New York dispatch. [volume], February 06, 1887, Page 6, Image 6

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
6
IN THE DISTANT YEARS.
We met last in the distant years,
And parted, ne’er to meet again;
My aching eyes were filled with tears.
My heart was sore with uctold pain.
But, though wo parted thus for aye,
A lingering hope my heart yet holds.
That we may meet again some day
Ere Death shall shroud us in his folds,
We parted—’twas the old, old way;
A too well trusted friend’s deceit
Dad taken each from each away,
Both hoping nevermore to meet.
Be thought that I was lalse. while I,
Unshadowed under falsehood’s spell,
In anger said a last good-by
To him I once had loved so well.
But now Ijknow the truth at last;
I would I knew he knew the same,
To come to me from out the past
And tell me I was not to blame.
But, ah ! *tis maybe all too late —
That day of joy may never dawn;
I can no more than watch and wait,
And through the future years hope on.
A taW ARRAliam.
BY CLYDE RAYMOND.
•• Mine !—really mine at last, love ! Ah, Kate,
the happiness of which this little circlet is the
emblem,” whispered Hugh Glenn, gallantly
kissing the white hand upon which he had just
placed a costly ring—the sign of their be
trothal.
Kate Sterling lifted her beautiful dark-lashed
gray eyes from the glittering jewel to the hand
some face of its donor, and there was an answer
ing smrle in them, and on her lip, as she met
his glance of proud possession.
“It is the emblem of an awful change—the
exchange of liberty for bondage 1” she exclaimed,
with a light, silvery laugh. “ Who could have
thought you would have been so willing to sur
render the charms of bachelorhood for the
chains of matrimony >”
“ I shall be the most envied man in the city,”
he returned, in the same half-playful strain ;
“ lor I shall have the fairest, loveliest wife. I
shall be only too proud to wear her brilliant
chains.”
“ And 11—I shall try to be worthy of the hon
ored name I am to bear,” replied Kate, speak
ing slowly and with deeper earnestness.
And then she became conscious of a slightly
disappointed feeling about something. What
was it?
Surely Kate herself could not toll. She bad
won the best match of the season—a man as
handsome and lovable as be was rich and so
cially distinguished—and that was saying a
great deal.
He was very proud of her beauty and bril
liancy, which drew around hbr such an innu
merable train of suitors that he—the lion of the
season—bad not found the task of winning her
an easy one. And Kate was sure she admired
him above all the men she had ever met in the
charmed circle of which she was one of the fair
est queens.
Her heart thrilled with pride as she thought
of the scores of. pretty belles who would envy
her when her engagement was announced. But
did it thrill with any deeper emotion?
She sighed a little amid her smiles and
blushes, without in the least knowing why. She
■was the most fortunate girl in the city, and she
■would be unreasonable, indeed, were she to ask
anything more of Fate than Fate had already
given her. And yet . Well, what ? Noth-
ing at all—only this betrothal of theirs, pretty
and graceful as it was, had not been quite the
love-scone her woman’s heart had dreamed of.
The engagement created a tremendous sensa
tion, as Kato had divined. There was not a
more envied pair of lovers in the exclusive cir- (
cle to which they belonged, and honors, thick
and fast, were showered upon them. Kate’s <
bosom throbbed with an exultant sense of tri
umph, and if any unfulfilled desire lurked in ]
her secret heart, the round of fashionable gay- j
eties in which she lived gave her no time to re
alize it. ]
In the midst of it all they were pressed to join ]
a large party invited to spend a few weeks at 3
the magnificent country seat of one of the most
— prominent leaders of the beau monde. ]
“ Now don’f fail me, for I count your presence ]
as my greatest card,” entreated Mrs. Mounttort •
with flattering sincerity. “ There will bo some ]
new people, and both you and Mr. Glenn may i
prepare for any amount of fresh lionizing and ”
—laughingly—“ envy, too, perhaps. Ah, Kate ?”
she added, with a sudden burst of admiring ap
proval, “ what a fortunate girl yon are ! Not
an unengaged woman do I know who does not
envy you the brilliant position you have won,
to say nothing of your handsome lover.”
Kate's fair face flushed with pride. Such
words from such a source meant a great deal;
and she was proud of her lover. No; she had 1
no earthly reason for imagining that her heart i
needed anything more to complete its happi- <
ness. t
“I shall-have the world at my feet,” she 1
thought, her brilliant gray eyes glowing with
triumph. “Ah 1 what a grand thing it is to
have wealth and position—such a position as <
Hugh Glenn’s wife will command in society ! <
What is mere, dreaming love, compared to i
.” She checked herself, with a little thrill, I
as if guilty of some treacherous thought; then: <
•* Who says lam not in love?” she went on, 1
with a defiant lift of her regal head. “Gf i
course I am. I’m not marrying Hugh for his
money. I—love him—of course.” i
A merry set of fashionables went out together
to the Mountfort country seat. <
Carriages awaited them at the station; and,
as they rolled up the broad drive to the stately ]
mansion it seemed to Kate, practical though
she was, a place fit for love and romance, as i
its picturesque towers and polished windows <
glittered in the last setting rays of a Wintry
sun.
As they came nearer she noticed that her <
lover gave a sudden start, and his handsome i
eyes lit up with a swift, keen glow of interest.
“ What is it, Hugh ?” she asked, her glance
followingMhe direction oi his own. I
What she-saw was the slender figure of a girl i
standing near an upper window, the sunset 1
light touching her golden hair into wondrous
beauty, and one sleeve of her soft black gown i
falling away and revealing the snowy whiteness
of the round arm uplifted to hold back the
velvet window draperies.
The pose was instinct with grace, as she stood
thus, motionless, looking out over the beautiful
scene and evidently not seeing the carriages, at
first.
“ Look ! isn’t it a striking picture?” Hugh 1
exclaimed in a low tone, as it he feared to dispel
the lovely vision.
“ She is pretty,” answered Kate, admiringly.
“ I wonder who she is I Mrs. Mounttort told me i
we were to meet some new people here.” i
Just then the girl turned her lace that way i
and caught their upturned glances, and, with a
Blight blush mantling her fair cheek—ns ex- 1
quisitelv fair as the creamy loaf or a white lily :
—she moved swiftly away from the window. i
“A goddess!” laughed Hugh, drawing a <
quick, tense breath as she vanished from their
eight
“ A governess, perhaps,’’ retorted Kate, ;
latighing also—and she little knew that her
random guess had hit the truth. i
“'Lovely girl up stairs at the window—black
dress—golden hair ?” echoed Mrs. Mountfort,
musingly, when Kate spoke to her about it.
“Oh4”—suddenly—“that must have been Miss
Carew—Hilda Carew—my governess.. Yes, she ,
is very pretty; the daughter oi an old acquaint- 1
ance—excellent family, but reduced circum
stances; so 1 offered recently to engage her for
jlaudie. She is grateful, but proud, rather.
She will not be likely to intrude.”
“Intrude !” exclaimed Kate, opening her big
gray eyes wonderingly. “ Why, I shouldn’t
think ot it in that light, Mrs. Mountfort. I
should never regard her as an inferior.”
The lady shrugged her shoulders slightly
and arched her aristocratic brows a trifle.
“Some would,” she replied, sententiously.
“ I don’t, of course. She is well-born and well
bred, so 1 treat her with proper consideration.
She rarely appears in the drawing-room, how
ever, unless especially requested.”
Late soon found that her hostess had not
erred in the opinion she had stated.
They rarely saw Miss Carew, save at the ta
ble, and not always then, for it often chanced
that she preferred to take her meals up stairs
with Maudie.
When she did appear among the guests, how
ever, it was interesting to see how Hugh
Glenn’s fine eyes followed her every graceful
movement; how he managed to be near tho
piano to turn Ijer music when she sang, and
what a strange, intense light, as though some
subtile fire had been kindled in his soul,
glowed in his handsome face when he found a
chance to drop down beside her in some unin
terrupted nook for a few minutes’ tefe-.a-tete.
She was not a brilliant belle, like Kate; but
there was a rare, sweet grace in all her looks
and ways; an indefinable charm, that fascinated
like the hidden perfume ot a flower.
