, it is, though,” he cried, eagerly; then,
after a moment, he added, “ And it is from Mr.
Norman.”
The clicking of the instrument pierced my
brain as the postmaster spelled out the mes
sage word by word. It was dated from Dover,
and the hour of dispatch was lA. M. It rau as
follows:
“ Accident in the Channel. Don’t be alarmed.
Safe and starting for home.”
The message had lain in the London general
post office till the office at Eastwood had
opened.
1 seized my hat and rushed to the station.
Norman might arrive by the morning train.
Such, indeed, was the case. How fervently I
thanked God in my heart when I saw him
standing be ore me alive and well !
I soon got from him the outline of his story.
He had reached Calais just a few minutes aiter
the English packet had left. A tugboat that
had towed in a disabled vessel was, how
ever, on the point of starting for Dover.
He had at once accepted the offer of a passage,
hoping that, aiter all, he might catch the
mail train at Dover. When the boat had al
most reached its destination, a log came on, and
soon after they were run down by the very pas
senger steamer that Norman had missed. The
smaller vessel foundered almost instantan
eously, and, with the exception of Norman, all
on board perished.
But the most remarkable part of his story
was to come. He had not felt sleepy, and had
remained on deck during the whole passage.
He happened to look at his watch a few minutes
before the accident happened. It was a quarter
to eleven o’clock. A lew minutes later he found
himself struggling m the water lor dear life.
He saw the vessel that had run them down, her
way hardly checked by the collision, lade into
the misty darkness.
He thinks he was in the water quite half an
hour. Hope bad left him, he was numbed and
almost senseless, when there reached his ear,
borne through the billows of fog, a faint “ Hol
loa ! holloa T”
But, strangest of all, he thought that he re
cognized my voice—that it was 1 who was call
ing to him across the waters.
Nerved to make one more effort for life he
struck out in the direction whence the cry
came, and tried to articulate my name. But his
numbed lips refused to speak.
Then again he heard my voice shouting “ Hol
loa 1 holloa 1” In vain he tried to answer.
He remembered nothing more till he found
himself on board the mail packet, with some
one by his side moistening his lips with brandy.
A boat had been launched from the steamer
without a minute’s delay after the accident, and
it had come back through the fog to endeavor.to
rescue the ill-fated vessel's crew. No one, how
ever, was seen but Norman, and, indeed, when
he was £saved the rescuing party had almost
given up hope. They heard him splashing in
the water, and reached him not a moment too
soon. He was insensible when they got him on
board. He was soon brought round, and was
able to at once proceed to London.
My story was told to Norman and his mother,
and to this day both of them hold that to me he
owes his lite.
Years have rolled by, and when I visit East
wood little forms climb my knees, and childish
voices bestow upon me the loving name “ Uncle
Harry.” Mrs. Armitage, now descending into
the vale of years—l myself have entered on the
downward slope—always greets me with her
blessing. Norman and his wife—the story has
been|told to her—are to me as brother and
sister.
An artificially constructed island now marks
the spot where in a bygone generation the young
owner of Eastwood Hall came to his untimely
end. But none of us ever refer to the legend
ot the Phantom of the Lake, and we endeavor,
as far as possible, to forget its existence.
TORNADO STORIES.
One More Batch of Truthful Narratives
of Wind Storms.
(From the Atlanta Constitution,)
“ I suppress names, because I know the par
ties hate publicity; but the truth of what I
shall tell you cannot be doubted.”
The tall man smiled and gently nodded.
“ A few years ago,” continued the drummer,
“ a tornado rattled through the mountains in
Western Georgia. It was a regular knock-em
out breeze, and no mistake. It swept away
trees and houses, and in some places it split
big rocks into bits and ground them into pow
der. It struck the house of a gentleman farmer
while exerting its greatest force, but, strange to
say, it did but slight injury. It carried away
one corner of the house, leaving the rest some
what shattered, but still in the ring. In the
corner that was carried away was the parlor,
and in the parlor was the farmer s daughter,
who was deeply absorbed ia playing the piano.
The tornado yanked her and the tuneful in
strument into a big oak tree and left them.”
“ There is nothing surprising in all that,”
said the tall man.
“Perhaps not, my friend,” replied the drum
mer, “but you should wait until I finish. About
five o'clock in the afternoon the farmer, who
was searching for a few pieces ot his daughter,
stopped under the tree. I leave you to im
agine his surprise, gentlemen, when, startled
by the sound of a piano, he glanced up among
the limbs and beheld his daughter seated in a
crotch, with the uninjured instrument lodged
in front of her, calmly playing, * Blow gently,
ye evening breezes.’ ”
The tall man sighed.
A red-haired horse dealer from Tennessee
broke the silence.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I once lived in
West Tennessee, near the Mississippi river—a
pretty good country tor tornadoes itself. There
was a man named Brown, who lived on the big
road near Fort Pillow. He was well off, and
built for himself and family a handsome two
story brick house. About the time he got
it completed the Road Commissioners came
along and changed the big road so as to make
it run right along by his back gate. It made
Brown mad. He’d stand at the iront gate and
swear by the hour. One day a tornado struck
the house and gave it a whirl. Brown thought
his time had come, and began to pray, but, be
fore he got down to real work, the tornado
passed, and he found his house unhurt. But,
gentlemen, when he walked to the front door to
take a look at the landscape, you may take my
best horse it he didn’t find the big road just
right where he wanted it. The tornado had
lifted his house and turned it around.”
