New York dispatch. [volume], July 11, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

About New York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1863-1899

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my spirit queen.
BY SHIRLEY WYNNE.
Between the sunset and the night,
When all the earth is vailed and dim,
When dewdrops make the roses bright.
And Stars in yon blue distance swim,
She comes across the garden close.
Among the lilies’ shining sheen.
Fair as the fairest flower that blows,
My heart’s one love, my spirit’s queen,
She lays her little hand in mine
That ne'er forgets that pressure sweet;
I see her trailing garments shine.
The curls that on her forehead meet.
She sings the songs she used to sing
Between the sunset and the night;
Right up to Heav’n the glad notes ring,
And all the earth is full of light.
But, when the lamps must needs be lit,
And busy footsteps seek my room,
The lilies see a shadow flit
Afar beyond the scented gloom.
No more she nestles near my side,
To sing the joys that once have been;
Bhe leaves me lone as when she died,
My heart’s one love, my spirit’s queen I
HAUNTED!
FROM THE FRENCH OF GUY DE
MAUPASSANT.
(From the New Orleans Times-Democrat.)
You ask me why I am going to marry ?
1 can scarcely dare to confess to you the
strange and inconceivable reason which urges
me to this insane course.
I am going to marry in order not to be alone.
I do not know how to tell it—how to make
myself understood. You will pity me and you
will despise me when you know in what a
wretched state of mind I am.
I do not want to be alone any more—at night.
I want to feel some being near me, close to me—
a being that can speak, say something, no mat
ter what.
I want to be able to rouse that being from
sleep—to be able to ask that being any question
suddenly—even a stupid question, so that I can
feel my dwelling is inhabited—so that I can
know that a mind is awake, that a reasoning
power is at work—so that, if I suddenly light
my candle, I can see a human face beside me—
because—because (how can I dare avow my
nhame I)—because I am afraid when I am by
myself.
Oh ! you do not yet comprehend me !
lam not afraid of any danger. If a man were
to come in, I would kill him without a shudder.
I have no fear of ghosts ; 1 do not believe in the
eupernatural. I am not afraid of the dead ; I
bepeve in the total annihilation of every human
being that passes away !
Then !—yes, Then !—well I I am afraid of
myself! lam afraid of being afraid—afraid of
the mental spasms that are driving me mad—
afraid of the horrible sense of incomprehensi
ble terror.
Laugh if you please. It is hideous ; it is in
curable. lam airaid of the walls, of the furni
ture, of familiar objects which seem to me to
become animated with a sort of animal life.
Above all I am afraid of the horrible confusion
of my mind, the confusion of my reason, which
goes from me, all befogged, dissipated by some
mysterious and inexplicable anguish.
First, I feel a vague disquiet that passes into
my mind and makes all my flesh creep. I look
around me. Nothing 1 And I feel a need of
(Something. Of what? Something incompre
hensible. Then I become afraid, simply because
I cannot comprehend my own fear.
I speak. lam frightened by my own voice.
I walk—then I im frightened by the unknown
which is behind the door, or behind the curtain,
or inside the ar.moir, or under the bed. And
nevertheless I know perfectly well there is real
ly nothing in any of those places.
I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of
what is behind me—although there is really
nothing behind me, and although I know it.
I become nervous; I feel the scare growing
tipon me, and I lock myself into my room, and I
bury myself in my bed, and I hide myself un
der my bedclothes, and, cowering there, gather
ing myself up like a ball, I shut my eyes in des
peration, and thus remain for a seemingly infi
nite length of time, oppressed by the thought
that my candle is still burning on the little ta
ble beside the bed, and that I should really
blow it out. And I dare not.
Is it not frightlul to be in such a condition ?
There was a time when I never felt this way.
1 used to go home feeling perfectly calm. I
went out and I came in without anything to
trouble the serenity of my mind. If I had then
been told what a stupid and terrible disease of
fear—of incredible fear—would come upon me
in after days, I would certainly have laughed.
I used to open the doors m the dark with per
fect I used to make my preparations
for going to bed, quietly, without even bolting
myself in, and I never thought of getting up in
the middle of the night to see it all the entrances
to my room were strongly secured.
The trouble began last year in a singular way.
It was in Autumn—on a certain damp evening.
”When my housekeeper had taken her departure,
after I had dined, I" asked myself what I was
going to do. For some time I walked up and
down my room. I felt myself weary, unreason
ably depressed, incapable of doing any work —
lacking even the mental force to read. A fine
rain was moistening the window-panes; I was
melancholy—all permeated by one of those
causeless attacks of despondency which make
you feel inclined to cry—which make a man
want to talk to somebody or anybody in order to
•hake off weight of one’s own fancies.
I frit lOfiesome. Never before did my dwell
ing seem to me so empty. An infinite and heart
•ickening solitude surrounded me. What was
Itodo ? I sat down. Then a nervous impa
tience seemed to pass into my legs. I got up
ADd begao to walk again. Perhaps I was a lit
ftfe feverish, for my hands—clasped behind my
back as one’s hands olten are when one walks
About leisurely—seemed to burn qne another
where they touched, anil I noticed it. Then a
.sudden qqIJ shudder ran down my back, I
-.thought that the outside dampness was enter
ing my room, and the idea occurred to me that
Itwould be well to light a fire. I lit it; it was
the first of the year. And I sat down once
more, watching the flame. But soon the impos
iiHlity of remaining quiet in any one position
forced me to gel up again, and I felt that I
would have to go out somewhere, to stir my
self, to find a friend. ’
I went out. First I visited the houses Of
three different friends—no one of whom was at
home: then I went on the boulevard, resolved
«to“fina some acquaintance or other.
was dismAi eery where. The wet side
wllka were shining. A yatery lukewarmness
—one of thosb lukewarmnesses ffhwh never
theless chill you with sudden
weighty lukewarmness of impalpable rain
seemed to bear down over the wh de street, and
£o make the gas-jets burn wearily and dim.
« I walked §long sluggishly, saying over and
Over again to myself: “1 won’t find anybody to
talk to.”
Several times I looked into all the cafes be
tween La Madelaine and the Faubourg Poisson
niere. Only miserable-looking people, who did
mot seem to have even vim enough to finish
what they had ordered, were sitting at the ta
bles.
I wandered about this way for a long time,
and about midnight 1 took my way home. I
was quite calm, but very tired. My concierge,
who always goes to bed before eleven o’clock,
opened the door for me at once, contrary to his
usual habit, and I thought to myself: “ Hello I
some other lodger must have just gone up
atairs.”
Whenever I go out T always double-lock my
door. This time I found it simply pulled-to;
and the fact impressed me. I thought that per
haps some letters might have been brought up
stairs during the evening.
I went in. My fire was still burning, even
brightly enough to light up the apartment. I
took the candle in order to kindle it at the grate,
when, as I looked right before me, 1 saw some
One sitting in my easy chair, with his back
turned to me—apparently warming his feet at
the fire.
I was not startled at all—no ! not the least in
the world 1 A very natural supposition oc
curred to me, namely, that one of my friends
had come to pay me a visit. The concierge, to
whom I had given instructions when I went out,
had naturally told the visitor that I would soon
be back, and had lent his own key. And then
all the other incidents of my return flashed
through my mind in a second, the opening of
the door at once, my own door simply pulled
to, etc.
My friend—whose hair alone I could see over
the back of the chair—had evidently dropped
asleep while waiting for my return; and I pro
ceeded to wake him up. I then got a distinct
view of him; his right arm hung down; his feet
were crossed one over the other; and the way
his head drooped, a little to the left of the arm
chair, showed plainly enough that he was
asleep. I asked myself: “ Who is it?” Any
. how the light in the room was not strong enough
to see perfectly by. I put out my hand to touch
his shoulder I
My hana touched only the wood of the chair 1
. Nobody was there! The chair was empty 1
Mercy 1 What a shook it gave me I
First I leaped back as if some terrible peril
had made itself visible.