He was not co'nscious of any change in his
actions or feelings toward his fiancee. Nor was
there much, in fact. Kate had never made his
heart throb, like a mutinous prisoner, in h:s
breast, hut Hilda Carew did. Kate had never
sent the color from his cheek and lips, or his
blood bounding madly through every vein, at
the mere touch oi her hand or a glance from
her eyes, but Miss Carew did. And so, though
he had not changed to Kate,-a deep and subtile
change had come to him--he was living in a
dream. People began to notice it, but not
Kate.
“ She isn’t one of the jealous kind,” some one
Baid. And it must have been true, for she only
smiled, half-dreamily, when she saw her lover
bending so close to Miss Carew’s golden head
and turned away to ask Mr. Merivale to read
one of his favorite books to her, or to rake up
from his memory some half-forgotten story of
his travels, which she never tired of hearing.
George Merivale was one of the “new people”
whom Mrs. Mountfort had spoken of—a man
past thirty, not wealthy by a long way, and with
out social rank, save such as his own genius was
winning for him.
He was a sculptor, and had nassed much of
his life in the Old World, especially in Home.
He was gifted, and there was that in his quiet
ease of bearing, his masterful blue eves and in
his low, expressive tones when talking ot his
art an* the Land of Poetry in which he had
studied it, that hold his listeners by a strong
power of attraction.
Kate listened with thrilling interest to his de
lightful tales. He had the gift of arousing her
very best, either of wit or pathos. She gave her
eelf up to tho delight of his society, knowing
how perfectly sale it was, ior she was securely
engaged to the man whose social rank was ox-
what eiie and bare, and even
were she not, George Merivale was too poor to
be dangerous company to a girl like her.
That was how she looked at it, as she let her
self drift day by day toward the enchanted isl
ands.
She would close her eyes and listen to his low
deep voice, giving newer and sweeter moaning
to some well-known poem. And one day, when
a sudden silence foil upon them, she looked up
with a start to find tho book lying forgotten on
his knee, and bis deep, intense blue eyes bent
upon her face with a look that brought her sud
denly to her feet, while a swift tide of crimson
rushed in a great wave to her very brow.
“ Kate I ’ho cried out passionately, forgetting
all reserve as he caught herhand and made tier
stop beside him. “You have read my heart—
you know how I love you ! Oh, Kate !—Kate !”
his strong voice hoarse with anguish, “ why is
Heaven so cruel to us ?”
“Hush !” she uttered faintly, trembling like a
leaf, but wrenching her hand free. “Never
speak of it; I forbid you !”
And she swept past him, hardly knowing or
caring whither she went.
Passing tho music-room she noticed the door
slightly ajar, and the impulse flashed unon her
to go in and wait there until she could compose
herself, lor she knew that her looks must be
strangely agitated.
She had her hand On the door to push it open,
when the sound of a low, troubled, yet proud
voice caught her ear.
“ I have tried to avoid you, Mr. Glenn. Why
did you persist in seeking me ?” said tho low
voice—Hilda Carew’s voice—with almost stern
reproach. “Do you forget Miss Sterling ? Have
you no regard for tho honor of your pledge ?”
Kate paused outside, as still as death, with
her hand pressed against her heart.
“ Yes—yes, I have,” answered Hugh’s voice
huskily. “It is true that I forgot myself, my
honor—everything but you—for the moment,
Hilda. But! will do so no more. If I could
only hear you say but once that you love mo,”
he added, with a passionate bitterness, “it
would bo less hard to bear.”
“You will not hear it,’ said Miss Carew firm
ly. “You have no right to utter that word to
mo.”
But, in the accents of the proud girl’s voice,
Kate read unerringly the secret of her heart.
Like a spirit, she glided in and stood before
them, her gray eyes shining like two luminous
stars.
“ 1 release you from your pledge, Hugh,” she
smiled, withdrawing his ring from her band.
“I have chanced to hear soma’of your conversa
tion, and”—glancing at Miss Carew sweetly—
“ if you care tor him, Miss Carew, do not doubt
that ho is entirely free to seek you !”
There was a look on Hugh Glenn’s handsome
face that cannot be described. He knew not
what to say or think.
“Kate!” he exclaimed unsteadily. “Iwill
not permit this 1 You are sacrificing ”
“Oh, no, lam not 1” she cried, with a quick
movement of her white hand to check him.
“You and I never really loved each other,
Hugh, as we both know now perfectly well.
Hilda there”—with a charming smile—“has
taught you the truth, while I-—
She stopped, halt-laughing, and coloring
deeply. Like a flash the truth camo home to
both her listeners. .
“George Merivale !” cried Hughand Hilda
in the same glad breath.
Kate bent her dark, proud head assentingly.
“Yes,” she said sottly; “you have guessed
it. It is George Merivale who has made me
understand, at last, the meaning of true love.”
“ Who ever heard such a foolish thing ?”
cried society, aghast, when the two marriages
camo off. “To marry that poor devil ot a sculp
tor, when she might just as easily have had the
millionaire I”
She has not made a brilliant match, it is true,
as the world looks at it. And when she calls
upon Mrs. Glenn—Hugh’s beautiful dark-eyed
bride—and looks around upon all the magnifi-.
cence of their palace-home, Kate smiles, re
membering how nearly it had’once been all her
own.
But she does not envy them. She glories in
her husband’s genius, and is childishly happy
in her devoted love.
But per call is over and Hilda has followed
her to the door. How radiant tho two brides
look as they stand there together on the broad
marble steps.
“Come down soon,for George is dying to
have another talk with you about old times,”
laughs Mrs. Merivale with her good-by kiss.
“ And remember me to Hugh. You have the
best husband in the. universe, Hilda dear—
with ono exception.”
AN
BY GEORGE COOPER.
Another “old-timer” has passed away. How
many remain with us ? There died a lew days
ago, surrounded by bis children and grandchil
dren, a quaint, cheery character who was, so to
speak, one of the landmarks of New York city;
for 1826 saw him at the commencement of a
prosperous career.
Teter Aston, or “Uncle Peter,” as he was
called, started a “hostelry” on the southwest
corner of the Bowery and Hester street in the
above-mentioned year. The Bowery at that
time was quite a different affair irom that of to
day. An immense button-ball tree stood in
frontot “Uncle Peter’s” place, and its spread
ing branches gave a pleasant and inviting shade
to the customers of the quaint, old, wooden
structure, who would sit on the settees and
benches in front ot it and watch the old stage
coaches go lumbering along. The Third Avenue
Railroad was not dreamed ot within the most
progressive imaginations. Here “ Uncle Peter”
was a gracious host to the not-frequent way
farers who would saunter in for their creature
comforts.
Tho old corner from that day, for fifty years,
was the resort and stopping-place of alfmanner
ot men. The inroad of new buildings has
swept it away; nor has the old button-ball tree
been spared.
There were other “ corners” of a similar na
ture, such as “ Boss” Thompson’s, on Chatham
street; “Billy” Garland’s, John Carlaud’s,
“Ed.” Story’s and “ Harry” Cooper’s, along the
Bowery; but none of them were of that hospita
ble atmosphere which characterized “ Uncle
Peter’s.”
The first to patronize the place were the
“ Butcher Boys,” who would swing in on the
breezy mornings for a “nip.” Then came the
“Carmen,” the old-style fellows, with their
two-wheeled carts and the long, white-aprons,
the badge of all their tribe at that time. At
night, alter their long, heavy day’s work, was
the best timo to see them congregated. They
were a hearty, good-natured set, and a kindly
word and -a jest with “ Undo Peter,” accom
panied by a sample of his “best” pure Hen
nessey and Otaid brandies, which was handed
over the quaint little barat three cents a glass—
these were the attractions that winged the happy
hours. “ Uncle Peter” was the progenitor, if we.
may so term it, of the present “ free-lunch”
system; for a cheap grade of. imported Havana
cigars was given away, one with each drink—
that is, it it did not prove to be above the usual
number of fingers; or, as the host would call it,
a “ corker.”
Times have changed. Those were the days
of “plain drinks.” Barring a “cock-tail,”
made in a most primitive manner, or, on very
warm days, a “julep,” mixed goods were un
known, as were Bourbon and rye whiskies.
