New York dispatch. [volume], July 18, 1886, Page 7, Image 7

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

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YESTERDAY.
BY M. M. FORRESTER.
Yesterday, d.irlins— only yeaterday.
The heiveua were bright, and all the earth was
fair;
Love’s golden radiance fell upon our war —
Love’s dreamy music filled the scented air;
A thousand wild dowers trembled round our feet,
We saw the lilac boughs above us sway;
And beard the woodlark ringing high and sweet.
Yesterday, darling—on’y yesterday.
Yesterday, darling —only yesterday,
With lips apart and hair of russet brown,
You came, dear heart, across the flower-decked way,
Sweeping the grasses with your trailing gown;
•Upon your ch,eek there was a wild-rose glow,
And in your eyes there wss a sunset ray:
You came with arms outstretched —you loved me
* 80,
Yesterday, darling—only yesterday.
Yesterday, darling—only yesterday,
A soft breeze stealing from the sunny south
Blew from your brow the tangled fringe away.
And wooed the kisses from your crimson mouth;
3?he boughs caressed you as you came along.
The red sun kissed you with its parting ray,
'The woodlark praised you in his happy song,
Yesterday, darling—only yesterday.
'Yesterday, darling—only yesterday;
Ah, me I ah, me 1 but yesterday is—dead;
i The sun still shines across the flower-decked way,
x And still the woodlark warbles overhead;
But in the shadows of a great despair,
I weep, dear heart, upon the weary way,
For love’s bright dream, that made the earth bo
fair
Yesterday, darling—only yesterday.
> LORD LITTLEDALE’S LOVE.
f BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETECTIVE.
z CHAPTER I.
t,ord littledalb’s love stout.
“ 1 cannot be seated —I must walk about the
room. I know you will excuse me, Mr.
• Gerval.”
The speaker was a man of about fifty, but
looking younger by at least some five years.
He was plainly but handsomely dressed, and
bad that distinguished air about him which
marks the true gentleman. Proud! Yes, but
of hie stainless honor, not o! his wealth.
“ I pray you do as you please, my lord,” I re
plied. “Only I would remind you that the
more calm you are the better shall I understand
the business, which from your note I should
conclude is of a delicate nature.”
“ You are right, Mr. Gerval. It is of a deli
pate nature—so delicate that I would not trust
:ft in a letter, Of course you will keep secret
what I tell you ?”
“Mv lord, what you tell me shall be kept
perfectly secret. Of that you may be sure.”
. “I know it—l know it. Well, some twelve
years ago I met at Venice a Mrs. Marsham— a
widow—and instantly fell m love with her, for I
believed her as virtuous as she was beautiful.”
“Surely, my lord, you have no reason to
<doubt that now 7”
“I do not know, Listen and I will tell you
• all.”
“ May I take notes ?”
Is that necessary 7”
“Yes; in most cases, certainly. No one will
see the notes and the names will be written in
eypher.”
“ Good. Then you can proceed.”
I took my notes and Lord Littledale related
the following strange story, still pacing up and
flown the room with his hands clasped behind
his back, evidently moved with the deepest
•motion:
“I married Mrs. Marsham, and, until some
* little time ago, fancied myself one of the hap
piest ol men. But by chance I discovered that
sny wife, who at our marriage was far from well
off, had been drawing largely upon the money I
had put into the bank for her private use.
Now, I did not mind that; but it had been done
-in a secret manner, which made me suspicions.”
“ How so, my lord 7 You gave the money to
Lady Littledale and she is within her rights to
iise it.”
“I know that,” said his lordship, impatiently,
“ and I do not care for the money; but all checks
which Lady Littledale drew to settle her bills
had the names of the tradespeople upon them
and were crossed. But there were other checks,
all payable to ‘ No. 13, or bearer,’ and left
©pen.
“ Can yon not ask Lady Littledale the reason
of this peculiarity ?” I demanded.
“I had thoughts of that until the events of
’ the day before yesterday banished them from
my head.”
“ Indeed I May I ask you the cause 7"
" You must know that a year after our mar
riage a beautiful little girl was born to us.
Need I say how dearly 1 loved her 7 lam the
last of my race, and all my wealth would, and
will, be hers, let what will happen. It so hap
pened that I opened a secret door in my li
brary, and therein discovered a number of let
ters addressed to my wife, all in a man’s writ
ing.”
Lord Littledale paused, as if overcome with
r emotion, and passed his hands hurriedly over
his eyes. He continued :
“ My little daughter Clare happened to be in
the room ; so, holding out the letter, I asked her
if she knew how they came, lor they did not
come by post.
“ ‘ Oh, yes, papa,’ she replied,' such a strange-
Jooking man brings them, and he always comes
to the back gate, and mamma always seems so
— worried and ’
“ “ I stopped the child, for if I have to hear any-
thing against the mother, it shall not come from
her daughter’s lips. 1 replaced the letters, all
'. but one, and closed the drawer, The next
morning I made up my mind that I would read
those letters. I opened the drawer, but they
were gone."
“Gone! Well, that does look queer. How
do you account for that 7”
“ I suppose Clare must have told her mother,
•nd Lady Littledale must have removed them—
lor what purpose I do not know, unless it be a
guilty one.”
“ I don t think it can be that, my lord,” I
•aid. “ Now, what would you have me do 7”
“ Discover the person from whom those let
ters came, and the purport ofthem.”
“ Have you the letter that you say you took
from the drawer 7 Can I see it ?”
Lord Littledale, alter a moment's struggle,
thinking whether he should act honorably to his
wife, drew it from hie pocket and laid it on the
desk.
Jealousy had overcome all other considera
tions.
I opened it, and read as follows :
“Dearest M.: When are we to meet again 7
I know I ought not to be, but I am jealous of
c your husband. I do not know where this will
all end. Sometimes I think in a tragedy. lam
fearfully pushed for money. Could you not let
me have another fifty ? Sorry to ask you so
eoon again, but necessity obliges. You can
trust Jakes with it He s a bad ’un to look at,
but a good ’un to go. Don’t fail me, for I really
am hard up. Yours devotedly,
“Ernest.”
I must say I did not like the looks of this let
t ter at all. There was a last, slangy tone about
it which I did not think nice, especially when
addressed to a lady.
“Well, what do you think of it?” demanded
Lord Littledale, sternly, as I placed the letter
on the table again.
“ You must give me time to think. There is
evidently a mystery here, but it may be inno
cent.”
“It may, but it does not seem very likely,”
replied Lord Littledale, grimly. “ What is to
Tie done?”
“ These things are not worked out in a mo
ment. You must give me time to think. You
will leave the letter with me, and I will let you
know in a day or two what I intend doing.”
“Let it be so,” said Lord Littledale, as he
took up his hat. “ I trust all to you, Mr. Ger
val, and know I shall be faithfully served.”
“You may be sure of that, and I only trust
that 1 may clear this mystery away in a pleasant
manner.”
“ Heaven knows that I trust you may ; but,
in spite of my love, I doubt it.”
With that Lord Littledale left the office, and 1
was alone to think the matter out.
CHAPTER 11.
THE RESULT OF A GAME OF BILLIARDS.
I must confess that I had not much liking for
" the task set before me, for I saw very little
chance of success.
As lor the name of Ernest, that was too com
mon to be any guide. The only threads I had
to weave out a clew was, in the first place, the
handwriting ; in the second, the name of the
•messenger, Jakes.
But what was I to make of these? Jakes
must be some man of doubtful character, or he
would not go on such a mission to extort mo
ney, and that was what I believed it to have
been, and the description given of him was not
MB in his favor—" A bad un to look at, but a good
’un to go.”
My first endeavor was to find out as nwich as
possible of Lady Littledale’s previous history.
There appeared not much difficulty in this
> matter. She bad married a Captain Marsham
when she was very young. He, the captain,
had used her badly—so badly, indeed, that be
fore a year alter the marriage she had flown
from him. Marsham was said to have died in
North India, but I lost all trace of him and could
I gain no proofs of his death, and I learned that
’• his Christian name bad been Ernest.
I now, with the aid of my agents, put a strict
watch upon Lord Littledale s house, and here I
met with more success.