Then I turned round, feeling that somebody
was behind me; then, almost as quickly, an im
perative desire to lo’ok at thatchair again, made
i.me wheel round a second time. And I stood
• there, panting with fear, so bewildered as to be
incapable of thinking, on the very point of
falling.
But I am by nature a cool man; and my self
possession soon returned. I thought to my
self: “ I have just had a hallucination—that is
all!” And I immediately began to reflect on
the phenomenon. In such moments the mind
operates very rapidly.
I had had an hallucination—that was an incon
testable fact. Now, my mind had all the time
remained clear—performing its functions regu
larly and logically. There was, consequently,
.no real affection of the brain. The eyes alone
had been deluded, and had deluded my imagin
iion. The eyes had a vision—one of those
visions that make simple-minded folks believe
in miracles. It was simply a nervous accident
to the optical apparatus—nothing more. Per
chaps there was a slight congestion.
And I lighted my candle. As I bent down
Over the fire, I found myself trembling, and I
drew myself up again with a sudden start, as if
some one one had touched ma from behind.
Certainly my nerves were out of order.
I walked to and fro for a little while ; I talked
ftlotrd to myself. I hummed a few airs.
Then I double-locked the door of my room,
and I began to feel somewhat reassured. At all
events, nobody could get in.
Again I sai down, and for a long time I
thought over my adventure. Then I wont to
bed, and blew out my light.
For a few minutes everything seemed all
right. I remained lying quietly on my back.
Then I felt an irresistible desire to take a look
at my room, and I turned over on my aide.
My fire held only two or three red embers,
which barely lighted the legs of the cbafr, and
I thought I saw the Man sitting there again.
I struck a match quickly. But I had been
mistaken. I could see nothing !
Nevertheless, I got up, took the chair, and
placed it out of sight behind my bed.
Then I made everything dark again, and
tried to go to sleep. I could not have sunk into
unconsciousness for more than five minutes
when I saw in a dream, and as distinctly as re
ality itself, the whole incident of that evening.
I woke up in terror, and after making a light,
sat up in bed without daring to try to go to
sleep again.
Sleep, notwithstanding, twice seized upon mo
for a few moments, in spite of myself. Twice I
saw the same thing. I thought I had actually
gone mad 1
When daylight appeared I felt completely
cured, and I took a peaceful sleep uutil mid
day.
It had passed-entirely passed. I had had
a fever, a nightmare, or something of that sort.
Anyhow I had been sick. Nevertheless I thought
myself very much of a fool.
That day I was quite jolly. I dined at the
cabaret, went to the theatre, and then started
for home. But Io 1 as I drew near my house, a
strange sense of uneasiness took possession of
me. I was afraid of seeing him again— Him J
Not afraid of Him precisely—not afraid of his
presence, in which I did not believe; but afraid
of another optical trouble, afraid ot the halluci
nation, afraid of the fear which would come up
on mo.
For more than an hour I kept walking up and
down the sidewalk; then at last 1 decided this
was absolute folly, and I went in. I panted so
much that I could scarcely climb the stairs. I
stood for fully ten minutes more on the landing,
in front of my room; then, suddenly, I felfc a
rush of courage, a bracing-up of will. 1 plunged
my key in the keyhole — I rushed forward
with a lighted candle in my hand—l kicked in
the unfastened door of the room—and I threw one
terrified glance at the fireplace. I saw nothing.
Ah!
“ What a relief! What joy ! What a de
liverance ! I went to and fro with a swagger
ing air. But still I did not feel perfectly confi
dent: I would turn round by fits and starts to
look behind me; the darkness in the corners ot
the room frightened me.
I slept badly—being incessantly startled out
of my rest by imaginary noises. But I never
saw Him. No. That was all over.
Ever since that day 1 have been afraid to be
alone at night. I can.feeZ it there, close to me—
the Vision ! It did not make its appearance
again—oh, no 1 And what matter/ anyhow,
since I don’t believe in it—since I know that it
is nothing ?
Still it annoys me, because I keep all the time
thinking about it. One arm was hanging down
on the right side ; his head drooped a little to
the left, like that of a man asleep. Come, that’s
enough of it, nom de Dteu! 1 don’t want to
think about it any more !
And still, what is this feeling of being haunt
ed ? Why does it persist in this way ?
His feet were quite close to the fire.
He haunts me ; it is madness, but it is so!
Who is He? I know perfectly well that He
does not exist-that it is nothing whatever!
He only exists in my apprehension, in my fear,
in my anguish ! There—that’s enough !
Yes, but it is no use for me to reason with
myself about it; no use to try to orace up
against it; I can’t remain alone at homo any
more, because He is there ! I know I won’t see
him any more ; he won’t show himself again—
that’s past. But he is there all the same, in my
thought. Because he remains invisible, it does
not follow that he is not there. He is behind
the doors, and in the armoir and under the bed
—in all the dark corners, in all the shadows. If
I stir the door upon its hinges—if I open my
armoir—if I lower my light to look under the
bed—if I throw the light upon the corners, upon
the shadows—he is not there; but then 1 feel
him behind me! I turn round—certain all the
while that I am not going to see him, that I will
not ever see him again. He is behind me still,
for all that!
It is stupid—but it is atrocious ! What would
yo have me do ? I can do nothing.
But if there were two of us together at home,
then, I feel—yes, I am perfectly sure—that he
would not be there any more. For he is there
because I am alone—and for no other reason
than because I am alone.
YIXEDMARRIAGES.
A Woman who Was Twice Married, but
Never a Wife.
(From the Boston Post,)
A curious case has lately been decided in the
Supreme Court of this Commonwealth, showing
an extraordinary condition of affairs, brought
about by the multiplication of marriages by a
Vermont man, who was married in 1836, in Ver
mont, and, after living with his wife twenty
seven years, eloped, in 1863, to Canada, with
another woman, who died in the same year,
leaving a child. There was no divorce obtained
between him and his Vermont wife. In 1861 he
was married again in Portsmouth, N. H., and
lived with the woman and his child until June,
1868.
Meanwhile, without his knowledge, in May,
1866, his true wife died in Vermont, thus leav
ing him free to contract a marriage, but no fur
ther ceremony was gone through with with the
Portsmouth woman. In 1866 this Lothario met !
a widow in Newburyport, where he worked
week days at his trade ot ship carpenter, spend- 1
ing Sundays with his Portsmouth wife. It is
alleged that he informed the widow that he was 1
a widower, and that he went on Sundays to
Portsmouth to see his child. His acquaintance 1
with her, in the language of the law report,
ripened into courtship, and the courtship into ;
marriage on September 11. 1867.
The ship carpenter, for nearly a year, kept up ’
his establishments in Newburyport and Ports
mouth, leading this Box and Cox existence un- 1
til June 23, 1868, at which time the Portsmouth ,
wife appeared at the Newburyport house, when .
the ship carpenter and the Newburyport wi e
were at the table eating their meal,xana claimed 1
the m?£ ££ ¥n- !
sueu, ending th4 Newburyport woman driv
ing the man from the house, which belonged to
her. And he went, and she never saw or heard ;
from him again.
The Newburyport widow, wife No. 4, imme
diately applied to counsel in Newburyport, and
was informed that her marriage was void and
that was no_need of divorce proceedings,
whereupon she'Kssumed hex f jmer name. The •
woman had never heard of wife No. 1, whether
living or dead. In this condition she lived for 1
twelve years, when she made the acquaintance *
of another man, and this acquaintance again
“ ripened into courtship,” and the courtship in- ‘
to proposals of marriage. She informed her
new flame of the unfortunate affair with the
ship carpenter, and her lover investigated the 1
affair, consulted a lawyer and pronounced him- (
self satisfied with her conduct, and declared J
that she was free to marry him, and married 1
they were on Jan. 8, 1880, at Newburyport, and
they lived happily together until the death of <
the man in 1883. ■■
The widow then applied to the Probate Court
for an allowance, and for the first time the Ver
mont marriage was discovered and the fact of
this first wife’s death, alter the marriage to the ,
Portsmouth woman, but before the marriage to
the Newburyport widow. The allowance was J
refused on the ground that the ship carpenter ,
and the widow were legally married at the time 1
of her marriage in 1880 to the deceased. So,
twice in her life this unfortunate woman was 1
“ married, yet no wife,” without any fault of her
own. It cannot be claimed that there is any 1
moral to this tale, but, if the new school ot nov
elists are in need of a plot for a realistic story,
this extraordinary combination presents one
ready-made.