■\Vhat would the proprietors ot our present
gilded and mirrored saloons think of two rows
of casks painted white (and kept so), with black
hoops; each cask labelled with such now 1 un
heard-of brands as “ Noyea,” “Perfect Love,”
“Life of Man,” “Shrub,” Ac.; yet these were
the sole embellishments of “ Uncle Peter’s”—
these and a bar mounted with brass rails, and'
a copper tray or drain for tumblers.
To know how to keep a hotel has been incor
porated into our vernacular as- expressive of
the acme of business ability. “Uncle Peter”
did know how. His “piece de resistance” in
fluids was Apple Jack. People came from far
and near to sample it, and having once tried it,
they adapted the advice given to the unsuccess
ful, and proceeded to “ try, try again !” Un
cle Peter’s” famous Apple Jack came from and
around Red Bank, N. J. His old friend An
tony Reckless, then Congressman, dealt in the
article. Whenever he had found some of this
miscalled Jersey Lightning “ extra fine,”
A 1,” “Uncle Peter” was advised of it, and,
whether one barrel or ten, down it went into
“Uncle Peter’s” cellar. There it slumbered in
maturing security for a long time. That was
the secret of its rare charm—the keeping of it.
Its mellowness grew with age, like “ Uncle
Peter” himself. Oh, the drink that it made !
Silenus himself would have sighed for it. No
roasted apple to flavor it; a little sugar ; a liitle
(?) Apple Jack; steaming-hot water; then
would its fragrance be liberated, and after a
nip or two the fortunate drinker would dream
of old apple orchards steeped in sun ; boy
hood’s days ; stolen fruit lull of furtive sweet
ness ! Another glass, and all the poetry and
good-nature of a man’s heart would be set free
as tne fragrance of the amber fluid in his
glass I
“Uncle Peter’s” book of records, from the
time he first opened his place, was much con
sulted by those who knew of it. No important
event escaped him. Dates and details'ot every
thing, from a national event to a horse-race
were recorded therein.
Many of New York’s solid and respectable
citizens were his visitors and friends. Sam
Kellinger, Joe Godwin, Colonel Morton, Hiram
Anderson, Raymond (life-boat builder), Man
gles (Fulton Market butcher;, “Oysterman”
Dorlon, John Giles, Alf. Carson, Gulick (the last
three, old fire laddies), and hundred's of others
dropped in daily to see “ Uncle Peter.”
Many others were his life-long friends. John
Kelly, Solomon Townsend, ot Oyster Bay; Thos.
C. Acton, John Caswell, John and Wm. Har
baok, John Doane, John Hayward, and George
Andrews, of the Tax office, and Gov. Seymour,
who appointed “ Uncle Peter ’’ Register, to fill
the vacancy created by Garret Dyckman, oi sol
dier tame.
“ Uncle Peter ” was a sportsman, too, in its
honest and best sense. He owned and drove
speedy horses—that is, speedy for those days,
when two-forty was good time, and “ thirty ” or
“ twenty-five ” made men hold their breath. He
kept a private stable, and his turnout was a
marvel of neatness. He was a good and fear
less driver on the shady roads of Third avenue,
where are now to be seen nothing but solid
bricks and mortar. From the “Widow Odell s,”
along up, dropping in at “ Spark’s,” “Lu Ro
gers’s,” “Ed Luff’s,” at the Old Red House,
and so along to “ Benny Alamo’s ” —what old
roadsters do not remember “Benny and Mrs.
Garno?” Poor Benny was an echo.only ! Ho
stood behind his old English bar, surmounted
by Ue legend in gilded letters;' “ 1 am as dry as
MEW YORK DISPATCH, FEBRUARY 6, 1887.
a and then under this tho picture of an
impossible porgie !
“ Uncle Peter ” was likewise a good shot. IT©
owned the best of imported shot-guns—no
breech-loaders then—and a brace of dogs that
were hard to equal for style and sharp working
abilities. His “Jack,” a famous setter, and
“Ned,” a tan and white pointer, werp well
known among sportsmen of tho day.
At last “ Uncle Peter ” grew tired of busi
ness, and bade the old corner good-by. Fifty
years o: prosperity were his. He had lived to
miss the laces of many of his old friends. New
structures wore encroaching on his humble cor
ner. When the guardian spirit of the place was
no longer there, decadence seized upon it. A
mercantile building now covers the spot where
it stood—the pleasant little hostelry, where for
fifty years “ Uncle Peter ” toiled, reared a fami
ly and made a fortune. The world could easier
have missed a better and greater man than
“Honest Undo Peter Asten 1”
A MAIDBN 0F CHIHUAHUA.
BY Y. H. ADDIS.
“Mamacita,” cried Blasa Aldana, coming
across the patio with old Dolores, her some
time nurse and present maid, shuffling at her
heels; “ Mamacita I The Saenz were robbed
last night. The door of the sala was broken in
and the house ransacked. Lupe’s pearls arc
gone, with all the silver cups and spoons and
ladles, and Julio’s charro suit that cost S3OO,
and, oh ! a lot oi money Don Lauro had in his
chest.”
Cleofas Mora, widow of Aldana, shook her
head in silent comment. She had heard all too
much in the last few weeks of the depredations
committed by the lawless gentry who bad just
begun to work their way up to Chihuahua from
the States below.
“And, mamma,” said Blasita, “Lupo Saenz
says that Loren, o Garcia has been walking past
her window every night this week, and she is
quite sure he care's more for her than for Augus
tina.”
“ Chismes •” then answered Cleofas Mora.
“ Why do you retail gossip ? Have f not heart
and hands full already, that you should come
babbling of Guadalupe Saenz and her flirta
tions? I thank tho saints that my Augnatina is
a prudent child, who does not take up with
every young blade that appears on the Almeda.
Who is this Lorenzo Garcia? Whence comes
he ? To whom does ho bring le-tters ? In my
young days we knew who a man might be be
fore wo owned he watched under our windows.
A pretty pass wo are coming to, with the free
and easy manners the American women have
brought among us.”
Now, truth to tell, Dona Cleofas was on an
average little Of a scold,' but to-day she was
sore distraught. She was the fortunate pos
sessor of means, moderate enough to be sure,
but still adequate for her needs ; and she and
hers were gifted with sound minds and bodies.
But at the present moment she was much exer
cised in spirit, and over the very two matters
on which Blasita had touched so gliblv. There
was no doubt that Lorenzo Garcia had been
making tentative advances toward the house of
Aldana. And there was equal certainty that
Augustina was rather kindly disposed to
hearken to the voice of the charmer, coyly as
yet, it was true, and not to a compromising de
gree ; but Dona Cleofas foresaw a lively contest
for the day when the girl should definitely de
cide for her quasi admirer, for Augustina was
endowed with some tenacity of purpose. Lo
renzo Garcia was a stranger in Chihuahua for
whom none could vouch, and, for all his hand
some eyes and suave address, Dona Cleofas
had no notion of passing over to his control
one-third of the snug little sum she had laid by
as dowry ior her daughters. Now, too, Dona
Cleofas had another source of disturbance which
she would by no means impart to her house
hold, composed exclusively of women as it was.
In tho silent hours of the preceding night she
had heard clearly and unmistakably the sound
of feet moving cautiously in the little court of
her domicile, and her big watch-dog Pluto had
been found stiff and dead that morning, al
though none save herself had thought of the
cause she confidently assigned for his demise.
So far as appeared, there was no protection
to be had. The Aldana abode was rather iso
lated, and the very peculiarities of .arcljitectu
ral form which render a Mexican house almost
like a fortress to outside attack virtually cut off
communication with, and assistance from, the
outside world, once the foe gained loothold
within the gates. Jn those days the police force
of Chihuahua, now admirably organized, was
insignificant, both as to numerical strength and
effectiveness. Then Dona Cleofas, imbued with
the spirit of woman’s subjugation and social
passivity of her race and day, felt that she could
call on no man of her acquaintance for succor or
protection. There was nothing to do but await
the course of events.
The day went on, slowly enough, perhaps, to
Augustina, before whose eyes the form of Lo
renzo appeared not, but all too swiftly to her
mother, enduring a sort of breathless apprehen
sion. Night fell, and the little family, shut in
side their four walls, passed the long winter
evening as best they might. At bed-time Dona
Cleofas called her people together and, to their
surprise and against thoir protests, marshaled
them away to a great room, a guest-chamber
rarely used, which lay at the rear of the house
toward the kitchens, and which was strongly
defended, having no windows, but heavy oaken
doors. These Dona Cleofas locked and barred
securely and mustered her flock together.