It was one of those gloomy nights which usu
ally set in on the beginning of November. No
rain, but misty and foggy. A night when the
chest and eyes suffer painfully.
■I was about to give up my watch, thinking
that no one would come out on such a night it
they could help it, when a side door was open
ed, and a lady slipped cautiously out.
She gazed suspicr usly round to see that she
was not watched, but I had crept into a door
way, so that she could not see me. But I could
see her, and watched her closely, for I knew
that it was Lady Littledale. Having satisfied
herself that her movements were un bserved,
•he closed the door and hurried away.
In an instant I had slipped from my hiding
place and followed her.
She passed on to Westminster, and paused in
the shadow of the grand old Abbey, evidently
■ awaiting s me one. I, taking advantage ol the
* turns she had made, so that when her back was
■ toward me I advanced, managed to get pretty
— «1030 up to her, so that should the appointment
be kept I might hear all, or part, of the conver
sation.
Presently a hansom cab drove up close to the
spot, and a man leaped out, paid and dismissed
the cabman, and then advanced to Lady Little
dale.
“ Well ,” I could not catch how he ad-
dressed her, but I heard her ladyship reply:
“ 1 rnest, how often have I told you not to
address me in that way I Why do you forget 7”
“ Really Ido not know. I would do any
thing sooner than annoy you. You know that.”
“ 1 hope so. But Lord Littledale, I know,
is suspicious; he found some of your let
ters .”
“ Confound it I Why did you not destroy
them ? Never keep letters, if you can help it.”
"Am I not to have anything to remember
you by?” demanded the lady, sorrowfully.
“ Oh, yes, to be sure. I did not mean to
speak unkindly. Only letters are dangerous
just now.”
“ Alas, yes 1 When will the time be past 7”
“ 1 cannot tell. Be patient; the clouds will
pass before long, I hope. Meanwhile you must
be patient.”
“ It is difficult; but as you command I must
obey.”
“ To think that a foolish step, taken out ot
love, should cause all this trouble 1”
“ Ah, it is done now, and cannot be undone.
But have you the money?”
“ I could not spare you fifty. I have brought
you twenty-five. I cannot touch his money; and
you now receive almost ths entire ot my private
fortune.”
“ It’s rather a nuisance, as I am so pressed.
But I must make it do, and I am grateful to
you.”
And then the man drew her close to him and
kissed her.
" You shall have the rest as soon as I can,”
she said, mournlully; “ but do be careful. I
have seen the folly of extravagance and its
dangers. Be warned.”
Another embrace, some words spoken in so
low a tone that I could not hear them, and
then the two asperated, going in different direc
tions.
Which should I follow?—the lady or the
man?
I determined to follow the latter, and tracked
him to a billiard-room, where he was evidently
well known. He was soon deeply interested in
a game of billiards—far too much so to notice
me—so 1 called for some refreshments and
watched the game. Mr. Ernest won, and wished
to play another, but his antagonist either had
no time or the incltnation; so, putting on his
coat and bat, he left the room. 1 volunteered
to play, and my offer was accepted.
I found Mr. Ernest a nice Bort of gentleman,
with that besetting sin of many young mon
ths idea that it is a fine thing to be fast. He
was merry, and somewhat witty, but do what I
could, with all my e perience or skill I could
not draw any secret from him. The game was
well contested, and I managed to make several
bets with him, all of which I won.
“ Confound it all,” he cried, petulantly, as he
threw down hie cue, “I am out of luck to
night I Let me see—that will be two pounds
five 1 owe you. Here, Jakes, get me this five
pound note changed,” and he threw one down
on the table.
Jakes was the billiard-marker—one more
piece of evidence.
I advanced to the table, and said, as I took
up the note:
“ Don’t trouble the marker—l’ll change the
note. Only just pnt your name at the back.”
“Caught at last,” I said to myself, as the
young fellow drew forth a gold pencil-case and
wrote down bis name and address.
It was “ Ernest Graham, No. — South Aud
ley street.”
We shook hands and parted, promising to
meet again at the same place on some future
evening, so that be might have “ his revenge.”
The first thing I did the next morning was to
hurry off to the bank and have the number of
the note traced, and, as I had suspected, it had
been paid to Lady Littledale.
Everything seemed to point to this lady’s
guilt, and yet I did not like to believe it. How
ever, I hurried off to Lord Littledale and placed
the matter before him.
Never had I, or have I, seen a man so cut up
in my life.
“ To think she should have deceived me !” he
exclaimed. “ Even it she had no respect lor
my ancient name and honor, she should have
remembered this little girl—our daughter.”
“Do not jump at conclusions, my lord,” I
said; “ her ladyship may be innocent. That
there is a mystery about the matter no one can
deny ; but a mystery does not prove guilt.”
“ What age is this fellow 7 ’
“About twenty-two or twenty-three. Don’t
for one moment think that it is her ladyship’s
first husband come to lite again.”
“ I know not what to think. Advise, me, Mr.
Gerval, what to do.”
I thought for a moment, and then asked :
“ Has your lordship some distant relation—a
lady—who would oblige you by giving a party
—one who would aek any one you might pro
pose ?”
“ Yes, my conein, Lady Ferncliff, gives one
to-night. I intended to go with my wile; but
now ”
“ Nothing could be more fortunate,” I inter
rupted quickly. “ You must go as if nothing
had happened. You must also get me an invi
tation for myself and friend. You can do this ?”
“ I can write you the invitation now ; but I do
not know the purpose.”
“Never mind that. Do as I tell you and
await the consequences calmly.”
The invitation was received.
That afternoon I spent with Ernest Graham,
and after some pressure, made him consent to
accompany me to Lady Ferncliff’s.
He seemed rather surprised at my aristo
cratic acquaintances, but after a little persua
sion consented to go.
CHAPTER 111.
LADY FERNCLIFF’S BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Lady Ferncliff’s mansion stood in Park lane,
and on the night of the ball that fashionable
thoroughfare was crowded with carriages, foot
men and flunkies of all kinds; but the greatest
flunkies ot all, to my mind, were the number of
people who stood shivering in the streets to see
the ladies and swells going to the dance.
Mr. Graham and I arrived in a modest
brougham, and managed to get up the broad
staircase with some difficulty. At last we reach
ed the reception-room, aud I, as I had arranged
with Lord Littledale, at once introduced Mr.
Graham to Lady Ferncliff, who received him
with marked favor, and, really and truly, a more
handsome fellow, or a more gentlemanly one,
was not to be found in the place.
A few questions of the ordinary kind had
passed, and we were about to move off, when I
caught sight of Lord and Lady Littledale mov
ing forward to greet Lady Ferncliff.
This was my opportunity, but I nearly missed
it, for I was thunderstruck at Lady Littledale’s
wondrous likeness to Mr. Graham.
I had never seen her ladyship before, and was
quite unprepared for this, and therefore was so
startled that I could not speak.
Her ladyship was undoubtedly a very hand
some woman,although she must have been about
thirty-eight. But she was well preserved, and
her toilet was splendid. Luckily Lady Fern
cliff knew my design, and at once said:
“Oh, Mr. Graham, I must introduce you to a
dear cousin of mine. Lady Littledale, Mr. Er
nest Graham.”
For a moment they stood thunderstruck.
Then Lady Littledale muttered something
about being delighted, bowed, and passed on,
but her face, neck, and shoulders were covered
with blushes, and her bosom heaved with emo
tions she could not suppress.
Mr. Graham was about to follow her, when
L' rd Littledale placed an iron grasp upon his
arm, as he said:
“A w ild with you, sir, in private. There is
a withdrawing-room close by, where we can
speak. Mr. Gerval, please follow.”
The young man seemed startled at first, but
in a few seconds bowed and accompanied Lord
Littledale, while I followed.
“ Now, sir,” cried his lordship. “I demand
to know how first you made the acquaintance of
Lady Littledale. I presume you know who I
am, and will not doubt my right to inquire.”
“ 1 suppose you are Lord Littledale, and
therefore do not doubt your right, but at the
same time I must decline t > answer that ques
tion. I have scruples of honor.”
“ Honor I A man who takes money from a
lady had better not mention h. nor.”
