New York dispatch. [volume], March 20, 1887, Page 6, Image 6

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

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6
th£ patter of the rain.
AN OLD FAVORITE POEM.
When the humid ehadows hover
Over afl the sUrry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears;
What a joy to press the pillow
Of a cottage chamber bed,
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead.
Every tinkle on the shingles
Wakes an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start;
And a thousand recollections
Weave their bright hues into woof,
Ab I listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in fancy comes my mother,
As she used, long years agone,
To regard her darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn.
Oh I I see her bending o'er me,
As I list to the retrain
Which is played upon the shinglee
By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,
With her wings and wavy hair.
And my bright-eyed cherub brother—
A serene, angelic pair —
Glide around my wakeful pillow,
'tyith their smile, or mi!d reproof,
As I listen to the murmurs
Of U*o rain upon the roof.
And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes del clous blue;
I forget while gazing on her
That her heart was all untrue.
3 remember but to love her
With a rapture kin to pain,
While my heart’s quick pulses vibrate
To the patter oi the rain.
There is naught in art’s bravuras
That can work with such a spell
3u the spirit’s.pure, deep fountains
Whence the holy passions well,
As that melody of Nature,
That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
A (WAN! OF THREE.
BY THOMAS KEYWORTH.
CHAPTER I.
A man’s will.
Lumley, the well-known auctioneer, and his
friend Wybert Moss were talking about John
Dawson, and they agreed that he was one of the
beet men in Swarfton, and they rejoiced at his
prosperity in life.
"He has nothing to trouble him,” said Lum
ley.
“And plenty of money,” replied Moss,
" which is more than I can say about mysell.”
" The same old tale,” was Lumley’s laughing
answer, and he hurried away.
But John Pawson had a good deal to trouble
him just then, as he often said to himself when
he was alone; for he had formed the habit of
speaking his thoughts, and sometimes did bo
even in company.
He entered Burtonford’s bank when he was a
hoy, and was always a favorite with the late Mr.
Anthony Burtontord. Nobody was surprised
■when John Pawson became a partner; it was in
accordance with the fitness of things. But what
surprised the public was that Eric Burtonford,
the banker’s nephew, was sent adrift.
" 1 would rather be a customer at the bank
than a clerk there,” was what Lumley said to
Wybert Moss. “ Old Burtonford is not the best
Man in the world to get on with. His temper
is all thick and thin. Hie good qualities are in
great lumps; but before you know where you
are, be is raging and storming like all that.”
Wybert Moss said that ho knew very little
about bankers, but he would take his inform
ant’s word for it.
" Always trust the auctioneer,” said Lumley.
“Certainly,” replied Wybert. "I will trust
him with my debts, if he will take charge of
them.”
Then there was a laugh, and the two parted.
The general opinion in Swarlton was that An
thony Burtonlord had quarreled with his neph
ew, ah d that the uncle’s temper and Eric’s
had been both to blame. But Erie went
away from Swarlton, and did not return even
When Mrs. Burtonlord, the banker’s wile, died.
" Eric’s in London, painting pictures,” said
the gossips, “ and he ought to have come to the
funeral, though be is not own nephew to Mrs.
Burtonford; but if uncle’s wife is not kinship
enough, the world is coming to a pretty state.”
Bo Eric was blamed lor his omission of duty.
But the banker said nothing. He never men
tioned his nephew’s name, and never allowed
anybody else to do so in hie hearing. It was
usually thought, however, that John Pawson
was an exception to this rule, and the conjec
ture was right; he knew why Eric had been sent
away, and why ho did not appear at the fun
eral.
Then Mr. Burtonford died very suddenly,
and rumor was busy again. Eric would be sure
to come this time, and he would remain at
Bwarfton, and take his uncle’s place at the bank.