The tall man pretended to be asleep.
The drummer shook hands with the horse
dealer and offered him afive-cent cigar.
A wiry little fellow with side-whiskers, who
said he was “ a physician for the cure ot dis
eased orbs,” got us and stood in the aisle and
took off his glasses.
“Very interesting, gentlemen,” he said, “the
stories are very interesting. I have lived in
a tornado country myself. Colorado, gentle
men, is the country, to which I allude. Torna
does there, gentlemen, sometime play the—
the ”
“ Devil,” suggested the horse-dealer.
“ Quite correct, sir ; they sometimes play the
old scratch. But occasionally, gentlemen, they
accomplish a great deal of good. A case in
point, gentlemen, with your kind permission, I
will relate. A railroad was being constructed
through the mountains, and, of course, many
tunnels were necessary. In the Spring of the
year ten were begun at the same time. About
the time they were bored into the mountain
some twenty feet, a tornado came along. Re
markable fact, gentlemen, but it blew those
tunnels straight through the mountains, thus
saving to the railroad eompany a large sum of
money.”
“ Why don’t you shake hands with him and
give him a cigar ?” said the tall man, opening
his eyes'and looking at the drummer.
The suggestion was accepted and acted upon.
A. man with a deep bass voice told the next
story.
“ I am a lawyer, gentlemen, and, in my
younger days, rode the circuit m the neigh
boring State of Alabama. You are aware that
the State aforesaid is itself subject to the devas
tating influences of the tornado. In fact, were
the tornado amenable to the law, many of the
citizens of the State a oresaid could, through
the courts, obtain from it heavy damages.
I “ liui tlioau preliminary icui-rks are not to
the point. Relative to the tornado, I remember
an incident of its vagaries. A party of lawyers,
I being one of the party, desired to proceed to a
town twenty miles distant to attend court. A
picnic party had retained—l mean had hired all
the horses and vehicles in the town Irom which
the party of lawyers aforesaid desired to pro
ceed. It was, therefore, necessary to walk or to
miss the first day of the court. While the party
aforesaid was discussing the dilemma, a tornado
suddenly pounced upon the town. It picked up
the party aforesaid, and carried each of its
members to the town where the court was to
be held, without damaging either person or
wearing apparel.”
The drummer rewarded the lawyer by af
fectionately shaking hands with him. His sup
ply ot cigars was exhausted.
A newspaper man, who was a member
of the party, straightened up in his seat
and modestly asked permission to relate
his tornado experience. It was unamimously
and promptly granted.
“ A lew years ago, gentlemen,’’ he said,
“four liars were on a train bound for Atlanta.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of Altoona a
tornado overtook the train. It blew through
the cars, leaving everybody untouched except
the four liars. Those unfortunates I regret to
say, it hurled into an adjoining county, leaving
their mangled remains scattered over a lorty
acre-lot.”
The tall man opened his eyes and screamed
with laughter. The drummer forgot to
shake hands. The other story-tellers went into
another car. In another instant the train was
rushing on its way to Atlanta.
HE WANTED* A PASS,
Sad Story of a Decayed Gentleman Who
Was Once the President’s Friend.
(From.the Philadelphia News.)
Captain Leabourne refused to admit him to
the presence of Mayor Smith. He was one of
the shabby genteels, very shabby, indeed. But
though his hat was battered aud fluffy, though
his not too clean shirt peeped at the world
through his coat sleeves at the elbows, and
though his pantaloons did not reach the tops of
buttonless, cracked patent leather pumps, his
mien was none tbe less lolty. Misfortune,
whatever effect it had on him externally, had
not affected him as a man. The busy little cap
tain knew he was a beggar, and referred him to
Detective Allmendinger, whom he found down,
stairs. He made a profound bow, brushed’
back his hair, cleared his throat and said :
“ I am very sorry, indeed, for this intrusion.
Ac ‘Opt my humble apology ; but the meuial by
the portal up stairs positively declined to con
vey my card to the mayor, and I was referred
to you.”
He handed the detective the four of dia
monds, on which was written with a burnt
match the name “ J. Q. Duquesne.”
“ I am very much pleased to meet you Mr.
Dewkaue,” said the officer “and trust I may
be able to serve you.”
“Thanks. I think you can serve me. To-day
the first gentleman in the eternal republic sur
renders his personal freedom by entering the
state oi wedlock. The nation felicitates him,
but the heavens ween, and—so—do—l, for I
have an angel spouse who is better on before.
But I am one of Steve's earliest friends.”
“ What Steve ?”
“ Excuse the lapsus lingua. He is now the
President of the United States, and though wo
used to play shinny together, such familiarity
is unpardonable.”
“ But what can I do for you ?”
“ Let me explain. Before my eyes I now see
a chubby boy, whose rosy cheek is dimpled,
whose eyes sparkle brightly. Oh, happy inno
cent boyhood I I see another, a priggish lad.
It was myself. I have a dog, of which I am
proud. But the chubby lad is mischievous,
and ties a tin can to the canine’s tail, and the
intelligent brute instead of running off as a vul
gar cur would do, quietly squats on his
haunches and unties the knot with his teeth.