The young fellow turned very red and bit his
lip, but made no reply.
“Dare you deny that you have accepted large
sums of money from her?”
“No 1” replied Mr. Graham, in a low, calm
voice. “I do not deny it—l confess it.”
“ Do you deny that you love her ?”.
“ No. I confess that I love her very dearly,”
and as the young fellow spoke I fancied I saw a
smile on his face.
“ Enough, sir 1 I know that it is not the cus
tom of Englishmen to duel, but I have been a
soldier and demand satisfaction. To-morrow
we will cross to Belgium. I will send a Iriend
to you to carry out all arrangements.”
And with this Lord Littledale turned upon
his heel and was about to leave the room, when
Mr. Graham cried:
“ Stay, my lord. Believe me, if any man had
challenged me but you, I would have fought
him, let the consequences have been what
they might. But with you I cannot -I will not
fight.”
“And why not with me?” demanded Lord
Littledale, sternly.
“ I—l—cannot explain.”
“ Coward 1” cried hie lordship; and he raised
his hand to strike the young fellow, when he
was arrested in the act by a low cry of horror.
The curtains at the further end of the room
were thrown apart, and Lady Littledale, dash
ing in, threw herself at her husband’s feet.
“ Spare him—spare him 1 He has acted well
—indeed, indeed he has I”
“Dare you say this to me 1” cried Lord Little
dale, red with passion. “ Tell me—who is the
fellow ?”
Her ladyship’s head was bowed down as she
murmured:
“ My son.”
“ Your son 1”
“Yes. When I separated from my first
husband because of bis ill-treatment, he, Cap
tain Marsham, carried off our only child, a boy,
by force.”
“ Why did you not tell me this before ?” de
manded his lordship.
“ Listen, and I will explain all. A year after
the separation 1 received a letter from Marsham
stating that the child was dead. I found out
afterward that this was done only to wr ng my
heart. The chil l lived. Some years after that
Marsham did d e—l bid good proofs of it -aud
some time after 1 m?.: r'od rou.”
NEW YORK DISPATCH. JULY 18, 1886.
** Why did you not tell me this before ?”
“ You were bo jealous I dared not. You
would not let me even epeak of the first mar
riage. I believed that the child was dead, until
I discovered, through a gentleman who had
acted as my agent in the matter, that he was
not so. Marsham, with a cruelty I believe no
other man could be capable of, had placed him
with low horse-racing people, to be a jockey or
anything. Two years alter we had been mar
ried I found the boy, and had him placed at
school. I dared not tell you—l dreaded your
anger. If there has been sin, it has been mine,
not his. Visit it on me.”
“ Mother,” cried Ernest, “ since I may now
call you bo before the world, do not plead for
me. I can go forth and toil lor my bread—nay,
if need be, lor yours also.”
He stooped to raise her up, when Lord Little
dale put him gently aside.
“Young gentleman, that is my duty, not
yours.”
He raised her un and gathered her in hie
arms.
“Maud,” he whispered, “I would you had
trusted me more. But I know, sweet wife, you
will in future. There—to show you how truly
I forgive you—there is my hand to your son.
Henceforth, my boy, look on me as your fa
ther.”
I draw avail over the touching acene. Need
I say that Lord Littledale, his wile and new
found son quitted the ball together, and as I
bad been the cause of this happiness in an indi
rect manner, I was not kept in the dark as to
how things ended.
Ernest went that night to a hotel, but the next
day started for Littledale l ark, where, having
to make many arrangements, he did not arrive
until late, so that many of the family had re
tired to rest.
Lord Littledale had chosen this method to
avoid the talk of London society.
Mr. Ernest Marsham, as we must now call
him, was up early and enjoying a walk m the
beautiful park, when a lovely girl came bound
ing up to him.
Throwing her arms about his neck, she cried:
“ Welcome to Littledale Park, dear brother 1”
They embraced tenderly, and then Clare led
her new-found brother about the place to show
him the beauties, bo that it was rather late when
they arrived to breakfast.
But Lord Littledaie only laughed, although,
as a rule, a stickler for punctuality.
As for myself, I have as much game as I wish
for m the season, and many handsome presents
beside, ftever were two people more happy
than Lord and Lady Littledale, and such was
the happy termination ot “Lord Littledale’s
Love.”
OBLIGING TVrJEID.
A TAIS OF THE YEAR 1872.
“ Ruined !—ruined ’.—ruined 1” was the wild
ly-uttered exclamation of Mr. Fleetwood, as he
came hastily into the room where his young
wife sat, embroidering a scarf, and, throwing
himself at full length upon the sofa, he hid his
face, and lay shuddering like one in an ague fit.
The needlework dropped from the hands of
Mrs. Fleetwood, and lor a moment or two she
sat like one paralyzed. Then, rising hastily,
she sprang across the room, and dropping on
her kness beside her husband, put her arm
round his neck, and said :
“Uh, Edward ! Edward 1 what has hap
pens ?” But the only response she received
was a groan so full of anguish, that it sent a
shudder through her heart. “Speak, Ed
ward I” she said.
“Ruined !” he replied ; “hopelessly ruined I”
“Oh, Edward, look up ! Let me see your
face, dear husband.”
And she tried to lay her cheek down against
his ; but he kept his face turned from her.
Very, very pale was Mrs. Fleetwood, as she
raised herself from a kneeling posture, and
drawing a chair to the sofa, sat down, and again
laid her hand upon her husband. One year
only had she been a bride, and this was the
first cloud which had darkened her sky—the
first cloud; but it held a desolating tempest
within its bosom.
The wife’s deep love had given strength to
her heart already, and her voice was regaining
firmness.
“ Edward,” she said, in tones strangely con
fident, “ not ruined ; that is impossible !”
“Possible and actual,” he answered, with
less agitation, but in a low, solemn voice.
“ Again I say impossible, Edward,” said Mrs.
Fleetwood, her voice growing yet firmer.
Mr. Fleetwood slowly raised himself from
his recumbent position on the sofa and looked
into his wife’s face. A cry of fear parted her
lips and she said, hastily, “ Oh, Edward, you
are ill I”
“ I am heart-sick—heart-broken—in despair,
Anna!”
“My precious husband I” the tones of Mrs.
Fleetwood were over-burdened with the tender
est love—“ don’t say heart-broken—don’t say
in despair—don’t say ruined. God is in heaven
and you are still a man 1”
“By a suddenly falling and unexpected blow,
Anna, I am stricken to the earth. My all is
scattered to the winds.”
“ But the man is sate !” said Mrs. Fleetwood,
throwing in the sentence and in a voice almost
exultant. .
Mr. Fleetwood looked at his wife half-won
deringly. A light seemed at moment to
break in upon him and he replied, “ Yes, Anna,
the man is safe, I trust. There has been no de
fect of honor.”
“There could be none, Edward, and there
fore I said, * not ruined—that is impossible !’
With honor on your side, dear husband, and
love on mine, our little world is safe. No
enemy can darken our door.”
“ I bless you lor those words, dear Anna,”
said Mr. Fleetwood, but not with the air of a
man who felt relieved from the pressure of a
heavy burden. “Your courage, your faith,
your patience will give strength in the hours of
weakness that are sure to come. But let me
tell you the whole truth in plain words, and
then you will not wonder that the blow has
stricken me down. My little fortune has been
lost by the treachery of the man in whose
integrity I confided, and for whom I hive
done what I would never have done
for myself—used the official signature of
the company, of which I am manager, for
purposes not of its legitimate business. I
learned of bis failure an hour ago, and called
upon him instantly. From his lips I received
the intelligence that every shilling of his prop
erty had already passed hopelessly beyond his
control, ‘ Have you not secured me anything ?’
I asked. He shook his head. * Will not that
collateral be protested ?’ said I, referring to the
bills of the company which I had given him.
* Everything has passed out of my hand,’ was
his cold reply. * Then you are a villain, and I
a duped and ruined man,’ I answered, and left
him.”
“It is hard, very hard, Edward!” said his
wife, tears running over her cheeks, as she
leaned toward him, with her eyes fixed upon
his pale suffering face. “ But, dear, dear hus
band ! let me say to you here, at the beginning
of consequences which must flow from this sad
disaster, that nothing is to be thought of by you
as affecting me. Shall I sit in the cool, pleasant
Summer evenings with my husband, and not
stand up by his side when the tempest falls ?