I’ioture-painting was all very well in its way,
hut it was not reasonable to suppose that it
could ever be permitted to interfere with a
' bank. Moreover, there was Edith Markham,
the late Mrs. Burtonford s niece. Everybody
had always said Edith and b rio were intended
for each other, and everybody felt that it would
he a great shame if the general expectation’were
thwarted.
But the funeral took place, and Eric was not
there.
Then by degrees the truth leaked out about
the banker’s will. Popular feeling became
divided at once.
"Erie Burtonford is no good,” said the spokes
man of one party. “ There is something under
the surface which we have never seen. His uncle
has not left him a brass farthing. Why, the
worst case I ever heard ot before was not as bad
as that. To be cut off with a shilling is rather
still, but to be cut off without anything beats
the record in this kind of business. The banker
has left all he had to Edith Markham, but if
over she looks at Eric, or speaks to him, she is
to lose her fortune.”
" You are partly correct,” said the spokes
woman on ths other side of public opinion.
"Some of your facts are wrong, and your in
ferences are completely so. We all know that
Mr. Bnrtonfqrd was passionate and headstrong.
My opinion is that Brio only said his soul was
his own, and his uncle could not forgive him.
But the will does not declare that Edith is to
lose her fortune if she speaks to Eric; she is
not to do so without the consent of John Paw
son.”
Perhaps it is true that rumor is seldom alto
gether wrong, and never altogether right. The
Will ot the banker was that after certain legacies
had been paid, including a large one to John
Pawson, the residue should be held in trust for
Edith Markham. But there was this strange
condition in the will: If Edith, during the time
that she remained unmarried, had any inter
view or held any communicat on with Eric
Burtonlord, except with the consent and in the
presence of John Pawson, she should forfeit
her share of the property, and it should be held
in trust for Robert Lumley, auctioneer, and
Wybert Moss, of no particular calling. “I have
no liking for these men, but they are both keen
enough to look well after their own interests. I
cast no reflection upon John Pawson, but I
would rather not leave him the task of disin
heriting my wife’s niece, should there be.need
lor it’” Bo said the banker.
Mr. Burtonford had written his own will, but
it was properly signed and witnessed, and was
perfectly legal, in spite of many strange remarks
and unlawyerlike phrases.
Both Lumley and Moss knew about the
hanker’s use ot their names, and often wondered
whether they would benefit by this eccentricity,
or remain always mere watchers, waiting to see
if the course ot events would produce any
Change in the attitude ot Edith and Eric toward
sach other. As far as they knew, Eric had not
been near Swarlton, and Edith had not seen
him anywhere else. Sometimes they asked
John Pawson about the affair, and he always an
swered in his calm, serious manner, that the
provisions ot Mr. Burtonford's will would be
strictly carried out, but, as far as he knew,
nothing had happened which called for inter/
ference.
“ John Pawson will do the square thing,”
said Lumley to Moss. “My fear is that those
two did not care as much lor each other as peo
ple said.”
“It is awkward,” replied Moss. •• As a rule,
a will like Burtonford's would kindle love where
it never before existed. There is nothing like
opposition lor strengthening affection. But, as
usual, the one exception to the rule keeps me
poor.”
* » » • * *
John Pawson often talked to himself aboet
Eric and Edith. ’He had known them since
they were children, and had believed that their
fondness for each other would ripen into true
and lasting love.
“1 know that Mr. Bartonford would have
been pleased it he thought that Edith eared lor
me,” John murmured with a blurt, “ that is
impossible. I am sure she liked Erie very
much, yet she never mentions him. Ho was
fond ot her, too, and yet he has kept aleef. I
sent him word about his uncle’s will, and he
acknowledged my letter in a very manly way,
but 1 have heard nothing since. He has been
badly treated if he was innocent; yet I cannot
see any explanation of the affair, unless he took
the notes.”
Then he reviewed again for the hundredth
time, what the banker had told him about the
quarrel with Eric.