“ Hush, Blasa ! and you, too, Augustina. But
look you at Eduarda, the youngest of you all
how silently she obeys while you set up a cla
mor. Why do 1 bring you here? Because I
will so, then. How now ! Am Ino longer mis
tress in my own abode ? Here are three beds
with ample pillows—got you to rest. And you,
Beata, Hermelinda and Dolores”—to the sew
ing-women—“ spread out your blankets here on
the floor near the ninas, and let me hear not-so
much as a chirp from one of you till I call you
in tho morning.”
Thus, disguising her tenderness and anxious
fears with severe speech, like many a woman of
greater lore before her, Lona Cleofas summar
ily locked the one remaining door from the out
side and marched away alone. She was confi
dent that if trouble wore imminent it would
come in the direction of the little shop that was
her source of income, where was a respectable
stock oi goods of worth, and readily portable,
beside her strong-box itself, no patent money
safes then obtaining in Chihuahua. Thither,
then, to the store room behind tho shop did
Dona Cleofas wend, and near by its weak point,
a small door opening on the patio, she seated
herself in a great armchair of willow work, and
for a brief time gave herself up to the luxury of
weeping..
For, with all her force and decision ot charac
ter, Dona Cleofas was but a woman, and it
might be on the cards that she should gaze not
on the laces of her children again. She had
brought her arsenal with her; no cunning fabri
cation of Colt’s nor many-balled Winchester;
for these inventions of murderous man to maim
and slay his fellows Dona Cleofas had not the
slightest use; she was the traditional woman in
her horror oi firearms, and. would not have
known how to make offensive use of them, un
less as missiles to bo hurled against an intrud
er’s head. But alongside her and resting against
her knee lay a heavy, long-helved ax, whoso
keen, broad edge had never been turned against
knot oi stubborn oak nor the gnarled roots that
serve as fuel thereabouts. And Dona Cleofas
bad all faith in tho power of her own right arm
to wield it hard and well against a foe.
The night went on, the silence was unbroken
and Dona Cleofas slept-slept hard and fast,
until all at once, with a start, she was as wide
awake as ever she was in her life and realizing
that very close to her the throat ot a man was
emitting labored yet rapid breathings. The
auditory sense was strong and definite in Dona
Cleofas, and it took her not many seconds to
decide that tho intruder had crawled through
an opening cut in the panel ot the door before
her, and there be was, apparently caught fast,
sprawling, clawing and wriggling to force him
self further in and clear of the opening. Now
and then in the fellow’s contortions his hot
breath swept the hand of tho watcher. Dona
Cleofas drew a deep, soundless breath, and
rising swiftly, noiselessly to her feet, raised the
ax in the air. Swift as light it fell—chack I one
mighty, convulsive writhe and the ..man with
that last twisting shudder had drawn himself,
past tho grip of the ragged planks, and Dona
Cleofas, stooping resolutely, drew him quite
within with as natural a movement as her
quivering nerves could compass.
A few moments of silence; then, barely audi
ble, a sibilant whisper: “ Thou* Lehcho, is all
well?’ through the hollowed hands of Dona
Cleo'as an answer was sent back: “ All well—
coihe On 1” Then, almost breath for breath,
that same .scene, unviewed in the great dark
ness, was enacted, and yet again.
But the third time, what,with the strain on
her overwrought nerves, and the tax on her
aching muscles, as she had dragged aside throe
well-grown heavy bodies—the third time, and
little wonder, Dona Cleofos could not answer to
the question: “Art safely in? Does all go
well ?” But the fourth man, cautiously putting
his head within the gap to reconnoitre, just
missed the unfailing blow of the heavy ax.
“Por Dios I but what was that? Some
treachery is here,” his voice broke forth. “ And
—the earth beneath the door is wet—with some
thing slippery—hot—good God—with blood 1”
There was a smothered howl of rage and fear,
the rush of scuffling feet, a ladder rattling
against the wall as it was drawn up to the roof,
and Dona Cloefas was alone but for the dead.
The dawn had not yet opened into day when
a watchman, staying the steps of a tottering
woman, knocked at the great zaguan door of
the Jefe Politico’s house, and after a parley with
the servant on duty and his summons to the
master, the prefect came forth, looking curious
ly at the pale, haggard face of his early guest.
“But what is this, good Dona Cleoias? I
cannot credit the tale, and yet, your blood
stained hands and garb—well, well I You go
not hence on foot nor lasting. After so sore a
struggle you must want strength. Como in
and sit you down, while coffee and wine are
brought to us and the horses are put to my
coach.”
But if the good woman had seemed faint and
ill when she sought the aid of the prefect, she
had well nigh recovered her wonted calm and
self-reliance when she stood an hour later be
side that dignitary and watched his wondering
lace while ho stripped the black masks from the
faces of tho dead.
“This is ‘ El Zorro,’ the Fox,” he murmured,
consulting a formidable looking paper adorned
with great red seals; “ that is to say,-he cor
responds iu every particular with the descrip
tion of that bandit, sent up ior my instruction
by my esteemed colleague, the vTele of Zacatecas.
This bearded one must be—yea - the Tarantula;
and this one—Lola ! 1 seem to know his face !*
“No doubt,”' said Dona Cleotas, dryly;
“ with the name of Lorenzo Garcia he has been
playing the gallant to such of our girls as would
hear him, and, no doubt, getting Irom them the
points to use in his raids. Faith, one of my own
pullets has listened to his purr I Senor Jefe, if
1 have done aught that merits praise, I pray
your license to go and bring the girl, to whom,
perhaps, your grace will say a word. A hard
test for her lan awful sight! ’Tis so, your wor
ship, but tho chit needs the lesson. What might
it not have been for her mother ?”
All ignorant of what was going on, the rest
of Dona Cleotas’ flock thought it hard she
should forbid them to follow Tina; but so the
dame decreed, and locked them fast again all
breakfastless, pending the place was freed from
its ghastly sights. And never in Augustina’s
lifs to come would she forget the awful scene, as
she came to where the three stark dead men
lay, drawn by her mother's hand.
“Santa Cristo !” she cried; “ what is it—what
does it mean ?”
“ It means, my child,” the Jefe hastened to
answer, “ that your ready acceptance ot the at
tentions of a stranger might have brought ruin
and death upon your house. As it is, your
good, wise mother has averted the danger, and
even has added to your dowry, since to her ac
crue tho 1,500 good hard dollars offered by the
paternal government for these three robbers
she has killed, the leaders of an infamous band.
Yes,” he answered her piteous look, “yes, even
this handsome I.encho, who was the decoy, the
traitor, the spy, the worst of all tho lot. What !
catch her—she is fainting 1 Ah, well! In truth,
ho is or was a handsome scamp. Your ax has
marred his beauty, good Cleofas.”
The family Aldana still live in Chihuahua.
The daughters are all married, and tho unwrit
ten history of the city, noted ior its obedient,
discreet maidens, places foremost in the rank
ot good daughters tho three of Dona Cleotas,
and most submissive and dutiful of them all,
Angus ti na. — Ai 'qonaut.
IIUMOR~oTTiI|IIdUR.
BY THS DETIISIT PRE3 PRESS FIEND.
THE BOY DIDN’T NEED IT.
“Boy,” he Baid, as he halted beside a boot
hlack who was eating a big turnip, “I’m alraid
that’s bad lor you.”
“Yes—yum—but you’d better put out all
your sympathy on the turnip,” was tho reply,
as he bit off another quarter section.
NO MORE OF THAT.
“ That last butter was very bad, sir,” eaid the
cook, as she left au order for groceries.
“ Was it? ■ Why, Mr. Blank and his wile were
both in here yesterday and had no complaint to
make.”'
“Ah, sir, but I had a little party in the
kitchen tho other night, and you should have
heard how the coachman took on about it I
Please be a bit more careful, lor I leei that my
reputation is at stake.” ■
NOT TRUE.
“ Why, howdy do!” she exclaimed, ns they
mot on the street. “Is it true that you and
your husband have been divorced ?”