SCALPEITirTHEIPACHES.
The Terrible Experience of a Young
California Scout.
(From the Chico, Cal., Chronicle.)
A sick and sorry-looking specimen of human
ity stepped from the passenger train last night
and climbed into a waiting wagon and was
driven to the country. His name was Samuel
Neff, He is a man about thirty years of age,
and his parents reside near Pine Creek. Young
Neff is just home from Arizona, where he has
been pr specting in the mines and acting as
a scout on the hunt for Indians. Unfortunately
for him he found the murderous red devils,
and they alm st made mince-meat ot him. One
day while riding through a can n he was shot
through the shoulder and fell from his h rse.
His assailants, finding that he was not dead,
tortured him outrageously. They cut gashes
in his face and all over his body, applied fire t >
his feet and hands, and ended their brutal as
saults by scalping him. He suffered untold
agonies and prayed that death might relieve
him. Finally he fell into a faint, and on awak
ening he found himself being kindly cared for
in a miner’s cabin. The miner had picked him
un and carried him a 1 ng distance on horse
back. Neil suffered weeks of excruciating pain
and raved with a fever, and as soon as he was
able 11 travel he took the road for home.
Last evening a Chronic's rep rter asked Neff
how it felt to have his hair lifted.
"It is a dreadful sensation,” he said. “Ono
thinks, as the skin is being torn from the skull,
that his feet are coming right up through his
body to the top of his head. Oh, it is terrible.
It is so painful that you cannot utter a cry, and
thousands of stars dance before your eyes. You
imagine red-hot needles are darting in and out
of your flesh, and you clasp your hands so
closely that the finger-nails cut into the flesh. I
would rather be run through a threshing ma
chine, ground up in a sausage-mill or thrown
under a locomotive than to ever undergo such
another ordeal. It makes me shudder to think
of the tortures I have gone through with, and I
never want to look upon the face of another In
dian.”
“Do many persons survive the operation?”
interrupted the reporter.
“No ; I have only heard of two or throe men
beside myself who have lost their hair by the
scalping-knife, and then lived to tell ot it.”
“ Mr. Neff, do you think the hair will ever
grow out aga n?”
“Oh, no; 1 shall always have a bald spot up
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 11, 1886.
1 there. The skin was torn off for a space of four
inches square, and I’m afraid it will never heal
I entirely. Even if it does heal over, the bare
j place will always be so painful that I cannot
touch it. I keep my head tied up in cotton and
I sweet oil. You see that my beauty has been
. considerably marred. These frightful gashes
£ across my face will go with me to the grave.”
■ IN A HOUSE-BOAT.
L
BY MINNIE DOUGLAS.
I —
The marriage occurred in the early Spring,
I while Mr. Adolphus Carew still went through
» the daily amount of overwork from which we
know young men suffer in Government offices.
■ The pretty bride preferred this to a hasty ram
ble on the Continent, and the wedded pair re-
, solved to take a holiday in the Summer instead
• of a honeymoon trip.
The lact was that Mrs. Adolphus was as busy
• and energetic in mind as she was pretty, and
she desired at ouce to enter on the hard labor
of providing home comforts and unimpeachable
dinners for her newly-acquired treasure—a
husband.
What wonder that to Adolphus life seemed
only likely to be too short tor the full apprecia
tion ot his happiness ? To wave a tender fare
well from the London street to the London wiu
i dow where a sweet, bright face responds, every
morning; to be braced for the red tape agonies
of the day by the remembrance that four o’clock
wouid come at last, and that alter two hours of
well spent recreation following the severe men
tal strain, there would no a recherche and well
cooked meal to make life blissful—this was
the enviable existence ot my hero.
Oue evening in June—they were just going to
the opera—Millicent heard the delightful plan
that was to insure a happy holiday.
“ My darling. Brown—Higglesby-Brown, you
know—has a house-boat moored in the upper
Thames. He oilers it to us lor a month, from
the 10th of July.”
‘‘Delightful!” cried the bride, beaming with
smiles. “So peaceful! And we shall be all
alone,y she tenderly added.
A silence sufficient to admit of an extremely
wasteful prodigality ot kisses ensued, and then
he murmured:
“ That is the charm of it! Here we are
separated for hours; there we shall have each
other. And, my darling, I feel it is our first
chance of being totally dependent on each other
for society.”
Another blissful silence, broken this time by
the servant’s announcement that the cab was a't
the door.
Well, July arrived at last, and Millicent
packed away her London dresses, and looked
fondly on the simple semi-shepherdess cos
tumes in which she was to delight the eyes of
her husband for a mouth. In a small sailor hat
with a red ribbon, a striped red-and-white flan
nel short skirt, a white flannel boating body, it
was a most dainty little figure that entered en
thusiastically the small boat which conveyed
the young couple to their home on the waters,
when the railway journey was over.
“How delicious!” cried Millicent; “let us
explore!”
It needed not a long tour to inspect one
saloon, two tiny bedrooms, and in the stern a
small cooking and sleeping apartment for the
man for Mr. Higglesby Brown had left his at
tendant, a retired soldier.
“So convenient!” said the young lady. “No
long staircases to mount, and" every thing within
reach of your hand. Why do people bother so
to live in large houses !”
“ Perhaps in Winter, Milly, they need them.
But I agree with you, one could never tire of
such a spot. Those superb trees with the evbn
ing light on them I That picturesque bridge !”
This happy condition of things was further
increased when Mr. Crow, the servant, served
a dainty cold dinner which had been bought at
Whiteley s ready cooked; supplemented by po
tatoes and salad.
The day had been hot; the night was de
liciously cool, and Milly rose with ardor, pre
pared lor housekeeping duties.
“ When does the butcher call?” she inquired
of Crow.
“ There is no butcher, if you please, ma’am,
within four miles ”
“No butcher I what do you do for meat,
then ?”
“ Mr. Higglesby-Brown, ma’am, he liked
tinned meats, and used to have a box down
every week.”
“ What’s that ? tinned meats !” exclaimed
Adolphus, entering. “ Those horrid things
they give us an article on every few months to
show what excellent food the poor might have
if they would ! Not for me I”
“ But, Adolphus, dear, what shall we do if we
can’t get meat ?”
“You could scull the four miles—it’s nigh
six, though, by the river—and fetch back some,
sir, if you’re so minded,” said Crow, demurely.
“ I daresay 1”
“Oh, couldn't we, Adolphus? It would be
such fun to market lor ourselves—and bring
home the basket,” said Milly, brightening up.
“ l)o take me.”
How could he say no ? So after a leisurely
breakfast, in full sunshine, they started. Four
miles down-stream is a very simple matter,
especially to a young man who is beguiled by
the pleasure of giving a first lesson in sculling
to his pretty wife.
The village was reached, and some meat pro
cured. There was no hotel, onle< little inn, or
what is better named a beer-shop. By this
time ominous clouds had come over, and a real
peal of thunder rolled slowly away in the dis- '
tance.
“ Pleasant, that!” muttered Adolphus. “Wo ;
had better wait to see what weather is coming.
It is twelve o’clock now.”
What was coming, and came, was a desperate :
shower. They took refuge in a cottage, where <
the woman provided them with some bread and 1
cheese—the only fare attainable. :
Directly it cleared they started “home,” the i
cushions uncomfortably damp, and their spirits i
becoming so, when the four miles full against
stream was visited by two drenching showers.