“ I was in my library at home, John, and I
bad ten notes on the table; three were fifty
pound notes, and the other seven were ten
pound notes. I wanted them for a particular
purpose. I had just finished entering the num
bers in my diary when Eric came in. I told
ibirn to sit down, for I was busy. I wrote up
my diary, then I was wanted in the drawing
room for a minute. I just glanced over the ta
ble, and left everything as it was. Perhaps I
was absent five minutes. When I returned, 1
found Eric seated where I had left him. Then
1 wrote a letter, and I took up the notes to en
close them. It was a private affair, John; I
took up the notes, and the three fifties were
missing. Eric declared that nobody had en
tered the room during my absence, and that he
had not moved from his chair. lam sure no
body had been in but himself between the time
when 1 entered the numbers and the time when
1 went to the drawing-room. No window was
open, and there was no fire. I told him he must
turn out his pockets, and he refused point
blank. Then there was a scon®, T sent for
J£di th, and told everything to hex.
"Again I asked him to turn out his pockets,
but ho still refused. Bo I ordered him out of
the house, and told him never to show his face
in Bwarlton again, or I would give him in charge
of the police. lam glad I always made it clear
to him and Edith that there must be no billing
and cooing between them, Edith is too good
for him. What a wile she will make, John, in a
few years ! Bhe is young yet, I know, bnt if she
had a husband of steadiness and experience—a
man like you—it would not matter. lam glad
there was no billing and cooing between her
and Eric.”
John Pawson had bis doubts about the bank
er’s surmise respecting whathe called billing
and cooing. Edith lived with the Burtonfords,
and had lived with them all her lie. Erie lived
with a married sister, whoso husband was an
artist. He was three years older than Edith,
and was just twenty-one when his disgrace
came upon him.
“ These young people cared more for each
other than Bnrtonford thought,” said John
Pawson to himself. "Has the trouble killed
their love or are they waiting ior better times ?
I do not see where the better times are to come
from, unless everything about those notes is
cleared up. Could Mr. Burtonford be mis
taken ? The only time ho ever spoke harshly
to me was when I suggested that.”
Thus John Pawson had reviewed the matter
hundreds of times, but his perplexity remained.
Then, two years after the banker’s death,, he
received a letter from Edith, who was staying
with some friends in Scotland, and who wrote
asking that he would arrange for her to meet
Erie, as she could clear up the mystery which
had perplexed them so long. She said :
" Tell Erie, when you write to him, please,
that everything can be explained, Let me
know when the interview is to be, and wbere.
I wish to observe tbe’-conditions which my dear
uncle laid down, but Eric must not remain un
der an unjust suspicion any longer.” I
It was an embarrassing position for John '
Pawson.
He wished that Edith had been more ex
plicit. From what he knew about her, he did
not think she was likely to raise hopes which
would not bo fulfilled. But how could she ex
plain anything?
He wrote to Eric, as Edith had desired, and
received a prompt reply by telegraph, saying
that he should bo in Swarlton that night. Eric
saw John Pawson, but John could not explain
anything.
"We must wait till Edith comes, Eric,” he
said, “ and you must not see her except in my
presence. Lumley and Moss will not miss a
chance.”
Eric consented. He met Lumley and Moss
the next day, and those two worthies seemed
afterward to be in better spirits than usual.
“ To be, or not to be ?” said Lumley.
" Thai’s the question,” replied Moss.
CHAPTER 11.
A woman’s way.
Edith Markham could not remember either
her lather or mother. Her mother was dead,
and her father was married again and lived
abroad. That was all the information vouch
safed to her.
Among Mr. Burtonford’s papers was one
which was addressed to Edith, in the banker’s
handwriting, with this instruction: “ To be giv
en to her at my death, tut if that should hap
pen before she is twenty-one, she must keep
this without opening it until that time. It is
about her mother and father, and she need be
in no hurry to learn the particulars.”
She was nineteen when her uncle died, and
the executors, John Pawson and Bardsley, the
solicitor, gave the paper to her, according to
the instructions which the dead man had left.