“No, certainly not.”
“ But that’s tho story.”
“ Well, it all came irom his throwing me
down stairs. You don’t think I’m foolish
enough to apply lor a divorce lor such a little
thing as that, do you ?”
SUGAR IN COURT.
“Now, young lady, you may take tho stand,”
said the lawyer in'a ease in one bi the Justices’
courts the other day.
“ Yes, sir,” she replied, with a beaming
smile.
“That does me up !”whispered a man on one
of the benches. “I’m her husband, and she’s
forty-nine years old, but the sugar on that law
yer’s tongue will cost me S3o' for millinery be
lore the Ist ot May.” .
A POPULAR PLAN.
“Had any trouble with your water pipes this
Winter ?” he asked, as they were about to sepa
rate.
“ Not the slightest.”
“ You must box ’em, eh?”
Not a box.”
“How do you menage?”
“Let the Water Board turn the water off No
vember T for non-payment of rent, and depend
upon my neighbors.”
NONE OUT THERE.
“ Have any spelling schools out your way this
Winter ?” he asked of a Redford farmer the
other day.
“ No.”
“ Thon you don’t believe in that sort of diver
sion ?”
“No, sir. If somebody has got to spell the
school down and got thumped lor it until he
can’t get out of bed for four weeks it’s time wo
let the spellm’ business alone. My son Dan’l
was the last to take the prize and a lickin’, and
he’s gone back to spellin’ sugar the old-fash
ioned way, and proposes to stick to it.”
WHICH?
’ A small boy with his boot box in hand stood
looking attentively up Griswold street yester
day, when he was asked:
•• What are you looking' after, sonny?”
“ That millionaire in the kerridge.”
What’s the matter with him ?”
“He got out here and asked mo to hold his
boss. When he went away ho didn’t hand mo
no ten cents.”
“ Perhaps he forgot it.”
“That’s what I’m puzzling over—whether
he’s absent-minded and will send me a check
through the mail in a day or two, or whether he
took me for another millionaire and didn’t want
to hurt my feelings by offering me any money ?
It’s purty hard to understand these high-up fel
lers, and the next one I get onto has to pay cash
down.”
NOT NEXT CHRISTMAS.
“I can’t understand this bill,” he said, as he
handed a paper to his wife the other evening.
“It seems to be for scarfs and handkerchiefs
and shirts and so on, and I’m sure I haven’t
bought anything of the sort.”
“ Why, it is your Christmas presents, dear.
Don’t you remember what a lot of things 1 gave
you
“ Christmas presents 1 Why, didn’t I give
you twenty-five dollars in cash to buy . stuff
with?”
“ Yes. dear; but l had to use the money to get
myself a bonnet. The bill is correct, I assure
you, and I only wish I had got you far more,
for you are one of the best husbands in all this
world. Next Christmas. I’ll got you filty dol
lars’ worth of things.”
“ Not by a*** *!! you won’t!” he growled,
as he led the way to supper and figured on how
long he could stand the bill off.
JUST AS GOOD.
Some ten or twelve days ago a dignified and
respectable-appearing woman visited the
Gratiot Avenue Police Station to secure advice
in a rather delicate matter. As she stated
the case:
“ A man has been paying bis attentions to me
for two years -past and we have been engaged
for over six months. AU at once J discovered a
coldness; he comes at longer intervals; he is
not the same man. I reproach him, and now he
seems to have skipped. Can’t I have him ar
rested for breach of promise'”’
She was given some sound advice and went
her way. Yesterday ono ot the officers met her
on tho" street and asked her how tho matter
stood and she cheerfully replied:
“Oh, that’s all right. He has acted the part of
a perfect gentleman.”
“ Then be has married you?”
“ Oh, no: he has married my daughter. It
seems that he was loving her all tho time in
stead of mo.”
A GOOD STRING.
A well-known druggist in this city was filling
an order for a lady the other evening when a
hawk-eyed young naan whose raiment bespoke
hard times, stood by without making any
errand. As the lady went out he was asked
what he desired:
“ Twenty-five cents to pay for a night’s lodg
ing, please.”
“ Well, you won’t get it.”
“ Very well, sir. You put up quinine lor that
lady?”
“I did.”
“ Suppose I follow her home and raise the
query of whether you didn’t make a mistake
and put up morphine ?”
“ But it was quinine.”
“No doubt, but just to show you how a
word will upset some people I will run after
her and -—.”
“Here ! How much did you say you wanted?”
“ A quarter, please.”
“ Well, here it is, and as yon probably
haven’t had any supper here’s fifteen cents
extra.”
“ Thanks, sir, and may yon never make an
other fatal mistake. Good-nightd”
Slloo¥iNg7l A JUDGE,
Called to the Door and Fir, d Upon bv
a Would-be Assassin.
One evening last week information reached
the police of the city of Cincinnati of a bold at
tempt to assassinate Judge James W. Fitzgerald,
of the Police Court, at bis residence. The Judge
was aloue in his library, preparing a decision in
a submitted case. His son and his son’s wile
had gone to the theatre; when tho door bell at
the side entrance rang, the Judge answered it
in person. He says he saw a man with a black
face there, who said :
“Judge Fitzgerald?”
The Judge answered :
“ Well ?”
Just then the caller drew a white hand from
his overcoat pocket, and the Judge caught the
glitter of the weapon in time to jump aside, just
before the shot was fired. He fell with an ex
clamation, and the assassin doubtless thought
be had accomplished his purpose. The servant
girls came to his help, and neighbors were sum
moned. It was found that he had not been
wounded, though the ball cut through his coat.
He was greatly prostrated by tho nervous
shock. This was greater because, although he
bad not before made it known, this was not the
first assault lie has suffered. About a week
ago, alter attending a business meeting near
the Court House, he started home, when some
one hurled a brick or boulder at his head, and
narrowly missed its aim. It was dark, and tho
Judge could not see his assailant, who in
stantly ran. The Judge appeared as usual on
the bench the next morning. He says he has
no doubt ha can recognize the voice and form of
his aeaa.laat.
The Judge has lor a long time been the ter
ror of evildoers, but no one has ever ventured
to charge him with any feeling but that of a de
sire to vindicate the law and to punish and pre
vent crime. Only last week he had nearly a
hundred cock-fighters before him, and in all
eases whore a plea of guilty was made he fined
them $25 and costs. There are still a number
of these cases pending, to be heard.
THE ACROBAT.
BY JOSEPH MONTET.
The young man rose up quickly from tho
carpet on which he had been kneeling.
“Dora, take care!” he cried. “You know
how much I think of you. Do not push me too
far f*
The young woman eimplv shrugged her
shoulders as she remained calmly seated upon
the sofa.
“So you threaten me now? The last straw I
And by what right?”
“By the right you gave me, in allowing me to
believe you loved me lor six months past.”
“And ill allowed you to think so, you big
fool, it was perhaps because I did.”
“But now, I am to understand, you do not?’’
the young man asked, through bis set teeth.
“You must suppose. No, see here, Mario,
let us bavo an end of this nonsense. Let us
end it right now—ouce and for all! That will
be the best thing for both of us. You talking
about rights. 1 gave you none. Chance
brought us together at Vienna, in the same cir
cus, I as rope-dancer and you as clown. A
more chance. Well, I found you wero a nice
fellow; I liked you, perhaps it was foolish oi
me ! Now you want this thing to last forever—
always, always the same nonsense. Ah ! no,
no—no more* of it for me. Now because we
happen to find ourselves together in Paris, I see
no reason why we should have to remain fet
tered to one another like two convicts. I have
had enough of the chain. If it was even a gold
chain it might be less unattractive. But I have
found a chain of just that sort ot metal if 1
choose to wear it—l havo my fortune to make,
and between you and fortune I can’t allow my
self to hesitate a moment. I like you, but I
like a hundred thousand francs of income a
great deal better. I tell you so frankly, and I
*must also tell you frankly everything is over
between us. Come, let us shake hands and say
no more about it.”
Mario remained motionless be r oro<her, a fine
looking young man, whose athletic figure, ro
bust and graceful, showed to advantage in the
Paris suit he wore. He remained staring at her
silently, looking straight into her eyes, as if
struggling with himself to repress a furious im
pulse to strangle her then and there, an im
pulse which betrayed itself in th© flash of his
black eyes.