Crow gravely condoled with them, recom- j
mended change of garments, and suggested 1
hot whisky and water. Milly shook her head i
at the last, but promptly insisted on putting j
ready her husband’s dry garments, and then I
changed her own dress. 1
When a meal had refreshed them, the advisa- j
bility of writing at once lor a store of provisions t
to prevent the recurrence of such a chance of I
famine w— acted on, Crow be- (
Ing enlrllatea with a telegraiq to dispatch from i
the nearest place. ‘ (
Then a box of books was unpacked, and Adol- 1
phus read aloud on the house-boat, where they 1
made a sweet addition to the Sylvan picture. i
“ Adolphus, this is happiness.!” murmured i
Milly, fondly, and he did not gainsay her.
The next week set in wet. The first day of it t
Milly produced a piece of art needlework, and ’
Adolphus devoted himself to committing to
paper his views on the very great advantage i
these house-boats were to humanity. They had i
enough to eat, and did not suffer, though the i
saloon and cabins had a very damp and stuffy i
smell. The third day of rain found both bus- <
band and wife more silent, except that they (
twice contradicted each other. Then Milly com- r .
plained of a headache, and wished that they i
could get out, and Adolphus barely commiser- 1
ated the headache, and said wet weather was f
awfully slow except at a club. 1
On the fourth day a gentle melancholy cloud- 1
ed Milly’s bright face, and her husband stood {
just without the saloon under an umbrella, (
glowering at the glorious woods. He turned (
his weary eyes from the trees he knew so well, 1
to the face he knew still better. [
“ Good heavens !” mentally raved Adolphus. 1
“if this goes on 1 shall become a brute. 1 shall 1
hate the sight of the wife ot my bosom I” i
On went the rain. Crow punctually served 1
the meals, but fresh meat was not attainable. <
Adolphus smoked a pipe after dinner, still un- <
der an umbrella, watching eagerly for the boat i
which he hoped would bring his box of neces- 1
sary luxuries—rather a contradiction ot terms, i
but not ot facts.
In sight—and Adolphus rose, with the words
“ At last 1” on his lips, but these were changed
with a wild shout of joy to “ A friend I” and ho i
rushed to the side to welcome with fervor a <
man he had invited to come “ when he could.” i
Robinson Crusoe could have felt scarcely less
joy at sight of his fellow man.
“ Ha, ha, ha !” laughed the jolly stranger, i
Tom Higgs by name; “ thought I’d get the best i
welcome this weather. Where is Mrs. Carew ?” i
“Here, Milly !” cried Adolphus, joyfully, and
Milly appeared at the door of the saloon with
the faint reflection in her face of a terrible
doubt in her heart. Adolphus had been silent
and depressed for days—he had tired of her. A
stranger woke his interest and his joy where she
had failed! Under the circumsances her greeting
of the friend had not the warmth Adolphus had
expected to see, though it lacked nothing in :
grace. i
“ How very kind of you to come this wretch
ed weather, Mr. Higgs,” shp said, holding out
her hand with a faint smile. “We are com- <
pletely isolated ! Has the box come ?” she add
ed to her husband, with something of sternness
in her tone, forgetting as older wives some
times do that pot-luck is all an unexpected
guest can expect, and husbands are not always
to blame for the chance of their arrival.
“No! By Jove, Tom, we are in a horrible
plight! Nothing but tinned meat to offer you
till our goods turn up!”
“ Don’t name it! Mrs. Carew, I’m a famous
cook, and I’ll teach you to make some good
things out of these tins.”
At another time Milly would have brightly ac
cepted the offer. As it was she said she left
everything to the man, and disappeared to give
him his directions.
Adolphus Carew felt angry and uncomforta
ble, but his friend was really a bit ot a philan
thropist in his way, and having expected to find
things just as they were, pretended to see
nothing. But in the course of an evening smoke
on the deck of the house-boat, enveloped in
waterproof, Mr. Tom Higgs aired his sentiments
slowly.
“Delightful theory ’’—puff— “ this isolation.
Does for bachelors”—puff—“ who have knocked
about ”—puff— “ and don’t care for society ”—
puff—“ but there ought to be more than ’’—puff
—“ a man and his wile !”
“ Perhaps,” said Adolphus, a little stiffly, for
he was rather sore at what he actually found
himself calling Milly’s temper. “ But when a
fellow needs change and quiet, he ought to be
able to get it in peace.”
“Ah,” said Tom, meditatively, filling his
second pipe ; “ we’re awfully hard on the girls
we marry.”
“How?” asked Adolphus, in amazement.
“You never did marry; so what do you mean?”
“ 1 mean this. We take a girl (you do, for in
stance —individually 1 don’t) from a lot of
r brothers and sisters, and forget she’s used to
1 the society of anything but your precious self,
s When she’s done all she can to be charming,
t you yawn over the weariness ot things in
1 general. In a confoundedly small space like
i this you can’t lose sight ot her for ten minutes,
i nor she of yon; so if yon get a spice of annoy-
ance about you, you can’t forget it.” e
“It has been horribly slow since this rain be
gan,” admitted Adolphus; “but a man may
make a mistake in his choice.”
“So may a woman, bless you ! fifty mistakes;
and o ten does,” exclaimed Higgs, vigorously.
“ Bless you, I say agnin, a man with one ot the
pleasantest faces and the most charming man
, ner I know is a bru*ie to his wife and children.
Bah! it’s all chance.” Clouds of smoke min
i gled with the small rain for a few seconds.
“ Wouldn’t you like some whisky and soda?”
demanded Adolphus.
“Shouldn’t I just!”
“I’ll get some—or—or will you come in and
have it?”
“Not a bit of it. Fetch it up,” said Higgs,
heroically.
Adolphus found his wife with a closely
written letter, gradually progressing, and hot
tears falling on it. The letter was to a favorite
sister, recommending her never to marry. But
it was torn up and the fragments floated on the
Thames that night. Poor Mr. Higgs waited long
for his whisky and water, smiling genially to
himself. At last it was Milly’s voice that begged
him to come out of the horrid wet ai?d take it in
the cabin. He descended, and saw that the
weather below had changed from stormy to
mild and unsettled.
“We’re going to make a move, Higgs,” said
Adolphus, genially; “this weather is killing,
in a place like this. Brighton will be better—
eh, Milly ?”
“Yes,” said Milly, with a pretty tremble in
her voice, and eyes that were still soft with
tears. “ Won’t you come with us, Mr. Higgs?”
“That I will, Mrs. Carew, and many thanks.”
“And we’ll make Orow a present of that box
of provisions—if it ever turns up. Let’s go to
morrow.”
“ You’re a prompt fellow, Carew. Now take
my advice and never shut yourselves up with
nothing to do. House-boats are splendid at
regattas and for large parties, but they are
damp, uncomfortable holes that breed nothing
but mischief when you get weather like this.”
Milly’s gratoiul smile thanked Mr. Higgs—
and as she slid her hand into the one her hus
band had laid at her disposal under the table
cover, she said :
“ I think the wet makes one get cross and
fanciful, but I don’f want to live in a house-boat
again.”
QUEER DIVORCES.
SOME ODD REASONS FOR SEVER
ING THE KNOT.
(From the Philadelphia liecord.)
A judicial decision in Latin is one of the curi
osities of the court records of recent years in
this city. Judge Thayer is the author of this
document, which was handed down as the final
ity of a divorce case, the point in dispute being
of such a character that the Court’s opinion
looked better dressed in the language of the
ancients than in blunt Anglo-Saxon.
A prominent lawyer, well-known for his acute
ness id divoree cases, found this singular docu
ment in the course of a search for points upon
which to base an appeal to the courts for one of
his numerous clients. “That’s rather odd,”
said the counsellor, “ but there are so many cu
rious things in divorce proceedings that the'
facta must be unusual indeed to disturb the se
renity of a lawyer nowadays. I had a queer
case last year. An old lady came to my office
and insisted that I should file a bill for divorce.
She was eighty years old, and was a bride of a
week, having married her gardener, who was
two years her junior, only eight days before.