" There is a good deal of writing there,” said
John. •• Would you like to keep it, or shall I
take care of it for you until you are twenty
one ?”
Edith thanked him, but kept it herself. The
strange misfortune which had happened to Eric
and the death other aunt, then the death ot her
uncle, had crushed her spirit. Bhe could not
help wondering whether her mother had also
been unhappy. But she placed the paper in
her desk and gave herself over to sad thoughts.
When would the mystery concerning Eric be
cleared up ? Cleared up it must be, she felt
sure. Then she read a note from him, which
ho had sent to her at the time ot the trouble:
“ My Dear Edith: There is a terrible mistake
somewhere, but my uncle is sure to discover it,
and he will be very sorry. I might have turned
out my pockets to paeily him, but I had all your
sweet little letters with me, and he would have
.recognized the writing. That would have made
him very angry. I shall go to London, to liad
bnrn’s, and try what I can do at painting. My
slater Rose will hear from me constantly.
“ Ever your own Erne.”
Radburn was an artist. He had often spoken
encouraging words to Eric, and tried to prevail
on him to give himself up to art.
The years passed away and Edith did not see
Eric. The discovery which was to clear him
was not made. Still Edith did not doubt him.
From Rose she heard about his welfare, and
that was all. She set herself to wonder and to
wait. If Eric had presented himself, she would
have risked the loss of fortune; but he kept si
lent and aloof, so she could only shut up her
sorrow in her heart and pray lor patience to en
dure it. She kept in the old house, and had for
a companion the widow ot a clergyman, whom
John Pawson recommended.
But Edith spent her twenty-first birthday in
Scotland, and it was immediately afterward that
she wrote the letter asking for an interview with
Eric.
During these three years Eric had worked
hard in London, and his friends spoke favora
bly oi his chances in the keen competition of art.
He told Radburn about his quarrel with his
nucle and the cause of it, and enjoyed the hon
est sympathy of a true friend. But this Eric
was not the Eric of yore. He had a sad look,
and went about the work of life as if his heart
was broken. His uncle’s cruel will was a sad
blow to him, and he resolved that unless his
name was cleared he would not see Edith
again.
He never forgot her birthday. His sister
Rose had written to say she was away, and he
was wondering where in Scotland she was visit
ing and what kind of birthday she had spent,
when John Lawson’s letter came. It was like
the sight of a journey’s end to a weary pilgrim.
Eric did not realize before how much he had
had been suffering, and for the first time since
his sorrow began he wept bitterly.
•«-* » * *
The interview was to take place in John Paw
son’s private room at the bank. Erie was there
long before the time appointed, and the two
men chatted about various subjects until Edith
came. It was a strange meeting for these two,
who had not seen each other for three years.
John Pawson could not help watching them,
and he saw the light ot love in their eyes, and
knew what the end would be, whether the
proofs were satisfactory or not.
“Now to business,” said John, placing a
chair tor Edith by the side of his table and seat
ing himself. Eric sat near to her and gazed
wistlully into her face.
“ First of all, can you tell me the numbers of
those notes which disappeared ?” Edith asked.
“ Certainly,” was John’s reply. “ I have had
the book brought in on purpose, and here it is,
opened at the right place.”
He referred to the open page and told her the
numbers.
Then Edith opened a small satchel which she
had brought w.th her and took from it two
packets. The men watched her with breath
less attention; but she calmly placed the satch
el on the ground beside her, and then laid the
larger packet on the table. It was a roll of
manuscript, tied with string.
The other packet she opened, and produced
three bank-notes.
“These are three notes for fifty pounds each,”
she said, “and the numbers are the same.”
“ Where did you find them ?” John and Eric
asked together.
“ inside that roll o' manuscript,’’she replied.
“What manuscript is it?” John Pawson
asked.