But the priggish lad—myself—is angry. He
strikes the chubby boy and they fight. The
priggish lad is conquered and yonder chubby
boy, who crowed over a fallen adversary, is
now President of the United States, and is to
be married to-day. It is meet that I, as one of
his oldest acquaintances, should be present at
the ceremony. I want you to secure me a pass
to Washington, where I oan arrive in time to
wish him joy. lam the priggish lad.”
Can t do it,” said the detective, and Mr. Du
quesne walked sadly away, saying he would
“ strike ” some of the railroad officials or steal
a ride on a buffer.
A FLEET-FOOT hD~~HOG.
A SPORTING MAN TELLS HOW HE
WON SI,OOO.
(From the Omaha Bee.)
“ Lucky about queer wagers,” said a sporting
man the other night, “ I shall never forget tbe
time I won SI,OOO on a fast hog. Have I ever
told you the story ?”
His auditors shook their heads and asked for
the tale, which he told as follows; “It was in
the Summer of 1878, if I recollect rightly. 1 had
been playing a pretty steep game in Chicago
that Winter and Spring, and when June came,
my not over-strong system was pretty nearly
broken down. Acting on the advice of a medi
cal friend, I took a jaunt to a little country
town in lowa, hoping that a mouth’s sojourn
there might brace me up for tbe Fall and Winter
campaign. But to tell you about the race. The
town had a pretty good course, and some of
tbe boys there owned some really good flyers,
ol which they were very proud. One of them,
whose name I needn’t mention, possessed a
mare upon whose fleetness he particularly
prided himself. Talking with him in a banter
ing way one day, I offered to produce a hog
which could beat his animal in a 300-yard run
ning race. He became angry, when I insisted
upon the matter.
■“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’l said to him
jocosely, • I’ll bet you any amount of money
you may name that my pig can win the race.
Do you take me ?’ The boys standing around
grew interested, and commenced to press
around. Tbe other man, whose face by this
time was livid with rage, roared, ‘l’ll bet you
one thousand dollars 1’
“This rather staggered me, but as I had the
money I wasn’t to be bluffed. I put it up. The
articles of agreement were quickly drawn up
and signed.
Well, to ont a long story short, I got hold of
one of these long, lank, hungry scrub porkers
and put him at once into training. My method
was to feed him a bushel of corn once a day.
Ths pig would be stationed at one end ot a
straight 300-yard lane, and over the line at the
other end the corn would be dumped at a given
signal. Tbe moment the corn was dumped the
pig was freed, and away he would scoot for the
other end. This kind of practice was kept up
for one month, and at the end of this time the
hungry hog could make the distance in away
that would put Maud 8. to shame. The day ot
the race came, and every man, woman and
child for miles around was on hand to witness
it. The raoe was run on the boy’s own ground,
according to agreement. The porcine racer was
more than usually hungry that day. He had
become so accustomed to finding his half bushel
ot corn at the other end of the lane, that when
he was released, upon the word ‘ go,’ he shot off
like a flash. He darted nuder the horse’s legs,
and before that animal and bis rider could re
cover themselves, was at the other end. He
didn’t get his corn, but I did get the one thou
sand dollars. I left town the next day.”
THE TALE" OF A CIRCE.
A Peculiar Type of Woman who Glides
from One Divorce Court to Another.
(San Francisco Correspondent Sacramento Bee.)
There ia a peculiar type of woman here. It
is she who keeps what is mysteriously called a
respectable place in our society, who takes ad
vantage of the laxity of the law to glide from
divorce court to divorce court, sucking hus
band after husband dry with her extravagance,
then casting him aside, and stepping upon his
body as upon a swine’s back to gain a higher
place. There is nothing coarse, nothing de
firaved about her. She is as incapable ot vio
ence and hatred as of love. She has as much
heart as a plant, as much gluttony as an ani
mal. And we meet them every day in every
town in the State, fascinating, cold-blooded and
destructive.
1 have one in my mind’s eye now—a blonde,
cat-faced, mild, plump darling—who, in an evil
hour, was invited by a young married lady to
spend a week or so with her. Her husband is a
great, stout, good-natured fellow, guileless as
an infant, and willing to believe all women
angels. The blonde visitor lost no time in prac
ticing her wiles upon her friend’s husband.
She began by taking the most lively interest in
the household. She praised the menage, de
clared that she had never seen a loving pair so
utterly and completely happy, and thus thor
oughly ingratiated herself into the confidence
of the unsuspecting wife. The husband was
quite proud ot their guest, and made much of
her, lamenting, that such an admirable woman
should have been so unhappily married, and
expressing the opinion that the man who would
ill-treat her was a brute.