Neither party to the case had ever been married
before, and she complained that her husband
had gone to live with his sister the day after the
wedding and could not be prevailed upon to re
turn. The case was docketed, but never tried,
the plaintiff having died two days after proceed
ings had been fairly started. The wife wafi
worth about SB,OOO in real property and the old
man is now living at his ease on the estate.”
This was no more curious a case than that of
the plaintiff who sought a divorce on the ground
of desertion, because his wife insisted upon liv
ing with her mother, and her husband would
not follow her. The case was recently decided,
and the Court declared that the husband was
not bound to live with his mother-in-law. The
man was given an absolute divorce.
“ That,” said the lawyer, “ seems to settle it,
that a man is not bound to live with his mother
in-law.”
A somewhat similar case has just been settled
in the Common Pleas Court. The plaintiff was
a very well-known business man of this city.
He was fond of what is indefinitely known as
“life.,” and even the restraints of a young wife
were distasteful. His temper was none too
good. One Sunday morning, as he was about
to take his wife home after service at the
church, he intimated that he would prefer to be
with some other woman. “ That is a wrong
thing for you to say,” rejoined his wife; “ you
are married now and should not think of other
women.” “Oh I” rejoined the husband, flip
pantly, “being married does not prevent me
from going with other women.” This was more
than the wife would allow, and she promptly
dropped his arm and walked home to her .
mother. She at once began proceedings for di- <
vorce, but the Court would not listen to the
case, holding that no desertion had been proved,
and that the words did not amount to “ cruel
and inhuman treatment.”
On the other hand, the husband’s cross peti
tion for divorce was refused, the Court declar
ing that the desertion was justified, and both <
cases were thrown out. Since then a divorce <
has been procured by a mutual agreement, such
as is very common in the courts of this State, .
and which the courts cannot always guard i
against. j
“ A Western court,” said a member of the bar i
who listened to the recital ot this case, “ has i
just made a curious decision upon an applica- 1
tion for divorce, which has a good deal of equity
if not much law to back it up. A lover had .
gained the consent of his sweetheart to marry
him by agreeing to give her a home, a house of s
her own, as he said, and so they were married, t
After the wedding the husband took his bride j
to a small and uncomfortable room. She re- c
fused to occupy It, and left him on the threshold,
claiming that he had basely deceived her. She I
applied for a divorce, produced Jjis letters in
QQIXTj prorqisiQg to gßfe a home, and proved (
that he had failed, rhe Court decided that the
husband had obtained her consent to the mar
riage contract by fraud, and promptly annulled, i
it.” *' * i
“That,” said a listening attorney, “was a t
sort of obtaining goods under false pretenses,
which the law is down on, you see.”
“About the queerest divorce case on record,” t
remarked one of the lawyers, “ was that of a 1
man who applied to Common Pleas Court No. 3 t
about ten years ago, claiming that he had mar
ried the wrong girl. The husband had been c
courting a friend of the defendant, but the 1
courtship was not approved by tho parents. <
The result was, as "usual, preparations for a ’
runaway match. The matter was complicated, (
however, by the appearance of the sweetheart’s t
friend, who claimed that the lover had ruined t
her. When the night tor the elopement arrived
the plaintiff managed to get in the carriage dis
guised so that the lover supposed it was the i
other girl. The marriage took place in a clump
of woods, a clergyman having agreed to fasten t
the knot under these romantic circumstances. 1
The clergyman was acquainted with the groom, j
but not with his intended, and the result was (
that before he knew it the defendant was mar
ried to the wrong woman. The man repudiated i
the marriage, and subsequently married the
other girl. The plaintiff brought suit for t
divorce on the ground of infidelity, and claimed 1
alimony. The case was never decided, the
woman having gone off to Europe, with another
man, and she is living there now.”
Another interesting case was that of a lady
who married a man believing that he was ■
wealthy. A couple of hours after the ceremony
the woman asked for the bank-books and an
exhibit of the husband’s financial standing. Her
mind was disabused upon one point, and that (
was regarding the wealth of her new husband.
The couple had words, and at 11 o’clock that :
night they separated. The woman claimed that ,
she had been deceived. A divorce was granted
the husband recently.
BEER IN JERLIN.
No Beer Saloons, But Everybody
Swallfows Rivers of Beer.
There are no barrooms or anything equiva
lent to the American beer saloons in Berlin,
says a recent writer from the German capital,
but beer is drank at all places of public enter
tainment, and especially at the numerous so
called cates, where it is almost the only bever
age consumed. There are a number of shady
beer gardens in the heart of the city, screened i
by the fronts of the houses. Moreover, the
basement of every tenth house is a “ bier-lokal,”
or drinking place of some kind. In the quieter
streets are found the “ weiss bier ” and “ wein
stuben,” both frequented by regular rather :
than by chance customers.
To the stranger the cafe in Berlin supplies
what the beer saloon offers in America. The
Berliner of the old type is usually a weiss beer
drinker, who regards the beverage as peculiar
to the city, and is fond of expiating upon its
merits. The smaller beer cellars of the capital
are legion. The whole city seems to flow with
the foaming beverage, amber, pale yellow,
brown, or the creamy “ weisse.” Among the
thousands of underground establishments ol
which the German capital can boast, by far the
most important is its Rathskeller, or guilde hall
cellar, running beneath the vast brick building
dominated by a monumental tower, in which the
Berlin municipality has installed itself. Im
agine the low-vaulted cellars of an edifice about
the size of the New York Post Office, filled from
morning until midnight with a crowd of more
than a thousand persons of various ranks of
society, the majority of them eating, smoking
and shouting, and all of them steadily drink
ing.
A thousand and one thoughts in praise of
good beer and wine emanating from Baccha
nalians of all nations and of all epochs are
blazoned above the arches and upon the walls.
The Emperor himself deigned to visit the
Rathskeller soon after it had been publicly
opened, and drank to the well-being of his be
loved Berliners from a silver-mounted flagon of
foaming beer. The place is chiefly frequented
by the middle classes, from the professional.
man and well-to-do shopkeeper, who bring
> their wives and daughters with them, down to
. the young mechanic, who shares his beer with
, the factory girl by whom he is accompanied.
i Beer is an institution peculiarly and thor
) oughly Germanic. The lover of modest social
, rank drinks it in public beside his betrothed.
The student celebrates every possible triumph,
enjoyment and event in beer. The statesmen
■ and great people refresh themselves with it in
’ their gilded saloons. The theological and legis
lative assemblies find inspiration and invigora
; tion from it, and even the aged Emperor seeks
new energy in his favorite beer at Toeplitz.
i And yet Berlin has no beer saloons.
AN OFFICE-SEEKER.
WHO BOMBARDED THE PRESI
DENT WITH “POMES.”
( Washington Cor. Indianapolis News.)
Speaking of the marines, recalls to my mind
one of them who served in the Mississippi
squadron (though he may have been a sailor)
and who was around Washington last Summer
looking for an office. He attacked the White
House with verses, which he called “ An Old
time Lower Ohio and Mississippi Pilot’s Attri
bute.” He meant tribute. I don’t remember
ever seeing any poetry half so bad since I wrote
rhyme at the Indiana university. Get on to
this:
Pilots’ fathoming views wore indispensable,
Please excuse, and I’ll plainly say,
In political principles I’m democratical,
In no offending way.
The President didn’t seem to fall in with the
“fathoming viewsof the applicant, although
the latter was pledged to civil service reform by
being “ democratical ” without being an offen
sive partisan. He states that point very neatly.
He adds that,
For my country’s services was I born
On a patriotic plan.
Just like a good many other “democratical”
gentlemen I have seen about Washington dur
ing the last year. And just like many of them,
he wails:
Oh, but give me back my prime again ;
For one brief moment let me bear
My old comrade’s most melodious strain ;
I'd take an early bier.
When 1 saw the old man he had taken an
early beer—in fact, several early beers, and was
being toddled out of the White House grounds.