“It is the paper which my uncle left for mo,”
said Edith, " and which I was not to open until
I reached the age of twenty-one. It was written
by my mother, but toward the end there are sev
eral pages which my uncle added. My mother
was not happy. I think, from what I have read
there, that my uncle loved her very much at
one time; but she preferred my father, and
married him. She did not live long, but died
when I was a baby. Then my father married
somebody else, and I am afraid he received a
considerable amount of money from my uncle.
But he died three years ago, though I did not
know at the time. On the very day when Elio’s
trouble came my uncle received news of my fa
ther's death, and an abusive letter from the
widow, saying that his debts amounted to two
hundred and twenty pounds, and she said my
uncle must send that sum, and send it in nates,
not by check ar draft. My uncle wrote, ‘This
shall bo my last communication with a proud
and extravagant woman. She shall have the
money, and then good-by. This Is intended
only for your eye, Edith.' ”
She did not say that her uncle also begged
her to be warned by her mother’s fate, and net
allow her affections to be won by any young
fellow who cared a great deal more about pic
tores than about business; but she was to value
at their true worth the qualities ot a noble and
honorable man, who never failed to do his du
ty, though the man might not have youth on
his side.
“ How earns the bank-notes in there ?” Eric
said, like a man who could scarcely believe his
senses.
John Pawsen was examining the notes.
“They have been gummed er pasted to some
thing,” he remarked.
“ Yes,” replied Edith ; “ they were stuck to
the back of one ot these sheets.”
Then she opened the roll and shewed where
she had discovered them.
“Illis is my theory,” she continued: “My
uncle gummed the letter he had received, and
fastened it to the last sheet. Here it is. Some
of the gum must have dropped on the baek of
this other sheet, and then it must have come in
contact with the notes, and three of them ad
hered without him being aware of it He was
agitated and angry at the time, and the manu
script was never opened again, for the date on
the corner is that same day when Eric’s trouble
came.”
No other explanation suggested itself, er was
necessary, but the notes endpapers were exam
ined time after time.
“Thank God for this groat mercy!” said
Eric. J '
“Amen 1” replied John Pawson, devoutly.
Edith was silent, but the tears were falling
down her cheeks.
Eljc kissed her again and again.
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 20, 1887.
John Paweon buaied himself with the notes,
and there was no atom of jealousy about him.
“They must marry at once,” be said aloud ;
then be checked himself and looked toward the
lovers to see whether they had heard him or
not.
Yes, they had heard him. there was no doubt
about that, so he made a clean breast of it, and
said:
“This makes no difference to the will. You
must not see each other before marriage, except
in my company, or your uncle’s fortune will be
lost. Lumley and Moss will be on the lookout,
I know. I have often wondered what people
say to each other when they are lovers, and fate
has ordered it so that 1 shall have to know ; but
you must bear my presence as well as you can,
and lor all our sakes make your wooing short.”
“ We most not tax John Pawson’s patience
too much, must we, Edith?” was what Eric
said, taking her hand in his ; then he whispered
something more.
Edith whispered something in reply, and then
Eric told John that he must bear with them a
while, but they would not trouble him long.
* ♦ * * X
Robert Lumley and Wybert Moss were pres
ent when Edith and Eric were married. John
Pawson gave the bride away, and lladburn bad
come from London to be Eric’s best man.
“ That’s all over,” said Lumley. “It must
have been a queer courtship. John Paweon
was with them every time they met. A decent
man is John, bnt not tbo one I should pick to
be with mb, if I was sweethoarting.”
“ One’s .as good as another,” replied Moss
dolefully. “I feel thousands of pounds poorer
than I did.”
“ Going?” said Lumley. x -
“ Going,” replied Moss.
" Gone 1” they both exclaimed, and there was
not a smile between them.
THE BW OrnCOAT.
BY 0. W. 0.