“ That is vour final resolve ?” he asked, with
a painful effort.
“ That is all I have to say to you.”
“ Dora, I beg oi you.”
“ There now !—I trust you are not going to
begin again. Go, now—go, and don’t come bore
again ’—go !”
As the door slammed after him, tho clown
ebook his fist at it*
* if. * v * *
Eleven o’clock. The Cirque d’Automne is all
aflame with lights. A flutter of impatience visi
bly passes through the circles of scats, all
a-blossom with bright toilettes. Pretty gloved
bands nervously crumple up programmes.
Every ono in waiting for Miss Dora’s perform
ance.
“ Fifty feet above the ground, without a polo ?
That will be worth seeing.”
“ And without any net ?”
“ Why, that is crazy 1 Why is thero no net
ting?”
“Oh 1 just to keep up the emotion, my dear.
No danger, no emotion. Why, what would bo
the effect with a net? As well havo a lion-tamer’s
lions all muzzled.”
“ Yes, but this is terrible. If she were to
.all 1”
“ Miss Dora never falls. Sho exhibited last
year in Vienna; and has beOn performing here
lor a whole month. You never think about the
danger after you once see her begin—she ap
pears to do it eo easily. It’s really wonderful.
Look! —there she is!”
Miss Dora has suddenly made her appear
ance, alighting with a bound in the centre of
the arena, light and nimble as a bird, her
lithe and slender figure arrayed in pink silk
tights.
A murmur ot admiration runs through the
circus, and a vast circlo. of opera-glasses flash
upon her in a ring. The tight-rope dancer
hows right and left, gracefully bending her
limbs, showing a fine double row of white
teeth as she smiles upon the audience. Then,
stepping ten paces back and catching a rope
hanging before the stable entrance, she com
mences to ascend slowly and easily, hand over
hand.
Now she is upon her wire, leaning against
the double ropes which form the termination of
tho apparatus. A moment she remains thus,
smil ng down upon the sea of faces watching
her irom below. Then she puts one foot for
ward and strokes the wire with tho sole of her
slipper. In another moment she will begin.
In the middle of the arena three clowns are
per'ormjng a series ot tumbling feats. At each
somersault all fall upon their feet at precisely
the same timo. Two have tumbled head over
heels, as far as the entry, seeming at every mo
ment to dislocate themselves, putting their
grotesquely-painted faces between their legs.
The third one stands still, looking up at the
rope dancer as she makes her first step. What
is he going to do ? Something supremely ab
surd, no doubt. No use looking up there, old
fellow; her smiles are not for you !
Mario seems to be a very conscientious fellow.
No one is looking at him; but ho goes on with
his performance all the same. Now be is there
in the middle of the arena, trembling in every
limb. What a farce. She is the on© who is do
ing the dangerous feats, and he is the ono who
does the trembling. But that is old, my friend
—a played out sort of farce—ono would have
expected something better from a clown of such
widespread reputation. Beside, you don’t even
vary your performance 1 Everybody’s had
enough of it. What fun is there, you great fool,
in mocking the dancer and holding up your
arms as if she was going to fall ? That sort of
comedy doesn’t interest anybody.
“Oh!”
One scream of fear bursts from five thousand
throats simultaneously. All of a sudden the
iron wire has snapped under the dancer's feet;
and she falls—turning over and over in her
fall.
. The whole audience rises up—men and wo
men all white with fear.
At the same moment the woman and the clown
roll on the sand together. By a miracle of
strength and quickness Mario has caught Miss
Dora in his arms !
They are both lifted up and carried out.
Miss Dora, it it found, has received no injury
—she only fainted from the shock. But tho
man who wrought that miracle, Mario, the
clown, is less lucky. A broken arm and dislo
cated shoulder.
“ He is spoiled for the business for good 1”
said the manager of the circus.
■ * *. * » » *
Two days later, Miss Dora was seated by the
bedside of her former adorer,
“ Poor Mario !—how do you find yourself to
day.”
“ So-so,” answered tho sufferer, with a melan
choly smile.
“I owe you my life, Mario; and I’ll never for
get you for it.”
“Ah!” Said the young man, with a sudden
brightness of hope in his eyes, '• will you love
me again ?”
“Yes; but not as you want me to. Now, Ma
rio, don’t let us talk any more nonsense ! I
want to tell you about something else. Did you
hear what they havo found out ?”
“Ko.”
“ Well, the wire was out.” ,
“Ah !” ■
“ And tho guilty party has been arrested.”
“Guilty party ?—who’s that?”
“The head property-man—you know.that
fqol I had to put out of the dressing-room ono
night.”
“ Him!—he never did it—never in the
world !”
“ How do you know ? They havo arrested
him ; and all the proofs are against him.”
.There was silence for a moment; and Mario’s
face became singularly contracted. Ho seemed
to bo struggling with some strong impulse.
Then he said, all at once, in a husky voice :
“Listen, Dora : that man must be released.”
“ Why ?”
“ Because it was not bo who cut the wire.”
“ But what do you know.about it?”
“ I am certain of what I say.”
“ Then who did cut the wire ?”
“J did.”
“ Yon !”
Tho young woman pushed back her chair with
a gesture ot tei’ror,
“I beg of you-don’t go 1” he sobbed. “For
give me. I loved you so much it made me
crazy.”
Miss Dora had already risen. Coldly, and
without a word, she walked to the door, opened
it, and passed out
The poor wretch, helpless in his bed, heard
the dry sound of her shoes descending the stair,
and the silken fivur-frou other dress.
“And to think,” he cried out in a burst of
rage—“ to think it was for such a creature that
I almost killed myself.”— N. 0. Times-Democrat.
OVER FOUR ACRES OF RUM.
A FIERY MINE IN THE HEART OF
A GREAT CITY.
In th© very heart of London there exists a
fiery mine of so excitable a disposition that no
artificial light ot any description has ever yet
been allowed to be brought even into its neigh
borhood. Its product, however, is not coal, but
rum.
The rum-shed, as it is called, of the West
India Dock, covers a space of 200,000 square
feet, with vaults of corresponding size, all
crammed with huge casks of spirits, from every
pore of which—and the most carefully closed
have pores in plenty—the fiery vapor is forever
streaming out into the air, only begging lor the
smallest chance of converting the whole area of
the docks, with their 250 odd ships and 200,000
or 300,009 tons or so of cargo, and their more or
less incalculable stores of timber and tea, silk
and sugar, cigars and cereals, coals and cotton,
wine, wool, whisky, whale-fins and what not
into the most magnificent bowl of snap-dragon
ever imagined in infant nightmare.
Into these fiery regions not even a bull’s-eye
lantern is or ever has been allowed to pene
trate. Even the wharf along the side where the
great puncheons are landed, is forbidden to
the approach ol vessels, every cask being trans
ferred from ship to shore in the company’s own
lighters.
Each cask in that vast range of dim, dark
vaults is marked and numbered, and on the
right reading of these marks and numbers de
fends the efficient execution of every one of the
numerous operations to which every cask has
to be subjected before its contents can go forth
for the mixing of the world's grog. It is a teat
worthy of a Japanese juggler.
Watch Pockets Galore. — When
watches were subject to duty, a passenger
started from Holland to Harwich wearing a
curious under-garment crowded with small
pockets, in which were stowed away no fewer
than 145 watches. This shirt of watches was so
arranged that it was impossible for him to sit
down ; but, as the time usually spent on the
voyage was not very long—say twenty-four
hours, at the outside—this inconvenience did
not seem to matter. The boat started, and the
man began to wander about the deck, no one
having the slightest suspicion of the curious
armor in which he was encased. Unfortunately
for him, a fog came on, and the vessel’s prog
ress was stopped. The fog was obstinate; it
would not lift, and “the man who couldn’t sit
down’’ wandered about despairingly, growing
more and more tired each turn. Thirty hours
had passed since he left the Dutch coast,"and all
the time he had remained on his legs. The
man who did not sit down became the observed
of all on board, and, as he wandered hither and
thither, longing for the fog to rise, he became
conscious that all eyes were turned on him. He
thought he was discovered ; he grew alarmed ;
and still the vessel remained motionless ; and,
like an unquiet spirit, he shambled across the
deck. Thirty-six hours from Holland, and still
be kept his legs. Forty-two hours went by,-and
the wandering watch carrier, eyed and won
dered at by all, tottered to arid fro, unable to
bend, unable to rest, and ready to drop from
fatigue. No sign of the forgoing ; no sign of
relief. Twenty-two hours Overdue, and still
the wandering Jew glided about in the gloom !