Yet he only wanted his watch set back a few
years to hear some old camp song, an early bier
and an office. He was willing to go through the
competitive system for both the beer and the
office. For he says in the next verse :
Grand Republic, ’free’st rule under heaven;
Thy due prosperity gladly I spy:
Just examine my merit, that offioo be given
Till I grow old, resign or die.
There is a significance in the last line that
startled even Colonel Lamont, who is used to
everything in the way of applications for office.
It is all there in a nutshell. I do not wish to
appear hypercritical by suggesting a still shorter
statement of the case—
Groat country.
My merit.
That office.
Resign or die.
It seems to me that covers the point. The
first time I see the old man I will suggest the
amendment to his “ Attribute.” For all I know,
however, he may have been appointed consul
by this time, and be getting early beers every
morning.
While at Senator Vance’s the other evening I
heard one ot the guests telling a story of the
Chinese Minister. It seems that the latter
could understand only a lew words of English
when he first came over, and had to be coached
by his interpreter for his first reception. The
Minister managed to master the salutation and
the farewell portion of the entertainment. When
the guests began to depart, pretty well loaded
with the stiff punch, one old fellow staggered
up and said bluntly :
“ Well, I must go.”
The Minister, thinking that his guest was say
ing the usual. “had a delightful evening, l—
assure—you,” remarked very cordially, “ I am
glad of it, sir; lam glad of it.”
The astonished guest staggered down the
steps a few moments later and was heard to
mutter:
“ Ole tel mush a been drunk.”
AN OLD-TIMER.
He Saw Washington, Jefferson, Hamil
ton and Others of the Fathers.
(From the Washington Hatchet.)
Mr. Charles Jones, of New York, who is visit
ing his daughter, Mrs. Eugenia Cuthbert; of
this city, celebrated his ninety-fifth birthday
last Wednesday. His great-grandfather was a
Welsh clergyman, named Johnes, who emigra
ted to America and brought with him his entire
parish. His grandfather was a roystering
young man, and in a freak ot fun dropped the
“h” from the patronymic, which then joined
the innumerable caravan ot Jones.
Mr. Jones’s father was an eminent physician,
who lived near Alexander Hamilton, in New
York. When the great financier was about to
start for the “ field of honor” to meet Burr, he
went by Dr. Jones’s residence, and requested
him to act as his surgeon on the occasion. Dr.
Jones had conscientious scruples about the
code, and declined to go. He, however, re
ferred Hamilton to a distinguished physician,
who did go to Weehawken.
The duel was fought near Dr. Jones’s coun
try-seat, and he was sent for soon after his
friend fell. He at once pronounced the wound
fatal, and said Hamilton would depart with the
day. Sure enough, just before sunset the ac
complished statesman closed his eyes forever.
“Several times, in my young days,” said Mr.
Jones, “ 1 heard Burr and Hamilton speak the
same evening. The Republican and Federal
ist Clubs were not far apart. Burr was the
most eloquent man I ever heard, not excepting
my friend, William Wirt. Hamilton was nearly
his equal.”
“Do you remember Washington?” asked The
Hatchet.
“ Perfectly,” replied the hoary-headed patri
arch ; “and he placed his hand on my head
and gave me his blessing. He was a warm
personal friend of my father, and was often at
our home.”
“ Whom of the public men of the day did
Washington like best?”
“He placed none before Hamilton. General
Greene was a great favorite with him.”
“Did you know Jefferson ?”
“Very well. He was a tall, reddish-haired,
inteHectua|-looking man, but awkward in his
movements. He was a most entertaining
talker.”
“ And President Madison ?”
“Yes, I know him and his wife well. I was
their guest at the White House once for a week.
1 was introduced to them by my favorite sister,
to whom Mrs. Madison had taken a great liking.
They first met at an entertainment given by one
of the Carrolls, and the admiration was mutual.
My sister was one of the most beautiful women
of her day. Mrs. Madison was the most finished
woman I ever met, and charmed every one who
came within the circle of her fascinations. She
took me driving in her carriage over the George
town Hights, and pointed out the enchanting
views around the capital.”
“Was President Madison a striking-looking
man ?”
“ No. He was small and quiet in manner,
and was at a disadvantage in comparison with
his accomplished wife, who was many years his
junior. His face, however, indicated force of
character and he was dignified,and courteous.”
Mr. Jones had not been in Washington before
in forty-four years. He gets about remarkably
well, and has been to the capitol two or three
times. He will call on the President some time
this Summer.
THE INDIAN FIGHTER.
Adam Poe and Bigfoot—The Story Be
lated by Poe’s Daughter.
A daughter of Adam Poe, known to the pres
ent pioneer-history reading generation as Adam
Poe, the Indian fighter, is the oldest person liv
ing in Wayne county, 0., writes a correspondent
of the Cincinnati A’ngm/’er. She is nearly nine
ty-five years of age, the 15th of this month being
the first day of her ninety-fifth year.
In speaking of the conflict with Bigfoot, she
states that her father’s account of the fight dif- i
fers from the account given by historians, who
wrote that her father, Adam Poe, had the en
counter with Bigfoot, when she says that her
father always told that his brother, Andrew
Poe, had the hand-to-hand fight with the Indian
chief, while he (Adam) shot and killed the In
dian. Her recital of her father's account is as
follows:
“A body ot seven Wyandottes made a raid
upon a white settlement upon the Ohio river,
near Fort Pitt, and killed an old man who was
alone in a cabin. The news of the murder soon
spread, and my father and Uncle Andrew, with
some neighbors, set out to capture and punish
the murderers. They followed the Indians all
night, and next morning found a trail leading to
the river. My Uncle Andrew did not go direct
ly to the river, but left father and the others
and went through the thicket. He stole down
to the bank and discovered Bigfoot and a little
Indian, with guns, ready, waiting for the pursu
ing party.
“ Uncle Andrew concluded to shoot Bigfoot,
and raised his gun and pulled the trigger. The
gun only snapped and did not discharge. The
snapping attracted the attention of the Indians
and they discovered Andrew, who saw it was
too late for him to run, so he sprang toward the
Indians. He caught them both and threw them
down. The little Indian got loose and drew his
tomahawk to kill Andrew, who kicked back
ward and knocked the tomahawk from the lit
tle Indian’s hand. Meanwhile Andrew was
holding Bigfoot. He finally released him, and,
seizing a gun belonging to the Indians, shot
the little Indian. Bigfoot again grabbed An
drew, and they rolled into the water, and An
drew got Bigfoot's head under water, and, sup
posing the Indian was drowned, he released
his hold. His supposition was not correct, and
they both started for shore. Bigfoot reached
the shore first, and picked up the gun with
which Andrew had shot the little Indian.
“At this time my father appeared on the
scene, attracted there by the report of the gun.
His gun happened to be empty, and both he
and Bigfoot started on a race to load. In his
hurry Bigfoot jerked his ramrod out too far,
and it fell out of his hand. My father loaded
first and shot Big Dot ju-st as the Indian was
raising his gun. Seeing Andrew in the water,
my father looked after him, and found that he
> had been wounded in the wrist by the little In
dian’s tomahawk, Andrew called to father that
he could help himself, but father was anxious
for his safety and went to his assistance, while
Bigfoot, in his dying struggles, rolled into the
river and his body was carried off by the cur
rent. The remainder of the pursuing party
came up, and, seeing Andrew in the water,
i took him for an Indian and shot him in the
shoulder, but he soon recovered. The other
Indians were overtaken and killed, and in that
fight my father was wounded.”
“i’D shootjhat NEGRO.”
A MISSISSIPPISNAKE CHARMER.
Stooping over a small box on the ground at
his side, the disreputable-looking" charmer
raised the lid and exposed bis collection. There
were three black snakes of the species found m
Pennsylvania, each some three feet in length;
one king snake, a mottled green serpent nearly
as large, and a snake known here as the water
rattlesnake, of dark brown color and perhaps
eighteen inches in length. This snake is said
by the blacks to be very poisonous. Five heads
shot into view, five forked tongues darted out,
and there was a falling back of the crowd.