Wilhelm Schulze was clerk to an advocate in
Berlin. His income was naturally not very
brilliant; in spite of this however he had great
hopes ot one day becoming something more
than a mere clerk. With talents and business
capabilities such as his, Wilhelm felt sure of
meeting with success, and believed at least that
after the death ot his chief he would succeed to
his business. But this event was as yet very
remote, and Wilholm’s salary was only a poor
one. Thanks however to the excellent economy
of the adorable Mrs. Minona Schulze, the pair
were enabled to live in fairly comfortable cir
cumstances, without contracting loans in ad
vance.
They were noted for their great regularity in
all matters pertaining to their household; every
thing, even to the little shirt, etc., necessary to
meet a certain domestic contingency, should it
come about, had been calculated for. Un
fortunately, in this respect they were doomed to
disappointment, for no such happiness as the
welcoming of a little stranger was given to
them. They had been married twenty years,
and were still childless.
In spite of the wisest and most economical
management of the system of clothfng, Wilhelm
was compelled to make a suit of clothes last
him four years. Two years he wore it right
side out, for the other two it was turned. But
alter this lapse of time the old clothes were not
put aside; they had yet to become in various
ways adjuncts to the housewife’s wardrobe.
They were used to repair petticoats for herself
and dressing-gowns lor her husband, for which
purpose no fixed item was ever named in the
Bchulzes’ housekeeping accounts.
For an overcoat Wilhelm wore the same gar
ment both in Summer and Winter, only with
this difference, that for the Winter months he
had a valuable fur collar which be had received
from a well-to-do relative as a wedding-present,
and this was fastened upon the proper collar ot
the overcoat, presenting a respectable and
Winterly appearance.
Hia last overcoat Wilhelm had worn for six
years. The Autumn had already come, and
the cold October wind cut through the thread
bare coat to the clerk’s very bones.
One morning, as the happy pair sat over their
coffee, the question of overcoat or no overcoat
was earnestly discussed. The clothing fund
was thoroughly examined, and they found that
under the heading of “Overcoats” there was
already a sum of thirty-six marks available tor
a purchase. This had been accnmnlaling for
the last six years by means of a monthly instal
ment of the sum of sixpence.
Wilhelm Schulze took up the newspaper which
he bud brought home with him on the previous
evening from hie office, and ran quickly through
the list of advertisements. A smile ot satisfac
tion and joy lighted up his countenance as he
handed the paper to his wife, pointing with his
finger to an advertisement.
“ Yes, yes,” said Minona—“ that is not dear,
twenty to forty marks. Yon are greatly in need
of one; if you lay out twenty-five marks, you
will still have eleven to put by for the next
one.”
Wilhelm put on his old overcoat, upon which
the winter collar already appeared—presumably
for the last time—and hurried as fast as his legs
would carry him to make the important pur
chase before his business hour arrived, holding
as be went the thirty-six marks in a convulsively
clenched hand in his pocket.
After about tan minutes’ sharp walking, he
came to a shop over the door of which glittered,
in large letters, the name “ Aaron Meyer.” In
wardly agitated, his cheeks glowing like fire
and his eyes shining brightly, Wilhelm en
tered the shop. A portly personage stepped
forward and introduced himself as the pro
prietor, Aaron Meyer, and inquired, with a
friendly smile, in what way he could serve his
customer.
" I would very much like one of your cheap
overcoats, Mr. Meyer,” panted the clerk, in an
agitated manner, overcome by his haste.
Aaron Meyer observed his customer with
coining eyes, and said :
“ I think I have something that will suit you
admirably. “ Sally,” he called to a young man
who was sitting sleepily on the counter, “ bring
me that overcoat which was returned this morn
ing—Aß 25. The banker Cohen returned this
overcoat this morning,” said Meyer, turning to
Schulze. “He wore it only one day; he says
that it doos not fit him properly in the shoul
ders. Now is your opportunity, should it suit
you, to purchase a splendid article, and cheap,
too. Yon are lucky, sir I"
Sally now advanced with the desired coat.