Only one thing that you have said has at ail
frightened me.”
“ I know what you mean,” said Mr. Fleet
wood. “ Loss of fortune, small as it may be, is
a painful disaster to any one, but, oh, the
thought of a dishonored name is indeed fright
ful ! That ordeal, Anna, I have got to pass; and
1 fear that strength will fail me. Oh, it was
wrong ever to have put my name upon paper
not strictly for the company's use! It was a
breach of trust; so the world will call it, and
visit me with terrible consequences. There
will be no discrimination between weak consent
to aid a friend, confided in as a brother, and
fraudulent purpose. The bills were never in
tended for anything but security, and were to
be returned to me long before they came due.
The transaction was considered as a kind of
formality. I knew myself to have ample re
sources to meet the sum they were meant to
secure, even if my iriend failed to do so. That
sum was only five thousand dollars, the security
ten thousand, which has been most basely
sacrificed.”
“Ten thousand dollars ! So much as that!”
said Mrs. Fleetwood, in a choking voice.
“Yes; so much as thatl” sa d her husband.
“ Oh, Anna! this night is very, very dark.
There is no moon, and the clouds have hidden
the stars. If it were not for the times, I might
save myself from disgrace through friends once
able, and always willing. But ruin is sweeping
through the land, and the best, the bravest,
and the most enduring are falling all around
us.. To raise the sum and get those notes
back again into my hands, is almost imppossi
ble. In less than two months they will become
due, and then ”
The picture wrought by the excited imagina
tion of Mr. Fleetwood was so dreadful to look
upon that he covered his face with his hands
and shuddered. His wife did not offer any
words of comfort; for upon her own heart had
fallen an almost suffocating fear. Personal
sacrifice had no terrors for Mrs. Fleetwood.
Very brave would she have been under any of
the common visitations of worldly disaster, but
the thought of a dishonored name for the hus
band of whom she had been so proud smote her
like a dagger.
“Something must be done!” It was the
wife’s voice that broke the silence, “some
thing must be done, Edward ! Dishonor I Never !
never 1” And her slight form li ted itself up.
Hope and courage were beginning to revive.
“This sudden shock has prostrated you, dear
husband !” she added, in a calmer voice. “ You
will recover strength soon, and with strength
will come purpose. The will, I have often
heard you say, is creative. Yours will be, lam
sure. This swurd, suspended by a single hair,
shall not fall.”
But Mr. Fleetwood only shook his head
mournfully, and answered :
“At any other tfme there would be hope. At
any other time I could h .ve met this threatened
evil and triumphed. Now, Anna, even to strug
gle were folly. Everything is in confusion.
Fortunes, the accumulations of years, are crum
bling into dust; mutual confidence is destroyed;
a frightful panic is sweeping over the land.
Men who would have opened their purses to
me freely a month ago are now in extremity.
.No, no, Anna ! It is vain to look for help. The
breakers are just ahead, and our good ship is
drifting fast upon them. .No human arm can
save us.”
Still the young wi r e would ijot abandon hope.
“ 1 will trust in Heaven to bring you a safe
deliverance,” were her words some hours later.
“ No wrong was intended, and therefore ’ m-.st
believe that the dreaded consequences will not
be permitted to fall with their crushing weight
upon you. Two months yet remain, if I un
derstand you, be ore the bills become due.”
“A little less than two months,” he replied.
“ A great deal may be done in two months,
Edward. Oh, do not despair I”
“ Dear comforter!” said Mr. Fleetwood,
looking down upon the face of his wife. “I
should hardly deserve the name of man were I
to give up wholly, with your sweet solicitations
to exert myself filling my ears. But what,
what can I do? I stand at the foot of a tall
mountain, the sea on either band, and stretch
ing my gaze far away upward, I see only a per
pendicular wall of rock. I have no wino-s and
cannot rise, like the eagle, and escape the dan
ger that is hastening toward me and threaten
ing swift destruction.
“In whose possession are the bills?” asked
Mrs. Fleetwood, desiring to give direction as
well as activity to her husband s mind.
“ They are gone wholly beyond my reach,”
was the answer. “Instead of being left in the
hands where they were first placed, as collateral
security, they have been discounted—the origi
nal obligation of five thousand dollars has been
paid and the balance of the money appropriated
by my false friend. They stand now as any
other debt against the company, and, as I have
said, they are wholly beyond my reach.”
“ Would it not be well,” suggested Mrs.
Fleetwood, “to find out who has them ?”
“I can see no good result likely to flow from
that knowledge,” replied her husband. “It
they were discounted at the bank, there is only
one way to recover them, and that is for me to
take them in advance of the time when due. If
they are in the grasp of some money-lender
the case is quite as hopeless.”
But Mrs. Fleetwood urged her husband to
find out who held the bills, if it were possible
to gain accurate intelligence respecting them.
“ Then,” said she, “ we can measure the full
magnitude of this evil, and find the way of
escape, it that be possible.”
“It is impossible, Anna.” replied Mr. Fleet
wood, almost impatiently.
“Forgive me, Edward,” said his wife, her
eyes filling with tears, “ but I cannot cease to
urge this thing upon you. Hope only lies in
the removal ot these bills out of the way.
First, then, we must learn where they are.”
“We?” said Mr. Fleetwood, and his voice
had in it a tone of curious interest.
“ Yes, toe, Edward. There is too much at
stake now for you to reject, or even think lightly
of aid or counsel, come from whence it may.
Even a woman may suggest something by which
a man may profit in an extremity like this,
though the common language of business may
be Io her a strange language. Again, then, let
me urge you to find out where these dangerous
bills are to be found.”
“ 1 will know ere sleep closes my eyes this
night !” said Mr. Fleetwood, speaking, a few
minutes afterward, from the ardor of a sud
denly formed purpose.
“ Let it be to-night, then, if possible, replied
his wife. “The quicker the truth is known, the
better.”
“ I need not say, be very circumspect, Ed
ward,” were the wife’s parting words, as her
husband left her that evening; for she saw an
unusual sternness in bis face, as if some des
perate resolution were forming.
“ Thank you for the caution ! I need it,”
was his answer. His voice had in it a low thrill
of excitement.
“Is Mr. Floyd at home?” The inquiry was
made by Mr. Fleetwood at the door of a hand
some house not far distant from his own
dwelling, and within ten minutes after parting
from his wife.
“ What name shall I say ?” asked the servant.
“Mr. Fleetwood.”
“ Mr. Floyd wishes you to excuse him to
night,” said the servant, returning to the par
lor, in which he had shown Mr. Fleetwo d.
“Say to Mr. Floyd that I cannot excuse him.
He must see me to-night, and now.” The ser
vant hesitated.
“ Is he alone ?” inquired Mr. Fleetwood.
“ Yes, sir,” replied the servant.
“ Entirely alone ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And his room is ”
“ On the second floor.”
“Front?”
“ No, sir—back.”
“1 will find him,” said Mr. Fleetwood, as he
passed the surprised servant, and went with
rapid, almost noiseless, step along the passage
and up the stairs.
Only a moment he stood at the door of the
room indicated by the servant. Then, without
knocking, he opened it silently and went in. As''
he closed the door behind him, Mr. Floyd
looked up from the table at which he was sit
ting—a table covered with various papers, let
ters, notes ot hand, title deeds, mortgage bonds,
certificates oi stock and other representatives
of value.
“ Sir!”—Mr. Floyd had started to his feet,
and his eyes were fixed angrily upon the face of
Mr. Fleetwood—** this is an unwarrantable in
trusion 1”
The quiet turning of a key and its low rattle
as it was withdrawn from the lock inside, were
indications of so questionable a character, that
Mr. Floyd’s warm color left his cheeks almost
as suddenly as it had dyed them. His visitor
noted this.
“ Desperate diseases require desperate rem
edies, John Floyd.”
Mr. Fleetwood had turned from the door,
and was now advancing across the room, with
his eyes fixed upon the face of his false friend,
who read in them a purpose that made his cow
ard heart sink.