Slowly one of the black snakes raised himself
out of the box and glided gracefully away on
the ground.
“ Heah yo’I” spoke the charmer. “ Whar yo’
goin’? Yo’ done git back yer to dis chile.”
At his word the snake stopped, wheeled
around, approached his captor, and coiled up
his leg and about his body. The other snakes,
excepting the smallest, came out of the box at
the word and followed the first. All over his
body they went, their eyes flashing, their ton
gues darting back.and forth continuously. They
twined about his neck, rested on his shoulders,
hung about his arms, and but for erect heads
and constantly playing tongues seemed per
fectly at home. One by one they would be put
on the ground and start away, only to stop at
the word. Hung over the box, they would
maintain one position until told to move. They
seemed under perfect control, and for nearly
half an hour entertained and horrified the rap
idly-growing circle of spectators. Then the
Mississippian put away the big fellows and
took out the water rattlesnake.
The new snake was a decidedly lively one, a
foot and a half long, as said, and of good thick
ness. It was as wide awake as any of its pre
decessors—more vicious in appearance, if any
thing. it did all that they did, then coiled on
the fellow’s shoulder. He took it in his hands
and deliberately crowded it into his mouth. It
was a capacious mouth. The lips closed, and
the ungainly black apparently masticated the
serpent, while the crowd stood awed by disgust
and horror. Slowly his lips opened, as when
one slowly exhales the smoke of an extra choice
cigar. Quick as a flash the snake’s head shot
out, its tongue darting flame, its eyes gleam
ing wickedly. It gradually pushed its body into
sight, slipped down on the black’s shoulder and
coiled as if to strike; then, at the word, returned
to the box. The effect of such an unnatural ex
hibition was startling in the extreme—revolting
beyond description.
“I solemnly swear,” said an Indiana gentle
man, as he turned away, “if I had a gun I’d
shoot that negro in a second.”
As to the secret of training the snakes—and
well-trained they were—the Mississippian was
obstinately dumb.
twlTsoldiers.
BOTH THE BRAVEST OF THE
BRAVE.
I know an old codger, writes an army sur
geon in the Chicago Inter-Ocean, who was
wounded in the foot at Stone river, but who
swore by all that was good and bad that ho
would never leave the service for such a scratch
as that. It interfered with his efficiency as a
marcher, but his captain acted on the theory
that a veteran who could shoot and who could
keep his head in time of battle, was better than
a raw recruit, and when the old fellow insisted
that he should remain in the service, I favored
his claims, and he did remain. I had him at
tached to the ambulance corps, so that in long
marches he could ride, but there was never a
battle in which his command participated but
what he was in the ranks doing most excellent
service. After the close of the war he became
an active business man, and his old wound did
not trouble him for several years. There came
a time, however, when he was confined to the
house as a cripple, and when he was persuaded
to make application for a pension, he was
laughed at for his pains.
In another case, after the battle of Shiloh, a
man was sent to the hospital tent with a severe
wound from a bullet that had passed clear
through his body. I thought the case a very
serious one, but three days later I missed my
man. At first I thought heohad died suddenly,
and that the body had been carried out in my
absence. Making inquiries, I discovered that
the fellow had got up on his own responsibility,
and had staggered over to his own company's
quarters. I went over, and found him secreted
in one of the company's tents, his comrades
standing by him in hi’s inclination to remain
away from the hospital. I called the ambulance,
and was ready to take him again to the hospital,
when his captain made a plea for him, and
asked that he be allowed to remain, the men in
the same mess volunteering to act as nurses.
He recovered with astonishing rapidity, and in
three or four weeks was on duty again, taking
his turn in all sorts of weather and under all
sorts of circumstances. He went through the
war in that way, but two years after the war
closed, at an old-fashioned raising in West Vir
ginia, he went beyond his strength. The wound
broke out in the old place, and he became an
invalid. When I heard of the matter, those
who ought to have taken a sympathetic attitude
in siAh a case were endeavoring to show that
the man’s disability dated from his list at the
raising. I went to Washington myself and
straightened that matter out.
Siw Win Stotp.
The darky was sure it was a ’coon that was in
the tree, but when the tree was cut down he
found
A CHANGE OF ’COONS.
A negro, with an ax in his hand, stood beside the
highway skirting a Mississippi swamp, and as we
came up, be said :
“Gem’ien, he run'd right up dat ar’ gum tree.”
“What did?”
“A 'coon, sah. If you has got pistols mebbe you
kin fotch him down fur me. De family am power
ful hard up fur meat jist now.”
We dismounted and took a survey. An animal of
some sort could be dimly made out hugging a limb
high up. We popped away, but without doing any
damage, and, as It moved along the limb, the
colonel observed:
‘•That may be a ’coon, but I don’t believe it.
I’d sooner think it was a ’possum.”
••Hu 1 but if dat ain’t a 'coon you kin call dis
chile crazy I” replied the man.
We rode away Raving him to chop the tree down.
It was about three hours before we returned, and
then we found him seated on the fallen trunk. Be
ginning at the top of his head and extending to his
ankle bones were bloody scratches. His garments
were rent and tattered, his hands were covered with
blood, and he was trying to bind some leaves on a
bad wound on his left arm.
••For the land’s sake I but did the tree fall on
you?” exclaimed the colonel.
••No, sah; I war fell on by de anamile.”
«• Which was it—a ’coon or a 'possum ?”
"Neither one, sah; it happened to be a wildcat 1"
The St. Paul man didn’t admire Minneapolis
very much, we judge, from the way in which
HE LOCATED THE VILLAGE.
“Hubby,” said a St. Paul lady, as her spouse
came up on to the piazza one evening, “an old
friend of yours is inside, and he called on his way
to Minneapolis.”
The St. Paul man entered the house, greeted the
gentleman quite cordially, and said :
“Wife said you were thinking of going to Min
neapolis.”
“Yes, I thought I would."
••Well, now—going to stopover at Minneapolis,
eh ? Going to ride over ?”
“Yes; the way the walking is just now I thought
I would,” and the visitor laughed slightly, much as
he thought he recognized himself that the joke was
a chestnut.
••Ever been there?”
••No."
“ Haven’t, eh ? Wife, where did we turn off to go
to Minneapolis, the last time ?”
•• At a little red school-house on the left hand side
-pf the road."
' “ Oh, yes. Well, you drive out about nine miles,
and you come to a creek. Just after you cross this
creek you strike a piece of timber, and a little be
yond that you come to a clearing. Right at this
clearing you’ll find a red school-house, and some of
the kids, or the teacher, most any one around there
will tell you where Minneapolis is, and it’s only half
a mile further, anyway. You’ll know the village
when you come to it; there’s a blacksmith’s shop, a
drug store, post-office, and a couple of saloons—may
be another one there now—l haven’t been there in
six months.”
The Omaha Herald tells this joke of
A MORPHINE FIEND.
There was something noble about the contour of
his forehead of the pure Greek type, which the busy
American life has nearly driven out of existence.
About his whole appearance, however, as he lay
stretched out on the floor of the cell of the Central
Station yesterday, there was nothing which sug
gested either the noble in art or nature. The charge
against him on the jailer’s book was “ D. D.,” which,
to the initiated, means that in the morning he will
have to pay $5 for being drunk. All at once, appar
ently, he recovered from the sleep into which he had
fallen.
“Jailer! jailer!” ejaculated he, in feeble tones.
••Come quick ! I’m dying.”
The officer responded to his call, and asked him
what the matter was.
•• Oh ! I can’t describe the sensation, but I know
I m going to die. I’m going to die right away,
too !’’
Just at that time a physician, who happened to
be passing, was summoned to the cell. The man
uttered a few unintelligible sounds, and held out
his wrist to enable the physician to feel his pulse.
•• Ah, now, Doctor,” said the prisoner, changing
his tone when the jailer had left them alone, “ get
me a drink, that’s a good fellow."