At last there came a slant of wind which cleared
away the fog, and, as the vessel neared the har
bor, the customs officers came on board. Catch
ing sight of the man’s haggard look and pecu
liar gait-, they spoke so sharply to him that his
courage gave way, and, declaring his goods in
tones of terror, he Went off in a faint, and, re
taining his .rigidity, tdppled over into the of
ficer's arms. He was decently unclothed, and
he left his shirt to be shown at the Custom
House Museum ol an unappreciative country.
Warning.-—Say a “All the Year
Bound:” Many people still believe that they re
ceive warnings in dreams, and it is impossible
to rebut the arguments for such a belief, but we
may confidently assert that any general reliance
on the confused and contradictory indications
of dreams would involve the molt inconsistent
vagaries of conduct, wholly unworthy of a ra
tional being. Our reason and our dreams are
offen so hopelessly at variance that, to desert
the former for the latter, would be equivalent
to relinquishing the bright shining of the sun
in order to pursue a treacherous wi’l-o’-the
wisp. The writer once had occasion to engage
a passage for a long sea voyage, and the only
vessel avaikble at the desired time was a
steamer which had been a great favorite in her
day, but was then so old that doubts were en
tertained regarding her seaworthiness. In
spite of warnings on this point he engaged his
berth, and on that very night he had an in
tensely vivid dream of a shipwreck and drown
ing at sea. Undeterred, however, he set sail
without serious misgiving and had a most
agreeable and prosperous voyage. In this case
the dream was evidently no supernatural warn
ing,'but rather the result of the effect produced
upon the imagination by the hints thrown out
regarding the vessel’s unsea worthy character.
Presentiments of all kinds are almost invaria
bly groundless, and when on rare occasions a
presentiment is verified by the result, the ex
planation is the very simple and obvious one
that in this instance our tears correctly fore
casted the future. We fear and we hope many
things more or less probable.
“Runy” Lee.—Among the members
elect of the next Congress is one who, during
the war, narrowly escaped hanging. The gen
tleman alluded to is General W. H. F. Lee, son
of General Robert E. Lee, the leader of the Con
federate hosts, and known among his moat inti
mate friends as “Runy” Lee. He was elected
from the Alexandria district to succeed Repre
sentative Barbour. It was during the Gettys
burg campaign that he fell into the hands of the
Union troops and was sent for safe keeping to
Fortress Monroe, which was at the time under
the command oi General Butler. Not long after
Lee had been taken, word came that a certain
Union officer who had been captured by the
Confederates, was to be hanged as a spy. Gen
eral Butler was not long in making up his mind
wbai to do. A Hag of truce was immediately
sent to the prisoner’s father, who was then com
manding the forces of the enemy before Rich
mond, notifying him that if the Union man were
hung, then “ Buny ” Leo would pay the forfeit
with bis life. Accompanying the letter from
General Butler was one from “Runy” Lee
himself to his lather, in which he stated bow he
had been captured and was kept in closo con
finement, being held as hostage for a man who
had been captured by the Confederates and was
in danger of hanging. It is needless to say that
orders -were soon issued from the Confederate
headquarters removing the sentence of death
which hung over the head ot the man captured
by the Confederates. “Runy” Lee often al
ludes to the circumstance whenever he encount
ers any of the Union officers who were in charge
of him at Fortress Monroe. He now regards it
less seriously than he did at the time.
A Farwell Story.—Says the Chicago
Herald: When John V. Farwell and a promi
nent foundryman of this city met to square ac
counts for the iron in the dry goods merchant s
big building on Monroe street, a dispute arose
as to the contract price oi the iron. The foundry
man held that the price agreed upon was 3% cents
per pound, while the merchant claimed that
the contract was made on the basis of 3% cents
per pound. The difference was about $ 18,000.
The foundryman, despairing of convincing the
merchant oihis error, suggested that the dis
pute and all memoranda bearing on the ques
tion be submitted to a third party lor final de
cision.
“ But,” said Farwell, "I’m afraid that the
man you would name_ would be distasteful to
me.”
“I think not,” replied the foundryman; “ he
is a man whom you know very well.”
“ Whois he ?”
“Charley Earwell.”
John V. looked up in surprise. The propo
sition to submit to a member of his own house
a dispute involving SIB,OUO which, it decided
against him, would prove equally disastrous to
the referee, was so bold and lair that the old
merchant could do nothing else but accept it.
The foundryman presented his memoranda to
Charley, who, after a searching investigation,
decided against his brother, his firm, and him
self. Ever since then Charley has been a good
deal of an enigma to John V.
A Persian Regimenton the March.—
A Persian regiment on the march is a strange
spectacle. Every three soldiers have a donkey;
for there are no baggage-train and no commis
sariat. On this donkey is placed the worldly
wealth of its proprietors and their muskets.
Occasionally the vailed wife of a soldier also
bestrides the patient beast. The short tchi
bouque is passed Irom mouth to mouth. The
colonel’s lady travels in a light horse-httor cov
ered with scarlet cloth, and is quite concealed
from the eyes of the indiscreet. The other re
gimental ladies, closely vailed, are borne in
more modest panniers, one on either side of a
mule. The procession extends perhaps over
two miles, With long gaps between each group
of wayfarers. The only luggage consists of a
few trunks belonging to the officers, and a tew
large copper pots lor cooking purposes. Last
come the officers, chatting merrily, and smok
ing their silver water-pipes, which a ragged fel
low on a mule replenishes with tobacco and
fires with live charcoal as they are smoked out.
lhe regiment possesses no tents. It found am
ple accommodation and to spare in the cara
vanserai it left this morning, and in a similar
caravanserai eight-and-twenty miles off the
whole company will be comfortably housed be
fore sunset.
They Didn’t Eat Him—The Rev.
Thomas C. Needham, of Philadelphia, tells this
remarkable siory of his early life. He was born
in Ireland, but while quite small was kidnapped
and taken aboard of a vessel to be brought to
this country. While on the voyage a Catholic
priest tattooed a crucifix on his arm, and this
was instrumental, not long alter, in saving his
life. The vessel, instead of landing, as was ex
pected, was wrecked on the coast of Brazil, and
young Needham worked h.s way down through
South America, until .he finally fell into the
hands of the Patagonian Indians. They, as is
well known, were not averse to indulging in
human cutlets occasionally, and were partic
ularly well pleased with white meat. So Need
ham was stripped and was about to be sacri
ficed, but the Indian who was to wield the
deadly knife saw the cross on his arm and fell
back in awe, and the result was that the Indians
fell down and worshipped the boy they had in
tended to eat. The explanation of their sudden
change of programme was that a number ot
Jesuits had gone through Patagonia some years
previous, and not only escaped.being eaten, but
made a strong impression upon the Indians
with their religious" teachings.
Transplanting of Skin.—About three
month-a ago a son of Col. John G. Winter, aged
about ten years, ot Waco, Texas, was very seri
ously burned, losing all the skin on bis baek
from the top of his shoulder blades dewn to the
hips, and even part of his thighs were burned.
He has been under treatment of the most skill
ful physicians there, since. The little hero has
suffered ten thousand deaths, and one morning
the physicians in attendance concluded to try
the transplanting of skin to about eight inches
square ot the burned surface, which had, so
far failed to heal. Col. Winter submitted his
arm, from whence the cuticle was quickly re
moved and very soon the denuded surface on
the boy’s body was covered with bis father’s
skin The operation is remarkable, as this is
the largest sur.aee yet covered by such means,
oi which the books speak.
From a Railroad Point.—When the
Wisconsin Central Road was building its line to
Chicago, in passing through one of the small
Wisconsin towns the tracks were laid directly
behind a Methodist church. The Methodists
grumbled, but took no definite action in the
matter until a tank was built so close to the
church as to keep the 1 ght from the windows.