“ It is never sa'e to swindle beyond a certain
line, John Floyd,” continued Mr, Fleetwood, in
a low but stern voice. “ l r ou should have been
content with robbing me of my little patrimony;
but when you have left no alternative but dis
honor, or a remedy like this, you went a step
too far. So lam come now tor restitution or
retribution.”
“In the fiend’s name, what do you want?”
demanded Mr. Floyd, with a slight show of
courage.
“The first thing I want is a return of the
bills I placed in your hands to be used only as
collateral,” said Mr. Fleetwood.
“ I have already told you that they are be
yond my reach,” was the reply.
“It is false 1” cried Mr. Fleetwood, in sud
den excitement, darting forward as he spoke,
and grappling eagerly at a small pile of papers
that lay on the table. The well-known seal of
the company had caught his eyes—the fatal bills
were before him I To seize them was the work
of a moment; in the next instant they were torn
in pieces.
“ I have already told you to your teeth, John
Floyd, that you are a villain, ’ said Mr. Fleet
wood, his strong indignation repressing all ex
terior signs of agitation. ‘*l meant it in its
general acceptation; for I did not then dream
that your heart was corrupt enough for a deed
like this. To turn away from a friend whom
you have led into danger is bad enough; but to
betray him to ruin is the act of a fiend. But,
thank Heaven ! I am now sate beyond your
power to do me harm.”
Recovering a little from his bewilderment,
Mr. Floyd now advanced toward Mr. Fleetwood
in a threatening manner; but the latter stood
immovable, regarding him with a look ot such
indignant scorn, that his eye quailed, and he
stood still.
“ My business here is ended,” said Mr. Fleet
wood, moving backward toward the door, yet
keeping his eyes still upon Floyd—■“ is ended
more easily than was anticipated, and without
the consequences I had feared. 1 leave you to
the enjoyment ol your ill-gotten gains, if that be
possible, and go forth to try the world again,
but with a clear conscience and an untarnished
name.”
The key was in the door—the bolt sprung—
and Mr. Fleetwood vanished like a spectre from
the presence of the confounded man who had
betrayed his confidence and wellnigh compassed
the ruin of his reputation.
The unusual expression which Mrs. Fleet
wood noticed in the face ot her husband at
parting, troubled her. He had seemed to
arouse up suddenly, as if some new thought had
glanced through his mind, and some desperate
purpose been formed on the instant. He was
n ) sooner away than imagination began to sug
gest danger. What might he not be tempted to
do, should he meet the man who had wronged
him. The heart oi Mrs. Fleetwood began to
tremble.
Half an hour of most painful suspense fol
lowed the husband’s departure. Then he came
in with a quiet, even step, and ascended to the
room where his wife sat awaiting him. She was
too weak to rise, for her mind had created so
many terrible images, that fear had robbed her
o‘f strength. But her eyes were bent eagerly
toward the door. The face that appeared there
was calm, though a little paler she thought than
when she locked upon it last. She tried to say
“Edward,” but could not.
All at once the strong fetter which Mr. Fleet
wood had placed upon his feelings, broke, and
springing forward he caught his wife in his
arms, exclaiming :
“t aved—saved I dear Anna. I have found
the bills, and they are cancelled. I tore them
into a hundred pieces—see I” And he threw a
shower of fragments into the air. “And you
are the cause of my present happiness, dear
wife I” he added, in another tone, kissing her
very tenderly. “I saw no hope of recovering
those fatal witnesses. So far as I could see
they were gone beyond recall. But your ur
gent promptings quickened a new life within
me, and nerved me with a new, and, I will own,
desperate purpose. I went to the house of
Floyd, resolved to force him into terms of some
kind, when lo! upon his table lay the very
bills. He was wickedly holding them for his
own benefit. I snatched them up and rent them
to pieces. And so the fatal witnesses ot a weak,
blind, nay, almost criminal violation of the
faith so honorably reposed in me have perish
ea I Let the property of which that villain has
so basely robbed me go—l will not throw after
it a single sigh of regret, for I am too thankful
that a good name—more precious than rubies
—is spared to me.”
AND THERE IS A REASON FOR IT.
the San Francisco Chronicle.)
“I hate kids,” he said.
“ Why ?”
“ I think they ought to be locked up in asy
lums till they re old enough to take care of
themselves. It it hadn’t been lor a kid—well—
it might have been —”
“ What?”
“ I loved this ki-l's mother. §he was a rich
and beautiful widow, and I was madly in love
with her. I was actually c ntemplatmg—in
fact, I had just got to t*e point of putting the
dc’:ca*e question. We m tl.o drawing-
room. The kid was playing in the corner. For
getting all about that, I put my arms fervently
around the widow’s waist and implanted a pas
sionate kiss upon her line, when the kid started
up and rushed at me, saying, ‘Don’t you kill my
mamma/ and ran screaming into the kitchen,
calling lor the servants.”
“That didn’t have ”
“ What I Marry a widow with a child like
that I But the worst came a few nights after.
I called at the house. There were several la
dies there, and the kid was being petted all
around. Of course the widow was all right, but
that confounded child deliberately turned her
back upon me. I didn’t mind that; but the
mother, to be nice, said:
“ ‘My darling child, don’t you know Mr.
?’
€< ‘Oh, yes/said the imp, very pertly—‘oh,
yes, I know you. You are the man that bited
my mamma I’
“ I need not—could not—describe the effect.”
COLONEFcORKH ILL’S DUEL.
How He Once Fought a Young En
glishman and Fell on the Field.
(From. the Philadelphia North-American.),
Frank Hatton once told me, writes the Wash
ington correspondent of the Cincinnati Gazette,
a story about Corkbill, and the latter confirmed
the truth of it. Before the war, when Corkhill
was a young attorney in an lowa town, hardly
fledged, a young man from England boarded at
the same house. The Englishman made some
reflections on the legal profession in the pres
ence of the tableful of people, and Corkhill hotly
resented it, and used some very objectionable
language, which the Englishman resented by
striking at Corkhill.
There were half a dozen young fellows beside
Corkhill in the party, with their heads lull of
mischief, and it did not take them long to ar
range a plan to extract some fun from the
quarrel.
Some of them went to the Englishman and
told him he never could rest under what Cork
hill had said except in disgrace; that striking
with the fists might do in England, but nothing
short of a challenge would satisfy an American
community.
The young Briton was full of the pluck of his
native country, and at once declared himself
ready to fight. One of the practical jokers be
came his second, and the duel was arranged tor
seven o’clock that evening at a place selected
near the town.
Corkhill, the challenged party, chose pistols
as the weapons. It was arranged that no bul
lets should be put in the pistols, and th it at
the second fire Corkhill was to fall as though
dead. His opponent was then to be rushed off
in a great hurry.
Everything worked satisfac’orily. The parties
came together; the seconds loaded the pistols
in each other's presence. About this tme
Corkhill began to get pretty nervous. The
seconds had evidently been indulging a little,
and there was no telling what we would do.
Corkhill meditated: “ What if one of those
idiots, full of beer, should happen to get it into
his noddle that it would be another joke to put
in bullets ? It is just like them/’ He wished
he hadn’t entered into the joke.
In his reply to his anxious and over-polite
inquiries his second assured nim that the
charges were blank, and the parties faced each
other, and at the word fired.
Nobody being hurt, the second proposed, as
usual, a reconciliation. Corkhill, who knew
the duel to be a joke, was willing and anxious
to quit. It wasn’t funny, especially with two
tipsy seconds, but the Englishman, who was
fighting a real duel, was game, and proposed to
see it out. So another exchange of shots was
had, and Corkhill fell as per programme.
The Engliseman was hustled into a carriage,
assured with hearty congratulations that he had
killed his man, ana advised to go to a certain
place and lay low until the next night, when
they would come for him. But he kept going,
left that part of the country and never returned.
He and Corkhill met as soldiers in the Union
army, and the Englishman, who has ascertained
1 the truth, was very bitter at first, but finally
melted under the geniality of Corkhill, and they
became good friends.
WASHINGTON TURNOUTS.
And the Beautiful Roads Through
which They Drive.
( Washington Cor. Indianapolis Aews.)