This incident came under my own observa
tion, and when I look bacK upon the manner in
which the mischief was made, I am astonished
at the devilish skill and ingenuity oi the intrig
uante. The first assault upon the matrimonial
stronghold was by a sort ot gentle depreciation
of her friend, in this fashion, to the husband :
“ Why, Mr. , you would never think of
going on the street with sueh a fearful rent in
your overcoat. Poor Emily must be growing
forgetful of her good man,” and then the siren
would whip out her needle and thread, and
deltly sew up the rent which I now believe she
made herself darting every few seconds melt
ing and adoring glances at the great calf she was
encircling in her toils. Again, sne would express
the most ardent desire to see a certain play, and
Emily having some other engagement, would in
trust her to the care of her husband. Every
man enjoys being flattered by a pretty woman,
and when these cunning creatures talk about a
sympathy in tastes, and how he should have
some kindred mind which could soar to his al
titude, the fellow simply los'es his head, and lets
the charmer put the noose about his neck. So
it was with Ceesar, the wretched husband of my
theme. The siren talked slightingly, in a sym
pathetic strain, of course, ot his wi e, and so
constantly that Ciesar condoled with himself
upon having flung himself away upon a woman
who could not appreciate him, when, as a mat
ter ol fa:t, she wire a hundred times more intel
ligent, and the “casting away ” was altogether
upon her side.
One night, long after the divorcee and her
victim had passed the line which divides pla
tonism from passion, and when the wife had
; her suspicions aroused, this miserable affair
| was brought to a climax. He was in the library,
having sent bis wife to bed, telling her he had
some documents to look over in regard to a
case he was to try in the morning. She was
restless and could not sleep, so, a couple of
hours afterward, slipped on her wrapper and
crept quietly down-stairs to have a chat with
her husband. When she opened the door she
beheld a spectacle that froze the blood in her
veins. The poor, hard-worked lawyer was
seated before the fire, and on his knee, fondling
his blonde whiskers, was her friend, clad only
in her night gear. They did not perceive the
wife, who returned as noiselessly as she came,
dressed herself, and leaving a note of explana
tion for her husband, tied to her mother’s
home. There was no divorce: the parties be
came reconciled for the sake of two pretty chil
dren, but the wile has lost confidence in the
husband, and he has grown sulky and discon
tented, and it is only a question of time when
a legal separation will take place. The author
of all this trouble still moves around, gay and
light-hearted as ever, telling husbands that
their wives are not worthy of them, and
above negotiating loans on the sympathetic
plan.
A GHOST STORY.
Thrilling Experience of an Aged Couple
on a Missouri Country Road.
(From the Springfield (Mo.) Weekly Reflector.)
On a balmy, pleasant Sunday evening, our
worthy and respected friend, Mr. N. A. Mc-
Corkle, in company with hia estimable lady,
were returning from a visit to their daughter,
Mrs. Bennett, who resides in tbe County of
Christian. As the sedate couple were jogging
leisurely along beneath the star-lit canopy ot
heaven’s blue arch they saw a sight that iroze
the marrow in their bones, congealed the blood
in their veins, and turned the peaceful current
of their thoughts into a torrent ot confusion and
dismay. In fact, they saw a ghost—or, rather,
three ghosts at one view.
The circumstances as related by Mr. McCorkle
are about as follows: They were coining along
by a certain piece of “new ground” lately
cleared and fenced by our spiritualistic friend,
Matthews, who has been to some extent, we un
derstand, a dealer in ghosts, when they were
confronted by three ghostly aoparitions that
seemed to materialize from Matthews’ fence
corner.
Whether the ghostly forms were soma of the
familiar spirits of friend Matthews or not, Mr.
McCorkle could not say—but there they were,
not only one, but three.
His eyes told him so, so did the eyes of his
good wile, and so did the eyes ol bis tired and
trusty mules, lor they, too, saw the spectre
forms and snorted in dismay.
But what were they there for? Was it a
menace to the quiet couple who were returning
to their peaceful homes ? Or were these ghosts
there for the purpose of weeping over that
stumpy groundj where Matthews is liable to lose
bis religion betore he gathers his corn.
He could not say, but let their purpose be
what it might, there they were, three in num
ber, ranging in bight trona a small child fo a tall
man.
To say that friend McCorkle and his good
lady were considerably fiustrated is to put it
mildly.
Their tongues clave to the roofs of their mouths
while icy chills chased each other in frantic
sport up and down their spinal columns. The
situation was desperate, and so wore Mr. Mc-
Corkle's mules. Something must be done. Al
though his tongue refused to perform its office,
our friend’s good right arm had never tailed
him. In the desperation of the moment he gave
those mules the whip with a vigor that would
have astonished old Jehu, the noted wagon
driver of Scriptural days.
With a terrible lunge and plunge they dashed
by tbe pale phantoms of the night, but in so do
ing the child ghost was caught and trampled by
the frightened team and then crushed by tbe
rolling wheels ot the wagon, while a seemingly
glistening bayonet gleamed a moment in Mrs.
McCorkle’s face, and a giant hand seemed to
grasp her by the shoulder.
But the most terrible episode of human ex
perience will have an ending and so did this.
They succeded in passing the ghostly sentinels
ot the night, and as quickly as mule flesh could
travel they traveled for home, where, it is sup
posed, tbe balance of the night was spent in
discussing “ What could these things mean ?”
And what could be the signs and omens shad
owed forth by ghosts in white carrying bayo
nets and wearing soldier caps.
The first gray streak of the morning light
found our friend on the way to the scene of
the night's adventure. Cautiously approaching
the spot he proceeded to investigate. The in
flooding light of an April morning revealed to
the penetrating eyesight of friend McCorkle
two of the ghostly sentinels of the night before,
standing sternly and unyielding at the corner
of the aforesaid “new ground,” keeping a day
watch as well as a night vigil over the post oak
and blackjack stumps, and not like well be
haved ghosts generally, retiriug to the church
yard at the approach ot light. The third ghost
that got mixed in the wagon wheels was in
visible.