Then they drew up a petition, setting forth th®
damage that had been done, and requesting
SSOO with which to remove the church. Th®
president of the road was himself a Baptist, but
he was sorry for the Methodists, and when ho
received the petition, he thought he would se®
it he could do something lor them. In conse
quence, be forwarded the petition to F. N. Fin
ney, with the request that he look into the mat
ter and see what could be done. A. few days
later ho was startled by having the petition re
turned to him with the following suggestion in
dorsed upon the back : “They had better sell
out to the Baptists, and they can use our tank.”
A Dog Tries to Bury a Live Rabbit.
—Says the Romney (Me.) Independent: The
other day I saw a dog trying to bury a Jive rab
bit which he had caught. He held the rabbit
in his mouth its grave with hie
paws. When the gruTvWas prepared, he put
its unwilling occupant into it, covered it up
carefully, and after patting the dirt well with
his paws, retired to a little distance, watching
it. Presently bunny, doubtless thinking that
the moment of escape had arrived, arose from e
the tomb and started off on a run. The dog *
soon caught him and buried him again. Three
times the little animal resurrected itself, and
each time the dog caught and buried it, but oa
the fourth trial concluded that the rabbit was a
little too lively for a corpse, and killed it be
fore proceeding with the obsequies.
Wedding Pledges in India.—Every
twelve years in the Hindoo calendar occurs &
year during which it is held that no marriage
must take place, and accordingly within the
last few months the matrimonial market has
been unusually lively. This custom will greatly
affect the Government Registration Department,,
which is sometimes used to register curious
matrimonial provisions. Thus, in one village,
a husband undertakes by deed never to beat or
abuse his another bridegroom registers
his promise to live always w*.th his father-in-law
or pay a large sum of meney in default, and in
another case a low-class Hindoo, who is the son.
of a second husband, binds himself not to oc
cupy such seats at marriage ceremonies as ar®
intended for those of his class who are sons by
first huebands. •
Frying
the operation is usually done in this country,,
constitutes the basis of American simplicity in.
the culinary art, and all physicians are agreed
that probably'no other single factor is so prom
inent in the production ot our national disease,
dyspepsia, as this. I do not desire to be un
derstood as condemning frying or any oi the
modifications of this process of cooking, when
properly done. On the contrary, I think it is
an excellent method of preparing meats, fish
and many vegetables for the table. But how
rarely is the American frying-pan anything else
than a utensil for slowly stowing an article in
grease. Saturated and permeated with fat, the
fried article of food becomes an indigestible
mass, incapable of acting as an aliment.
Horses of Various Countries.—Prus
sia is said to possess altogether 2,313,817 horses,
or 97 horses for 1,060 inhabitants. According to
the census oi 1873, the German Empire con
tained altogether 3,352,231 horses, or 82 horses
per 1,000 inhabitants. Austria-Hungary pos
sesses 3,500,060 horses, or 99 per 1,000 inhabit
ants. Hungary alone has 2,000,000. Franco
has altogether 2,882,850 horses and 300,000
mules, or 78 horses per 1,009 inhabitants. Italy
(in 18797, 615,457 horses, beside 293,868 mules;
Spain (in 1865), 680,373, beside 2,319,846 mules
and asses; Russia (in 1872), 21,570,000 horses;
United States ot America, 9,504,'J00; Canada,
2,624,000; Argentine Republic, 4,000,000; Uru
guay, 1,000,000; Australia-Jin 1871), 3J4,000.
Eaten Alive by Wolves. — Frank
Holmes and Joe Armstrong, of Pentwater,
Michigan, had been hunting in the forests near
the village several weeks. On Saturday night
they found wolf tracks numerous in the vicinity
of their traps. Holmes, while fixing the traps,
cut an artery in his leg, and Armstrong started
for town to procure a physician, after making
the wounded man as comfortable as possible.
Two hours later Armstrong and assistance
returned to find nothing but a few bloody bones
and clothing, and the carcases oi a half dozen
wolves. Holmes had fought desperately for his
life, but the beasts overcame him. The bones
were packed in a box and taken to Pentwater
for burial.
A Little Game of the Diplomats.—
Washington diplomates are said to keep trom
using any of their annual salaries by occasion
ally selling oat their furniture and wines, which
they are allowed to import free of duty. On®
minister says he has held two auctions since he
has been in Washington, and his profits were
enough to pay his house rent for a year each
time. Whenever the ministers, or some of them
at least, import their wines, they bring over
enough to supply them until they go again, and
furnish a small store besides. They dispose of
the residue at auction at the end ot the season,
and make enough to pay for the whole outfit.
Keep Up the Exercise. — “The man
who will make it a rule to walk fivo miles every
day will live to a strong and wholesome old
age,” says an English writer. He speaks the
old, familiar truth, that outdoor exercise makes
the strong stronger and the sick well. A pedes
trian trip m this bracing weather will give one
a grateful sense of physical exaltation. The
blood dances through the veins, the cheeks tin
gle and there is a rare pleasure in life and move
ment. Take the most confirmed pessimist for a
flve-mile tramp on a zero day like those just
passed and ho will return a confirmed optimist.
Some of onr most prominent citizens
have been cured of rheumatism of years stand
ing by that wonderful pain-banishor, Salvation 1
Oil. Sold by all druggists for twenty-five cents
a bottle. '
Nervous Headache and Sleep. —A
scientific writer says: “Sleep, if taken at tho
right moment, will prevent an attack of ner
vous headache. If the subjects of such head
aches will watch the symptoms of its coming,
they can notice that it begins with a feeling of
weariness or heaviness. This is the time a
sleep of an hour, or even two, as nature guides,
will effectually prevent headache. If not taken
just then it will bo too late, for, after the attack
is fairly under way, it is impossible to get sleep
till far "into tho night, perhaps.”
Tortoise Shell. — lhe tortoise shell
of commerce is derived from the beautiful
horny plates of the hawk’s-bill or imbricated
turtle, though from those animals only that
weigh at least one hundred and sixty pounds,
as the plates are otherwise too thin. The great
tortoise-shell marts are now Singapore and Can
ton; but it was consumed in ancient Rome in
considerable quantities—even the door-posts of
the rich being inlaid with it, and the carapace
used as a cradle and a bath-tub lor children
and as a shield for warriors.
Italian Street Cleaning.—Tn Italian
cities the cleaning ot streets is sold to tho high
est bidder at a-public auction. Tho bidder puts
every four hundred yards of street in charge of
one man and a push cart, who is kept constantly
at work from sunrise to sunset and in the twi
light. At intervals large carts go around and
receive the contents of the push carts. The dirt
is taken to a factory, where it is pressed into
blocks of about a cubic yard in dimensions.
These are placed on the market, and are sold
for fertilizing purposes.
Mutually Surprised.—Not long ago
a widow and widower near Indiana, Pa., con
soled each other by marrying, and a lew weeks
afterward they drove to town. While the hus
band was doing some business, tho wife step
ped around to the undertaker's to pay for his
services at her late husband’s funeral. Th©
bill had scarcely been receipted when the hus
band put in an appearance and proceeded to
pay the undertaker for services at his late wife’s
funeral. It is said that they were mutually sur
prised.
' Want of Sleep/
Is sending thousands annually to the
insane asylum ; and the doctors say this
trouble is alarmingly on the increase.
The usual remedies, while they may
give temporary relief, are likely to do
more harm than good. What is needed
is an Alterative and
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla is incomparably W
the best. It corrects those disturbances
in the circulation which cause, sleepless,
ness, gives increased vitality, and re.
stores the nervous system to a healthful
condition.
Bev. T. G. A. Cot 4, agent of the Mass. , ,
Home Missionary Society, writes that ■
his stomach was out of order, his sleep ’
very often disturbed, and some im
purity of the blood manifest; but that
a perfect cure was obtained by the use
«f Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, £■ i>
Frederick W. Pratt, 424 Washington
street, Boston, writes: “My daughter
was prostrated with nervous debility.
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla restored her to
health.”
William F. Bowker, Erie, Pa., was V
cured of nervousness and sleeplessness J
by taking Ayer’s Sarsaparilla for about "
two months, during which time his
weight increased over twenty pounds.
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla,
PREPARED BY
Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co./ Lowell, Mass. i|
Bold by all Druggists. Price $1; six