.The medical man shook his head.
•■ Say, Doctor,” continued he confidentially and
in a more feeble voice; “you know from your
medical experience how a man suffers for want of
so’me stimulant when he is getting over the effects
of a spree ?”
“Yes, I know. But I guess I’d better give you a
hypodermic of m’orphine. That will do just as
much good.”
“I’d rather have whisky, but I suppose that’s
better thau nothing.” The Doctor took out his lit
tle syringe and injected a little morphine in the
fellow s arm.
•• Whisky be d ! * shouted the prisoner.
••I’ve fooled you all. I wasn’t drunk. I’m a mor.
phiue fiend, and all I wanted was a little of the
drug,*” and he fell back and chuckled to himself for
half an hour.
Hfere ie a good story that a three-card monte
man tells on himself. He happened to meet
A VERMONT UNCLE.
Friends of Eph Burns, one of the slickest three
men in the business, repeat a story that he tells on
himself. He fell in love with an oid man who was
going to Denver, and, by the usual method, got him
, and others interested in a three-card game. The old
man watched the proceedings lor some time, and at
length took a hand. After winning once or twice
he lost pretty much everything that be had in sight
on one bet, and Eph soon after vanished. The old
man pocketed his loss, and from a wallet that was
sewed in his undershirt he drew out another com
fortable roll of bills and said nothing. About a
week later Eph went home to Denver, and on en
tering his home caught a glimpse of the old man.
Waiting until he saw bis wife, he asked:
’’ Who’ve you got in there ?”
“ It’s your uncle from Vermont. He’s out here
prospecting and has been waiting for you.”
Well, you tell him I’m up in the mines and
won't be back in fourteen years,’’ said Eph, the per
spiration standing out on him.
•* But I have already told him that you were home
every week or two,” said the wife.
Eph then thought a minute and said: “ Can’t I
palm somebody else off on him ? You see I did him
up on the train, and I can’t be very sociable with
him."
There was another minute of suspense, and then
Mrs. Burns observed: “Just you slip up stairs
and shave off your mustache. He's half blind and
would never suspect you.”
Eph entered the hallway, went up stairs in two
bounds, and immediately came down again on his
back in one. The old man, who had gone up to bis
room by the back stairs, had met him on the land
ing, and, without a word, knocked him down stairs
with one blow.
“Hold him there till I can get down,” said tho
old fellow, “ and I’ll grind his bones. That’s tlio
varmint I was telling you about.”
He came hobbling down the stairs, and Mrs.
Burns gasped out something about a mistake hav
ing been made just as Eph rose up and called for
quarter.
“This is Eph. your nephew,” the woman said,,
“and ho was just going up stairs to explain to
you."
With this, after satisfying herself that no bones
had been broken, she lelt the two together, and ae
soon as Eph could get his breath ho got out some'
kind of a story about initiating his uncle in West
ern ways, and had no desire to do anything more
than play a practical joke on him. it being his pur
pose all the time, as a matter of course, to refund
the money. The explanation was satisfactory, and
the old man made a long visit. In telling the story
on himself. Eph always says that the old man was
after him as long as he remained in the Wost to go*
into business on a big scale.
•• We can skin all creation,” he would say, “ and
we might as well do it.”
But Eph pretended to have scruples against any
thing of the kind, and would never do as requested.
The old man who was approached to inyeat
hia money in a man-slaying invention found
HE HAD A BETTER LAY.
Aman who has invented a coffee-mill cannon
which will kill 800 men a minute was trying to iorm
a stock company in a Michigan town*the other day.
An old citizen who had money to invest wasl rought
up and introduced, and after having the workings
of the gun explained to him, he inquired:
*• Is she sure fire, aud kill 800 men every miuit,
eh?”
“It will."
“ Wall, that’s satisfactory—perfectly satisfactory
but I guess I won’t invest. I’d druther wait and
git a contract for furnishing the gravestones for
your victims.”
After much cogitation they
FOUND A FITTING PLACE FOR OLD BELLOWS.
In one of the newly settled counties of Dakota
the lew residents were fixing up a political slate so
that all would have a place at the public crib.
“ There," said one, “I guess about every one has
something except old Tom Bellows."
“Might make him constable."
“No, ho can’f read—couldn’t serve a warrant."
“ Justice of the peace ?*’
“That won't do, because he can’t write, either.
Guess the old fellow will have to go hungry.”
“That won’t never work," said another; “ he will
throw his influence against us. I should think the
school board was the place for Tom.”
••Didn’t think of that. Put him down for the
best place on the board.”
“A lawyer’s contingent iee” is something
we’ve all heard of, but lew of us know what is
its meaning.. The definition is clearly given in
this
TALK BETWEEN LAWYER AND CLIENT.
“ What is a contingent fee ?” asked a litigant of a
well-known attorney the other day.
“ Well,” said the legalite, “ if I take your case and
lose it I get nothing.”
“ Yes, yes; that’s all right."
“ But if I win that case you get nothing."
“How’s that? How's that? I don’t think I un
derstand you."
he attorney calmly repeated his statement. The
still non-plussed litigant persisted:
“If I understand you in neither case I get any
thing ?"
“Well, you know that’s not my fault; but that is
the meaning of a contingent fee. Shall I bring suit ?
What did you say? No? Well, I am very sorry.
Good morning."
The expectant husband in this case was clear
ly in the
RIGHT IN DEMANDING AN EXPLANATION.
A reverend gentleman was recently called upon to
marry an out-of-town couple. In the course of ths
Episcopal service the bridegroom is required to use
the expression “plight my troth." The husband,
expectant followed the good rector of St. Paul’s
through the service without hesitation until these
words were reached, when he sharply inquired :
“What's that?’’
The dominie was somewhat nonplussed by the
unexpected question, but, adapting himself to the
exigency, explained that troth means fealty or fidel
ity.
••Oh, well," said the cautious candidate for con
jugal honors, “if that’s all, I plight my troth. The
only kind of a trough I know anything about is the
one we feed the pigs out of, and I thought maybe
you meant to insinuate we are going to live in &
hog pen."
SCINTILLATIONS.
Mosquitoes will soon be seeking in
troductions.
The Southern watermelon has ap
peared in our midst. This is what ails our mi Ist.
A whip makes the horse go, “ money
makes the mare go.” and a green muskmelon, pic
kled, makes a mango.
Speak of a man’s marble brow, and he
will glow with conscious pride; but allude to his
wooden head, and he’s mad in a minute.
It is about time for somebody among
the back seats to rise up and remarks that the mos
quito bar, like the campaign lie, is made out of
hole cloth.
“Well, Uncle Zeke, what compensa*
tion do you want for whitewashing that fence?*?
“ Doan want no kompinsashuu, Mass Backus; only
just fo’ dollahs an’ a haf.”
To be forewarned is one-quarter better
than to have a righteous cause; ior a man who is
forewarned is four-armed, while he who hath his
quarrel just is only thrice armed.
“ I hez bin movin’ ’round on top dis
yairth rnoas eighty y’ars now, an’ it am my solemn
belief dat de pusson who pays de least attenshuu to •
de weather injoys life thirty per cent, de best.”
Snobley—“ Aw—aw—it must be very
unpleasant for you Americans to be governed by
people—aw—whom you wouldn’t ask to dinner !’•
American Belle—“Weil—not more so, perhaps than
for you in England to be governed by people who
wouldn’t ask you to dinner !”
Customer —“I say, Mr. Barber, 11
don’t hear your scissors at work on my hair.” Bar
ber—“ There is very little hair on your head."
Customer—“ That makes no difference. I pay you
monev and I want you to rattle the scissors on the
bald place just the same as if it had hair on it."
An express train stopped at Pittsfield:,
a few days ago to let a passenger get off for a min
ute to kiss his wife, who happened to be in that
town. As long as no train is permitted to stop in
order to let a man kies another fellow’s wife, surely
no fault can be found with a railroad’s management
for this sort of thing.
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7