Chaining courage as the light increased, our
venerable friend advanced closer and closer,
armed with a heavy Irish shillaleh, heavy'
enough to batter the head of any ghost that
ever indulged in midnight rambles.
The supreme moment had come, a dash at his
ghostship and lo 1 there were the stakes
wrapped in a newspaper which Matthews had
used in marking out a fence row. Only this
and nothing more.
A blush as soft as the blush of the school
girl as she enters the house after parting with
her first bean at the gate, overspread the fea
tures of our old friend, and he returned home
to tell the good wife that instead of ghost, sol
dier and bayonet, Bob Matthews had left his
stakes and newspapers by tbe roadside. And a
first-class ghost story and experience was for
ever and eternally spoiled.
A BEAR TRAP.
HOW DAD SULLY’S FELL INTO
OTHER HANDS.
(From the Chicago News.)
" That trap had be’n in the Sully fam’ly fur
years. It had a hefty ped gree o’ usefulness
runnin’ ’way back to old man Sully, the boss
b'ar hunter an’ deer stalker o’ the Ad’rondaoks.
1 wanted that trap, an’, what’s more, X wanted
it bad.
“It was young Lige Sully’s prop’ty now, an’
he swore he wouldn’t never give it up fur love
nor money. When a feller like Lige Sully sez
si. h a thing you oan make up yer mind that he
means biz trum the word go.
“I fried to steal that trap.
“ Here’s the scar o’ Lige’s bullet on my arm.
I reckon I’ll alters carry it as a leetie token o’
that pesky night.
“ 1 told Lige I’d give him my old buokboard
an’ a slice o' my swamp lot iur his trap. Lige
he on'y smiled and eaid it wasn’t a go. He also
said as how the trap was a heirloom, a sort o’ a
mascot, that had be’n in the famjly ever since
Dad David Sully had pounded the darned thing
out o’ pig iron from the rough.
“I offered Lige ev’ry inducement that I
knowed on fur that trap. No use; he wouldn’t
part with it.
“ One night Lige came home with my gal
Sairy from a spellin’ match. The two lingered
at the gate till arter midnight. I watched ’em.
When they parted, Lige, he kissed her, an’ sed:
‘Good night, dear.’
“ When my wife asked me why I sot so long
at the winder I on’y said I’d be’n countin’ the
stars an’ lookin’ ont fur mv int’rest in Dad Sul
ly’s trap. She said I was a fool to let my brain
run ’way with an ornery b’ar trap. She said,
too, that there was plenty b’ar traps ’sides
Lige’s; but I said there was on’y one Dad Sully
trap.
“ Arter I seen how the land lay ’tween Lige
an’ Sairy I knowed I was in a fairway fur get
tin’ the trap.
“ I gin afferblo consent to Lige’s taggin’ arter
Sairy. 1 sort o’ smiled ’provin’ly ’pon their bil
lin’ an’ cooin’. 1 was usin’ diplnmbacy in behalf
o’ Dad Sully’s master b’ar trap, an’ was ’ter
mined to git it, purwided I could keep the
stream o’ love tween the young people smooth
an’ purlueid.
“ Well, you oughter seen me send ’Squire
Tompkins’ boy ’bout his bizness when he come
a shinnin’ ’round my gal Sairy. I didn’t care if
his dad was worth ten thousand and held canal
stock. What diff’rence did that make to me
when the trap’s int’rest was in danger ?
“ Well, purty sun Lige Sully come to the front
an’ asked me lor Sairy’s hand. I’ll never furgit
that night.
“ ‘ Lige,’ sez 1, lookin’ him squar’ in the eye,
■ I’ve be’n a noticin’ o’ this thing fur sum timo
bark. Sairy’s a gai o’ a million, an’ the man
what gets her i’ll have a prize ’way back from
Prizeville with a big P. I’m willin’ that you
shall have her, an’ I’ll be proud to call you my
son-in-law. I’ll make a dicker with you. I’ll
let you have Sairy fur the trap.’
“Lige got white as chalk in a se ond. He
sort o’ ketched his breath and couldn’t speak.
Then he riz from his chair, took his hat an'
started for the door. 1 felt mighty trembly jist
’bout then, fur I seen I was ’bout to lose that
trap forever.
•• ‘Lige,’ said I, goin’ an’ layin’ my hand ’pon
his shoulder, ‘ don’t give ’way in this sort o’ a
manner. Be a man ; git.yonr grit up an’ strike
a bargain. You can have the gal lur the trap.’
“‘ I don’t want to buy Sairy. I’d be ’shamed
to look her in the face if I should 'gree to such
a downright pesky mean bizness.’
"He meant it. I knowed it looked queer to
him; but he didn’t know how bad I wanted that
trap. I drew him back to a chair an’ tole him
to set down an’ wo would argufy the thing a
spell.