There are more handsome carriages and other
turnouts in Washington than in any other city
in the (Jnion except New York. This is as
much due to the many beautiful drives in and
immediately about the city. The ten or twelve
miles of smooth asphaltum encourages driving
for pleasure, but those who keep good horses
are rarely seen on these pavements except on
their way out to the country. I had been out
occasionally on these roads, but never realized
what a popular thing riding and driving had
become here, until I had invested in a cart and
took to the parks and roads myself. The sun is
so hot during the day at this season of the year,
that very lew people indulge in driving for
pleasure until after six o'clock in the evening.
Some go early in the morning, but 1 never saw
those. In the evening, however, there is a
great double procession ot handsome turnouts
and swell people, from the slender-legged young
man on his bicycle to a tally-ho coach with its
crowd of dashing young people on top, its
bugler and prond manipulator of six horses.
Whichever way you take at first you imagine
that everybody else has concluded to try that
particular road. After a while you find that
every road out of town for six or eight miles is
thronged the same every pleasant evening.
In most cities yon drive out on aflat, straight,
dusty or muddy road, through lanes, between
monotonous cornfields and meadows. You get
there after a hard struggle over the rough pave
ments, between horse cars and beer wagons and
through tough suburbs. Or, you go through
the latter to a park and never see the country
at all. Here you can drive miles in beautiful
parks in the heart ot the city, rifleshot irom
your office, or go out over one of a dozen broad
and smooth boulevards to the country in three
minutes. It is the country, too, broken and un
broken forests, river, purling creeks, up and
down hills, lanes hid away under the shades,
broad macadamized pikes, villas, farm houses
and humble cottages here and there—not all at
once staring you in the face, but one and two,
here and there, and gone again, while something
new and fresh breaks suddenly on the vision.
You meet in some unexpected bend in the road
some blazing senatorial equipage, now and
then the President and bis bride in a low victo
ria; often cabinet and other officials, and num
berless buggies, carts, carriages, road wagons,
etc., of the general public. Glimpses of the
white dome of the capitol, the towering shaft of
the monument as you return, are not necess try
to indicate your nearness to the capital of the
nation.
BRICK PAVEMENTS.
CLAIMED TO BE THE BEST AND
MOST DURABLE.
(From the Detroit Tribune.}
A reporter called on Bev. Dr. Ryan to learn
from him the relative value of wood and brick
pavements, Dr. Byan being well qualified to
speak on the subject. Dr. Byan said:
“ I have had considerable experience in pave
ments, having traveled over the worst and best
in the world, including the Appian way.”
“ What is tho best pavement you have found?”
Brick. There is nothing equal to it, and it
will be the pavement of the future. The road it
makes is as smooth as a floor, and it holds just
enough debris to make it noiseless.”
“ Is it durable ?”
“ Yes, indeed. I formerly lived at Charles
ton, West Virginia. Fourteen years ano they
laid the first brick pavement, and twelve years
after it seemed to me to be in as perfect condi
tion as when first laid. Tires do not break or
crack it, as they roll along as it on a floor. ’
“ How does it cost in comparison to wood ?”
“ I cannot tell, but it is cheaper when wear is
taken into consideration. Wooden pavements
are only an expedient, having to be constantly
repaired. Then cedar blocks will not last for
ever. There will have to be a change soon.”
What kind of brick is used ?”
“Either common red brick or fire brick. At
Wheeling fire brick is used, and, by the way,
are patented. They are wider at the bottom
than at the top, thus permitting sand to work
into the interstices.”
“ How are they laid ?”
“ With the edges up, on a bed of sand, below
which is a framework of timbers. There is a
fortune for the man who introduces brick pave
ments into this city. There is no use talking,
brick is to be the pavement of the future.”
THE PATRON oFtHE POOR.
A NOBLE TITLE WORTHILY
The Cardins! Farnese, who was very properly
named the Patron oi the Poor, gave public au
dience once a week to indigent persons in his
neighborhood, and distributed his bounty
among them according to their wants. A wo
man of genteel address, but in a dejected, for
lorn condition, presented herself one day with
her daughter, a beautiful creature about fifteen
years old, before this liberal ecclesiastic.
“My lord,” said she, “ the rent of my house
(five crowns) has been due some days, and my
landlord threatens to turn me into the street,
unless he is paid within a week. Have the good
ness, my Lord Cardinal, to interpose your sa
cred authority, and protect me from this dread
ful outrage, till by our industry we can satisfy
the demand of our persecutor.”
The cardinal wrote a billet, which he put into
the petitioner's hand, and said :
“Go to my steward with this paper, and re
ceive from him five crowns.”
But the steward, on her presenting the docu
ment, paid down fifty. The woman absolutely
refused to receive more than five, alleging that
his eminence gave her to expect no more, and
that it must be a mistake. Both were so con
v.nced of acting literally according to order,
that it was mutually agreed to refer tho matter
to the cardinal himself.
“It is true,” said he, “there must be a mis
take. “Give me the paper, and I will rectify it.”
■He then returns 1 the billet, thus rectified, to
I the woman, saying: “So much candor and
I honesty deserve lecomuense. Here—l have
ordered a thousand crowns. Wuat yon can
spare o it ot it, I«y up as a dowry lor your
daughter s mania o, . nd regard my d mat oi
I as the blessing o. <.od on the upright dispoai
tion of a pure mind.”
Wifely
The Boston Record is responsible for this
story of a venerable female who was
EXCEEDINGLY ’CUTE.
One of the dealers, in order to put his competitor
completely to rout, announced that he would give
a free drink of whisky with every purchase, and
the business came pouring in.
There hove upon the dealer's vision one after
noon a venerable female, who proceeded to unroll
from her pocket handerchief, with much impres
siveness, a single hen’s egg, which she laid upon
the eounter.
“ What are you givin’ for eggs ?” said she.
*• Twenty-five cents a dozen.”
“Well, that's a little over two cents apiece,” said
the old woman. ’‘What are you gittin’ lor darnin'-
needles ?”
“ A cent apiece.''
‘■Three for two cents, I suppose. Well, take this
'ere egg and give me three daruin’-needles.”
The dealer agreed to the bargain and passed her
over the darning-needles.
‘•Now for the drink,” said the old woman.
The bottle and tumbler were set out, and the old
woman poured a liberal portion into her glass.
“I say, stranger," said she, “I don’t like whisky
nohow without an egg in it. Break one in, will
you?”
The dealer shrugged his shoulders and broke into
the woman’s glass the egg that he had just traded
for. And behold, just as he did so, two yolks fell
into the whisky.
" Hooray 1” said the old woman, as she drank off
the contents of the glass. “It s a double-yolked
egg I Now, give me three more darnin’-needles for
the extra yolkI”
The dealer passed out the three extra needles
with sublime resignation, and the old woman sat
around as if she were waiting for something.
‘‘l say, stranger/'she said finally, "you don’t
call them three last darnin -needles a trade, do ye?”
The dealer reached for his gun and the old wo
man disappeared through the door.
If the San Francisco Wasp is right it is the
detectives who avoid the criminals, not the
criminals the detectives, in that city. Here is
A STORY IN POINT.
“Why, how pale you are, Mr. Sleuth,” said the
Chief Detective, as one of his lynx-eyed myrmidons
entered in an agitated manner. “ Anything hap
pened ?”
“ Nothing, except that I saw Mr. Purfey, the ab
sconding city official, just now,” replied the efficient
member of the force.
‘•I thought you had orders not to see him!” roared
the chief. *• Confound him, why does he walk
about in the daytime, anyway ?”
“I didn’t mean to,” stammered the detective,
“ but I was going into O’Donovan’s bar just now,
and there he was at the counter.”
“ And you had to run him in, I suppose?” mut
tered the chief, sadly.
” Not so bad as that, sir. You see he had his
back to the door, sol just slid out again, quick.”
•' Did, eh ! I must see Purfey about this,” said
the chief making a mem. on his shirt cuff. "He
can t expect us to keep off the street all the time.”
The good old dame had good reason for being
angry with her boy, because
HE ATE UP ALL THE SOFT SOAP.