“ Well, I labored with that boy till arter mid
night. 1 pictured.a purty leetle hum with Sairy
in it to keep things spie-span bright. I said I’d
throw in the next winters meat an’ the buck
boardwagon ’sides. I improved the ’casion an’
swore I’d lay every cent o’ my prop’ty ’gin a
nickel that Sairy could fry corn-dodgers better’n
any woman in York State. An’ ’gin all this I
painted in glowin’ hues how mean it looked for
a man tq give up sich a heaven jist for a poor
ole b’ar trap.
“ Lige gin in ’bont daylight. He an’ Sairy are
now happy as two doves—an’ I got Dad Sully’s
tran at last.”
Hora are a few neat verses inscribed to
FRAULEIN.
You’re & natty little waiter,
O Fraulein I
To my wants you always cater
When I dine;
And you have no irritating
Way of keeping people waiting.
And your smile is captivating,
I opine.
You are always dressed so nicely,
O Fraulein !
All my feelings so precisely
You divine;
That from soup to tutti-frutti
You’re acquainted with your duty.
And utility with beauty
You combine.
You are skilled in fancy cooking,
O Fraulein I
You’re the maid for whom I’m looking
For my shrine.
Tbo* I have not wealth nor title,
Prithee, list to my recital;
Give my fond love some requital—
Oh, be mine I
So you’re positively laughing,
And decline I
And my sentiments you’re chaffing,
And say, " NeinT*
At my proffered love you laugh, eh?
What I you art, a better half, eh.
Of the man who keeps this oale ?
O Fraulein I
The Chicago News tells this good story of
HOW A POLITICIAN GOT A BANG-UP DINNER.
••It is only about twice a year,” remarked State
Senator William E. Mason yesterday, "that I’m
smart enough to fool my wife. Last Monday I
played a trick that ought to serve as a capital sug
gestion for other husbands to conduct operations
on. Along about 4 o’clock in the afternoon I began
to get faint and hungry; 1 had been working hard
all day and was as famished and as fagged as a
hunted wolf. As I sat in my office chair wondering
what I was going to find for dinner when I got
home, an entirely new and marvelously brilliant
idea flashed upon me. It broke upon my intellect
much as a stray plank dances before ths despairing
vision of a drowning man. It made my mouth
fairly water as it developed its details in my greedy
brain. I made a bee-line for the telephone and
called the central office.
••‘Give me 5568,’8Aid I, and then I chuckled all
over, and my mouth kept on watering.
•• ’Bnr-r-r' went the telephone. I put my mouth
close to the funnel, and in a shrill, falsetto voice
asked: ‘ls that Senator Mason’s house ?’
•• • Yes,’ came the answer, and I recognized my
wife at the other end of the wire.
•• •Is the Senator at home ?’ I asked in the same
feminine voice.
“No,’ was the reply.
“ ‘ Well, then, is Mrs. Mason there?’ I inquired.
“ ‘Yes, I am Mrs. Mason,’ was the answer.
“ ‘ Oh, Is that you ?’ I cried; ‘ how do you do ?’ ”
•‘ • Why, how d’you do ?’ responded my wife, but
I knew by her tones that she hadn't the remotest
idea whom she was talking to.
“ ‘How are all the children ?’ I asked.
“ ‘They’re all very well,’ said wife.
” * Well,' said I, • I happened to be in town shop
ping to-day, and I thought I'd go over to your
house to dinner.*
“ Well, that sort of staggered wife. She mustered
up voice enough to ask:
“ ‘ Who are you ?’
‘•Then I answered:
“ ‘ Why, don’t you recognize the voice ? I’m Mrs.
Mya-yah I’
*“ I don’t catch the name—speak louder," she
pleaded.
" • Mrs. Mya-yah 1' I repeated, and with that, in
order to preclude all embarrassing complications,
I shut off the telephone as tight as I could. Then
I threw myself into a chair and laughed till I like
to went into apoplexy. Laugh ? Well, you ought
to have seen the plastering fall around me I But,
to make a long story short, I reached home about
5:45, and of all the dinners I ever clapped eyes on—
gosh, it was a banquet I Wife had her new black
silk dress on, and she had slicked the children up
so that I could hardly identify them.
*“I think we'd better wait dinner awhile, my
dear,’ said wife.
“ • Why so ? I asked. “ Bless you, I’m as hungry
as an alligator!’
“ Then wife told me she was expecting a lady
guest, and she repeated the details of the telephone
of the afternoon. It was a fearlul ordeal, but I
managed to look innocent, and of course I wondered
who the lady could be.
” ‘ Indeed, I don’t know,' said wife, ‘ but her voice
was strangely familiar. I’ve been puzzling myself
nearly to death trying to guess who it was.*
“Well, we waited fifteen minutes and then we sat
down to that banquet—and a royal feast it was 1 We
had soup, and fish, and a big roast, and about a
dozen little side dishes, and wife had sent out and
bought a gallon of pink ice cream and a frosted
cake for desert. I stood it just as long as I could.
When it came to the pink ice cream I couldn't
stand it any longer. As I was slicing it off I looked
at wife kind of sidewise and said In a falsetto voice:
“My dear, I’m sorry Mrs. Mya-yah didn't come.’’
Wife dropped her Dresden china coffee cup as if
she’d been paralyzed.
•• • William E. Mason —you brute 1’ she gasped.
•* The children enjoyed the joke just as much as I
did—yes, aud wife, too, got to laughing about it
after awhile. Our boy Louis said: •Do it again, pa;
it’s mighty jolly to have a big dinner once’n a while.'
“But look here, you reporter; you area t taking
notes on me? Come, come, now, that’s not right;
you mustn't tell the story on me. Put it on some
body else—put it on Bill Campbell I"
Here is one good reason, according to the
Arkansaw Traveller,
WHY THE PRISONER SHOULD GET TEN YEARS.
A jury composed of eleven business men and an
old fellow from across the creek retired to the jury
room. The foreman, when selected, rem arked that
he thought that the prisoner ought to be sent to
the penitentiary for five years.
“ That ain’t long enough,’’ said the old fellow.
“ Let’s put it on him fur ten.”
“ Oh, no, that won’t do.”
“ Wall, then," stretching himself out on a bench,
•‘ I’m with yer."
“ What, you going to hang the jury ?”
“ that’s about it."
" My dear sir, we are anxious to get back to our
business.'*
“ Then send him up for ten.”
•‘ But that would be a great injustice.”
“ Then squat an' make yourselves comfortable.”
•• H*ve you any special reason why the prisoner
should go up for ten years
“ Think 1 have,” throwing a quid of tobacco at
the spittoon.
“ Will you please name it ?”
** Yes, fur it won't take me long. He is my son
in-law an’ I have been supportin’ him ever since he
was married.”
He went up for ten years.
This lady was right in knowing enough to
DRAW THE LINE SOMEWHERE,
The other day one of the newly-appointed census
enumerators in Detroit was seen flying out of a
humble cottage just ahead 01 a pail of boiling water,
which had been propelled with considerable force
by an irate red-headed female in the immediate
direction of the c. e.
“What’s the matter?” was asked him.
“Matterenough," was his answer. “I’ve had a
red-hot time. I went in there to get the school re
port, and asked the red-headed woman you saw. if
there had been any births in the house during the
year.
“ *Naw,’ was the reply.
•• 'You are the mother?’
•"Yes, air.’
“ ‘ Male or female ?’
“ ‘ Female, sir.’
•• ‘ White or colored ?’
“ There’s when I came out. These census blanks
should be revised."
The following brief story is pretty good proof
that drummers are
NOT MARRIED.
This is an actual fact. Iwo St. Paul commission
men were traveling on the cars. The coach was
crowded, and one of them had to sit in a seat with a
lady who had kindly offered it to him. The other
found a seat directly behind him with a gentleman.
As soon as Mr. Drummer was seated beside the
lady she began talking to him—she was a loud
voiced person, and asked so every one in the car
heard her:
“ Are you a traveling man ?”
“Yes, marm,” said the 0. T„ blushing.
“Why do you traveling men never get married?”
said the lady.
“They do; I know a great many of them that
are,” said the C. T.
“ You do !’’ said the lady.
•‘Yes, marm; most of my friends are married
men.”
“ Well, I have lived in a hotel all my life and I
never met one that said he was married,” said the
lady.
“ That’s strange,” said the C. T. modestly,
“ Are you married ?" asked the lady in a voice
that was heard all over the car.
"No, marm; I’m not,” said the C. T. blushing.
The train had come to a dead stop at a station,
just as this last question was asked and answered.
When the C. T. in the back seat roused up, nudged
his iriend who had been Interrogated by the lady,
aud said: “By the way, G , did you stop at
S this morning ?’’
“ No; why ?”
“ I left there last night, and your brother-in-law
said he had just received a telegram from your wife
saying that Bennie was very sick, and if he saw you
to tell you to come home at once. *
I leave you to imagine what followed. It would
be useless to attempt to describe the convulsions
that seized upon the entire car.
SCINTILLATIONS.
Weighs that are dark—The coal
dealer’s.
It was a wise provision of nature that
clothed the northernmost mountains in firs.
A dude insulted a fair widow the
other day and she gave him the widow’s smite.
Footlights are not used at Chicago
amateur performances. Feet there can be sben
without them.
We do not see why people should be
surprised at ladies' corsets being tight—they are al
ways on a bust.
A young man absent on a trip to
Paris, writes that he has been all through the capi
tal of France and considerable of his own.
A little girl of three years, noticing
the lightning for the first time, came rushing to
her mamma, crying: "Oh, mamma, did you see the
sun flying by ?”
“Speaking of eccentricities,” said
Proppleton, “my father is an example. He has not
ent off his hair since the election of James K. Polk."
** Indeed; his hair must be very long by this time.”
“ Ob, no, the old gentleman was bald before Polk
was elected.”
Infuriated man: “See here, you told
me that horse was sound, and that everything he
did was right up to the times. Why, dang it all.
that horse went lame the first day I had him.”
Horsedealer; " Weil, sir, wasn’t it one of the best
limps you ever saw ?’’
Bagley—“ Come, sir, I wish you
would quit puffing that smoke in my face.” pen
stock— •• Doesn't hurt the smoke, my dear sir.”
Bagley—•• It hurts me, sir; I detest the smell of to
bacco." Penstock—" My dear sir, this is not to-,
bacco, it is a fiYe-cent cigar.”
“Mother, this book tells about the
‘angry waves of the ocean.’ Now, what makes the
ocean get angry ?” “Because it has been crossed
so often, my son.”