“ Gwiue ter whup dat boy of kotches him; gwine
ter whup him sho’s he’s bo'ned,” exclaimed a
negro woman rushing out of a cabin and hurriedly
looking about her. " Oh, I’se gwine ter whup him
fur be shain't treat me dater way an’ 'scape.”
“What's the matter?” asked a man, stopping at
the fence and addressing the woman.
•• W’y dat triflin’ boy o* mine hab put me in
trouble, dat’s de matter.”
“ What did be do?”
“ W y, he slipped in dar whar I wuz washin’ an’
eat up all dat salt soap.”
“Yon don’t tell me that he ate soap ?”
•'Co se I does, fur dat’s whut be done. Never
seed sich er chile ez dat in my life. Hit sometime
'peers t«r me dat de blame boy acks like he wuz
moß’ starbed to def, an’ dat, too. when he knows I
gin him nearly er whole catfish head day befo’
yistidy. Oh, I’se gwine ter whup him fur eatin'
dat soap like he wuz haungry.”
Our grocer here was a very foolish fellow if
he gave up
HIS ACCOMMODATING CREDITOR.
A grocer in an Indiana town, who ordered his
goods from Chicago, was charged by aa Indianapo
lis drummer with a want of patriotism in not pat
ronizing home institutions.
“Will you give mo ninety days’credit ?” asked
the grocer.
“ Of course.”
‘•And then extend me thirty days further?”
“ Perhaps.”
"And if I fail you will eompromiso for eighteen
cents on the dollar, and help me beat all other
creditors ? That’s what my Chicago house is doing
for me, and about every third order they throw in
a dozen bedcords or a dollar clock as a free gift.”
After all the clever feints and cunning strata
gems of the expert hunters it was the darkey
cook who
BROUGHT THE BEAR INTO CAMP.
You know that I went up in Northern Michigan
last Fall on a hunting trip with three or four
friends. Well, I can tell you of a comical little in
cident which occurred to our old negro cook, Jim.
We had killed numerous beavers, porcupine, par
tridges, and pheasants and a few deer, but we had
been grievously disappointed in getting no bears.
We followed up every bear track we could find, we
set traps, and we employed an Indian hunter to aid
us, but no bears were to be found, although it was
said there were many in the neighborhood. Re
turning one afternoon after an unsuccessful bunt,
disappointed and out of humor, it was no wonder
that Jim, the cook, who was somewhat of a privi
leged character, commenced to poke fun at us and
deride us on the bear subject. One of |the fellows
became enraged and said:
"Jim, you black devil, get out of the camp, and
if after your bragging, you don’t bring a black bear
with you before dark I’ll give you a sound thrash
ing.”
” Sartinly I will/' replied Jim, gayly.
He obeyed, and, failing to procure the loan of a
gun from any one of the party, he started out, hav
ing no idea in the world as to where he was going.
Having wandered away a mile or so from the camp,
he lay down under a tree and went to sleep. It
was dusk when he awoke, and the first thing that
met his frightened gaze was an immense black
bear resting on his haunches about twonty.five
yards away, and watching his victim complacently.
The bewildered and thoroughly-alarmed negro
jumped to his feet and started for the camp, and
the beast followed. It was a race for life, and Jim’s
only chance was in his legs, for he had not the ves
tige of a weapon with him.
After half a mile had been traversed he looked
back and saw that the beast was gaining on him
rapidly. He threw off his cap, and while the bear
stopped to smell it he gained a few yards. In this
way the poor darkey continued throwing off his
outer clothing, piece by piece, now and then, and
profiting by the bear's momentary bait to stop and
examine and snuff it. Finally, to Jim's great de
light, he saw the lights of the camp but a few rods
away, and, having nothing else to throw off, he re
doubled his speed, but the brute gained rapidly,
and was but a few feet behind. A series of blood
curdling whoops brought the fellows from the tent,
and as they reached the door in came Jim, with a
big black bear at his heels.
“Gemmen,” gasped he, "befo’ de Lawd, I’s
brought back dat b’ar I promised you.”
Who does not sympathize with the writher oi
the verses on
THE OLD AND DEADLY JOKE?
0 the medieval jokes with their hoary observations,
who come with old ancestral jokes from burled
generations—come like ghost-liko apparitions
irom an age of dim traditions, with the legend
ary halo of antique associations.
▲nd our wild erratic fancy follows on, and pants and
presses, through the Scandinavian ice-fields and
the German wildernesses, startling with un
wearied scandal Goth, and Visigoth, and Vandal,
chasing down these hoary chestnuts with their
white and withered tresses.
0 these immemorial chestnuts of the fatal funny
column, that have made the generations lach-*
rymose, and sad, and solemn-jokes that nearly
broke the backs of the old Norseman, Sclav and
and Saxon—jokes that killed the ancient Seuvi,
Ostragots and What-d'ye.call-’em.
0 these patriarchal chestnuts, old as Mecca and
Medana, cause of suicides unnumbered on the
ancient plains of Shinar; for the prophets, bards
and sages of the patriarchal ages fainted sense
less when they heard them, and the priest at
the Sbekinah.
And these ancient witticisms in their journeyings
an t migrations come with blood upon their gar
ments from the murdered generations; massa
ere, and war, and fire, pestilence aud famine
dire, have not slain one-half the victims of these
humorous aggravations.
Hero are a couple of good stories
ABOUT DOCTORS.
Judge Z , of Washington, Ind., in trying a case
in court tho other day, had for a witness against his
client a comparatively new physician, and the Judge
questioned the young “ saw-bones ” in this wise:
"You say you are a practicing physician and sur
geon ?”
“lam,” was answered.
“ Where do you practice ?”
"In Washington and vicinity.”
"Do you mean Washington, D. C. (Daviess coun
ty), Ind., and not Washington City, District of Co
lumbia? '
“Ido. Yes, sir,”
“ How long have you practiced here?”
" Over six years, sir.”
Judge Z .musingly, •• Over-six- years He
then added, directing the remark to the jury:
“That’s the first I ever heard of it,” the young
doctor perspiring the while like rain.
In the town of Blank, Ind., is a dudish, little, dap
per fellow, who styles himself M. D., and has a
"sheepskin,” or diploma, of his own make and issu
ing, gotten up by self-graduation, and oath to five
years’ practice—according to Indiana law.
Not long ago a wag met the yonng doctor, who is
all talk, or chatter, and cheek equal to a brass mon
key, and taking up the youngster’s medicine case,
put it under his arm and strutted, turkey-gobbler
fashion, as the young " M. D.” was wont to do.
“ Give me that medicine case, sir,” haughtily de
manded the doctor; “ there is dangerous medicine
in it.”
•• That’s what I've heard from the neighborhood
where you get your practice," was the wag’s reply.
Ono of the cleverest things we have read of
recently was
THE SAN FRANCISCO TAILOR’S TRICK.
There is a story floating around the clubs at the
expense of young Mr. James , but I will not
give bis name, though his individuality may easily
be surmised from the nature of the incident. This
youth, whose father is among the millionaires,
lounged into a tailor shop some weeks ago and
ordered a suit of clothes. The suit was sent to the
young man’s hotel, but of course the tailor got no
money for it. A few days ago. as Master James was
passing by the tailor’s shop, the bland proprietor
hailed him, with a smile :
"Why, Master James,” he said, "that coat is
horribly wrinkled. Come in and we will press it
for you.”
t'nsuspeetingly he entered and surrendered the
coat. Then something was wrong with the vest,
aud that, too, was taken down stairs for treatment.
The tailor next declared that the trousers might be
improved upon. They were given up and the
youth accommodated with a seat in the dressing
| room.
‘ Nov.” -ail tl>- wiy tailor, "you will have to
; ’ .. in*Mevii;>Ar -v y- ur room lor your other j
I lot «*». am a r.v JAc -a U->l let.you have th.S
I:• u.t i v i !•.> you . he VLU jh CulL” 1
Young Master James begged hard for his clothes,
but the tailor was inexorable, and much to his dis
gust he resumed his Winter garments, and depart
ed with a crestfallen air.
The St. Paul Globe informs us
WHAT WHITE BEAR LAKE WAS FULL OF.