“ I am surprised at the appearance of
pour friend B. He looks wretched. Do you know
if he has been disappointed in love?" “No; he has
been disappointed in marriage."
“Been to Philadelphia, eh? Make
any acquaintances there?" “I should say J did.
Was introduced everywhere. By the way, you
lived there once. I believe. Suppose you know all
the society people ?" “ Don’t know any. You B'e,
I was born there, and my parents lived on the
wrong side of the street.”
Historic Mutton.
THE PATRON SAINT OF THAT DELIGHTFUL
EDIBLE.
The man who should be considered the patron
saint and exemplar of politicians is Andrew Mar
vell, who lived and wrote in the reign of Charles
the Second, and was •• beloved by good men, feared
by bad men, admired by ail, and imitated by few,’*
A tutor, a Member of Parliament, and a satirist of
popular abuses, his influence was always thrown
upon the side of right. His greatest ability, how
ever. was his absolute Incorruptibility.
In Charles the Second’s time bribes were com
monly offered and received, but Marvell would
have none of them. At onetime, in a conversation
with the king, he so displayed his striking abilities
that Charles determined to secure Marvell’s serv
ices. Next morning, therefore, he sent his Lord
Treasurer, Danby, to find the man out. This was
rather a difficult matter, but at last the minister
traced him to a little street leading out of the
Strand. Stumbling his way to the top of an unpre
tending bouse, he found Marvell writing in a little
room. The treasurer introduced himself, made
himself much at home, chatted upon a variety of
topics, and finally mentioned the delight which the
king had felt in listening to Marvell’s conversation.
At this point, as if accidentally, he dropped a thous
and-pound note upon the table.
Marvell was a poor man; what could he do ? He
rang his bell, and up came the little serving boy.
“ What did we have for dinner yesterday ?’ asked
Marvell.
“Oh, that little shoulder of mutton," replied the
boy.
“Yes—yes; and what shall we have for dinner to
day ?”
“ The shoulder cold.”
•‘ Ob, certainly. And what shall we have for to
morrow ?”
“Broth.”
“Good I" said MarvelL ‘‘Enough. You may re
tire." Then he turned to the astonished Lord
Treasurer, and said: "Marvell’s dinners aro pro
vided, you see. Marvell wants not the king’s
money.”
If all men equally appreciated the value of hon
esty nourished by cold mutton, bribery would be
come a forgotten abuse.
I»et Her Rip.
A NEW STORY OF WEBSTER.
On one occasion some Boston friends sent Daniel
Webster as a present, an enormous sized plow to use
on his place. Webster gave out word that on a
certain day it would be christened. The day ar
rived, and the surrounding farmers for miles came
to witness the event. A dozen teams with aristo
cratic occupants came down from Boston. It was
expected by every one that Webster would make a
great speech on the occasion, reviewing the history
of farming back to the time when Oincinnatus ab
dicted the most mighty throne in the world to
cultivate turnips and cabbages in his Roman
garden. The plow was brought out and ten yoke
ot splendid oxen hitched in front.
More than two hundred people stood around on
the tip-toe of expectation. Boon Webster made
appearance. He had been calling spirits from the
vasty deep, and his gait was somewhat uncertain.
Seizing the plow-handles and spreading bis feet, he
yelled out to the driver in bls deep, bass voice;
“Are you ready, Mr. Wright?”
"All ready, Mr. Webster," was the reply, mean
ing of course, for his speech.
Webster straightened himself up by a mighty
effort, and shouted:
•‘ Then let her rip I”
The whole crowd dropped to the ground and
roared with laughter, while Webster with his big
plow proceeded to rip up tho soil.
A Pat.atabt.h Summeb Soup.—A whole
some and palatable Summer soup is made as
follows: Put two ounces of butter in a saucepan
on the fire, and as soon as Sis melted add halt
a pint of sorrel and stir for one minnte. Add a
pint and a half of water and seme salt and boil
for three minutes; add a little butter, boil on •
again and pour in, as soon as the soup is re
moved from the fire, two yolks of eggs beaten
with a tablespooniul of water. Hava croutons
in the soup tureen; turn the soup over them and
serve. Broth may be need instead of water,
and, if desired, tho eggs may be omitted or
more may be added.
“ Soap-Bkhry. ” —A bush, tha fruit of
which is called “ soap-berry,” is found in great
abundance throughout Alaska. The fruit, when
ripe, is a small red berry of a juicy and quinine
taste, and is generally biennial. If a quart of
these berries be placed in a tub capable of hold
inr a bushel, and well stirred, they will form a
suds or froth that will completely fill the tub.
The more it is stirred with the hand the thicker
it becomes, till it can be cut with a knife. A
whole family of natives will gather around the
tub and eat this frothy substance with horn
or wooden spoons.
Uncle and Nephew.—Gen. Joseph E.
Johnston and ex-United States Senator Thomas
■Johnston, of Virginia, are often taken for bro
thers. They are uncle and nephew, with only
twelve years’ difference in their ages. General
Johnston is eighty and his nephew is sixty
eight. The latter is the father of seventeen
children, was once Governor of Virginia, and
three times United States Senator.
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GKNIRAL OFFICI *.
No. 178 LEXINGTON
TTo'.v 'JJorlc City.
7