"White Bear Lake is chock full," remarked an old
timer at that popular health resort.
"More so than usual?” inquired a new arrival.
"Yes, I believe they are.”
"That’s nice,” continued the new-comer. " I al
ways like a crowd when I’m out for the Summer.
The more the merrier. By the way, are they much
on the dance ?”
•• Never dance.”
" Why, that’s strange. What do they do ?”
•• Sing and bite.”
“Sing and bite I What are you talking about ?”
“ Mosquitoes.”
Some people have poor smelling faculties and
very strong stomachs. Such a one was the man
who
DIDN’T KNOW COAL OIL FROM VINEGAR.
A hurried grocer gave a countryman a jug of coat
oil instead of vinegar, for which fra had asked.
Several days afterward, when the countryman came
back, the grocer said;
" My friend, I have an apology to make to you. ”
" How so ?”
“ Why, the other day when you wore in hero. I
gave you coal oil instead of vinegar.”
"Wall, I'll be blamed ef that don’t splain it.
When we poured some o’ the stuff oA the turnip
greens, wife 'lowed that it tasted quar’, but I 'lowhJ
that it was because she had been down with tho
chills. Yas, an' I now un’erstan’ er uutber thing.
I spilt some on me an’ er minit arterwards I drap.
ped a lit match on my britches an’ I’ll be dinged ef
I didn’t think I’d burn up fore I could shuck’em
off. I thought that it wuz the caperinest vinegar I
ever seed, but didn’t find nothin’ quar’ iu the taste
'cept it wa’n’t sour ernuff.”
SCINTILLATIONS.
A shocking disaster—an earthquake.
What is more chilling to the ardent
lover than the beautiful’s no ?
It seems a little strange that when we
are tired we can best rest by retiring.
Husband—“ That fence wants painting
badly. I think I’ll do it myself.” Wife—" Yes, do
it yourself, if you think it wants to be done badly.’
Mexico is still sunk in barbarism.
Seventy bushels of corn to tho acre is the average
yield, and not a pint of good whisky in the repub
lic.
The force of habit is so great that
should any one go into a New Haven store and buy
it entire, the proprietor would ask, “ Anything else
to-day ?”
An Ohio factory turns out 57,000,000
matches a day, and yet many a man has barked his
shin on a rocking-chair because he didn’t have one
of them.
An acrobatic Frenchman claims great
credit for being able to walk on the ceiling with his
head down. If he wants to create a real sensation,
let him walk on the ceiling with his head up.
“ What’s the matter, Jones ? You
look disgruntled.” "No wonder. Battersby just
now called me a liar.” •• And you didn't knock him
down ?” “No. He was at the other end of the tel
ephone.”
After all, some of our proverbs are
pretty correct. •• It is better to make hay when the
sun shines.” It would be very awkward going out
after dark trying to hold a candle and swing a
scythe at the sama time.
Scrawley—‘‘l say, lend me five, will
you?” Scribbler—" Would in a minute, but I
haven't it. Ask Squibb; he has plenty of money.“
Scrawley—“Why, where did he get it?” Scribbler
—"He’s stopped drinking.”
“ What is the reason you didn’t speak
to Jones when he passed us, just now?” "He in
sulted me the other day.” "What did he say to
you?” "He called me an old ass.” "Called you
an old ass ? How ridiculous ! Why, you are not
old.”
“ Where are you going ?” she said, as
her husband started to go out, at the end of the
first act. "O, no place much.” he replied, non
chalantly; " I notice the curtain has taken a drop,
and I thought a little of doing the same thing my
self.”
“ Yes,” said an old habitue of the
Board, "John ha. got a profit in that wheat he
bought the other day. But I know the old lamb
pretty well; he'll never take that profit. He’ll let it
run away from him. Like lots of others, he’s never
happy unless he’s worrying over a loss.”
u You are going to erect a monument
to your father’s memory, I suppose?” "Oh, no;
monuments crumble and decay and are forgotten.
We are going to do something that will keep his
memory alive much longer.” “What’s that?”
“We are going to fight in the courts for his prop
erty.”
M Charley,” said young Mrs. Tooker
to her husband, "1 don’t mind your drinking once
in a while, as long as you eat plenty of cloves, but
I do hope you’ll always drink nice, pure, sweet
whisky. I saw a sign in the street the other day
which says, ‘Whisky sours,'and I know the stuff
must be unhealthy after it sours.”
Stebbins—“ Boolburr, here’s a word
with which I have never met before.” Boolburr—
"What is it?” Stebbins—" Jargoggled.” Boolburr
— " Jargoggled. Why, you should be very familiar
with that.” Stebbins—"Why so?” Boolburr—” It
is the peculiar state of feeling in which a man finds
himself when his landlord comes to see him and he
has not a cent toward the rent.”
“Patrick Mulcahey, you are charged
with resisting an officer of the law.” "Yis, sor;
faith I did, sor; but it wuz all along o’ you. sor; for
the last toime Oi wuz here didn’t say: ‘Pat
rick, phwat brought yez here?’ and I sez: ‘The
p’laceman, bad cess to him/ an’ thin sez you:
‘Foive dollars and costs, an’ see that he don't do it
agin/ an* begorra. Oi thried not to lit him, but the
ould baste would have me whither or no."
I met a girl upon the street,
As pretty as a flower;
I tipped my hat—she did nofbow,
But looked quite awful sour.
I felt just like the jack of clubs,
When spades are trumps, that hour;
Of course you know just how that is—
I felt like a "left bower.”
—Yonkers Statesman,
Lobster Stories.
WHICH TOUCH DUELING, LOVE AND RELIGION.
It is on record in France that two famous generals
quarreled over a lobster repast at the house of a
lady of high rank whose chef was eminent for his
skill in lobster cooking, and that in consequence
they fought a duel, in which each killed the other,
and that all the rank and fashion of Paris were
plunged into the deepest grief, because from that
time forward there were no more lobster feasting*
under that lair one’s roof. So long as she lived she
never, says the Chronique de Paris, saw a lobster
without being seized with a hysterical fit.
The following love legend of the lobster is one
upon which, in the last century, a farce was found
ed and put upon the London boards. A tuft-hunt
ing Aiderman of great pride, had one fair daughter
and no more, " whom he loved passing well.” It
was his ambition to marry her to a nobleman, and
to attain this end he fell back upon lobsters. A
famous foreign cook, notable for his lobster dishes,
was imported, without regard to cost, and it soon
became an eagerly-sought privilege to enjoy the
Alderman’s hospitality and lobsters
Men of the highest rank sought his acquaint
ance, with a lobsterian view in the rear, and even
royal personages who loved the lobster were mak
ing curious and significant inquiries concerning
the civic gentleman’s suppers. Such is fame ! Sud
denly the alderman's beautiful young lady selected
a lover who was not a lord, and the aiderman, iu
disgust, dismissed the costly cook who had been
the source of all his greatness.
A curious old lobster legend is told by Fausto Ro
deriguez, a Portugese. "We were,” he says, "at
sea—Father Francis. John Raposo and myself—
when there arose a tempest which alarmed all the
mariners. Then the father drew from his bosom
the little crucifix he always carried and applied it
to the waves, thinking that its holy influence might
still their tempestuous wrath. But, alas I a wave
swept it from his grasp and it was lost. The disas
ter greatly affected him ; he could not conceal his
grief.
"On the morrow, in the morning, we came to land
on the island of Baranura, after passing twenty
four hours in peril of our lives. Father Francis
and myself were walking along the shore toward
Tamalo, when we both beheld, arising out of the
sea, a lobster fish, which carried between his claws
the lost crucifix, borne on high above the water !
I saw that lobster come out of the water and crawl
to the feet of the father, for I stood close beside
him, and when the father had taken the crucifix
from the lobster it returned into the sea.
"Then the father fell upon his knees and tearfully
gave grateful thanks to God, hugging and kissing
his crucifix in a passion of delight. He remained
half an hour in that humble posture, with his
bands pressed to his breast, and I joined him in
rendering praise and thanksgiving for so great and
palpable a miracle.”
The church made much of this astonishing story,
and even punished sev-rely an unfortunate satirist
who dared to ridicule it in a satirical pamphlet.
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