Welhelm had hardly had time to get his arms
fairly into the sleeves before Aaron Meyer
called out:
“ Wonderful—it fits like a glove 1” and Sally
shouted, in estacies of delight:
“ Excellent, excellent! Could not have fitted
better if made to order 1”
The poor clerk wiped the perspiration from
his brow. The cries of admiration from the
pair who stood by greatly increased his agita
tion. Meyer pushed him before the looking
glass. Schulze’s heart throbbed wildly. What
a sight! The first new overcoat tor six years 1
He turned to the right, to the loft, and then
swung himself round quickly and looked in
the glass over his shoulder. He could scarcely
believe his eyes—the overcoat fitted him splen
didly 1
" The price ?” he asked, at last, and waited
fo-r the answer with an anxious face.
“Thirty-two marks,” answered the outfitter.
“ Thirty-two marks !”
Wilhelm Schulze grew pale. Thirty-two—
that was seven marks more than Minona had
reckoned. But the. splendid overcoat 1 Wil
helm crossed bis arms and stepped backward
before the looking-glass. He had already ac
customed himself to the thought of the posses
sion of snch a treasure. He placed both hands
in the pockets. AU the blood in his veins seem
ed to rush to his heart at once. He felt some
object in the right-hand outside pocket—he
seized it. It was a pocket-book—he believed it
was—a well filled pocket-book, too.
“ Banker Cohen sent it back—wore it only
one day,” rushed through his brain.
“ How much did you say the price was ?” he
stammered.
‘•Thirty-five marks,” replied Aaron Meyer.
"Thirty-five marks? You said just now ”
“ Liston, my friend,” interrupted the outfitter;
“it happens that I have already promised the
overcoat to one of my friends. If it is too dear
for you, look out another; there ore plenty more
there, and cheaper, too.”
The clerk passed his hand through his hair;
he had just felt the book in the pocket.
“ No, no,” gasped Schluze; “ I will take it—it
suits me. Here is the money.’'
With a trembling hand he paid the thirty
five marks, and then, in bis haste and excite
ment, left behind him his old overcoat and the
valuable fur collar, and hurried from the shop
to his home, clutching all the way with his right
hand the pocket wherein the supposed treasure
lay.
Panting, he rushed so abruptly into the room
that Mrs. Minona, who was industriously en
gaged in endeavoring to turn one of her hus
band’s old velveteen waistcoats into a covering
for a hat, was so frightened that she stuck the
needle into her knee.
“For heaven’s sake, Wilhelm, tell me what
has happened I Has any one robbed you ?” she
asked.
Wilhelm Schulze did not answer. Exhausted,
he sank into a chair and gasped for breath. A
few miantes passed thus, and then he sprang
up, rushed to the deer, locked and bolted it.
“ What ia the matter ?” oried Minona, viewing
her husband with anxious eyes, and then she
observed the new overcoat. “Ah,” said she,
sitting down by him, “ the new overcoat per
haps 1”
a Wilhelm Schulee, having partially recovered
his usual composure, now drew forth the pock
et-book, and, in hurried words, imparted the
great secret to his wife.
“ But is not that a crime ?” she broke in.
“ Nonsense !" replied ho; “ I have bought the
overcoat with all that is on and in it, and paid
for it. The rleh banker can endure the loss,
and we can well use the money.”
“How mart is it, then?” inquired his wife
eomewhat curiously.
Wilhelm Schulze opened the pocket-bosk,
which to him looked already old and worn out;
but it was manliest that it was lull of some
thing. With trembling bands he proceeded to
untold the contents, and in imagination even
now saw hundred-mark notes clearly Before
him. His breathing nearly ceased from his ex
traordinary agitation.
Abe, what a bitter deception. It was not
bank notes, but a hundred copies ot the same
advertisement which Schulze and his wife had
read that morning over their coffee, viz:
“Selling off! Selling off! Aaron Meyer is
selling off twenty-five thousand splendid over
coats at the ridiculously cheap price of twenty
to forty marks. Come, see, and buy 1”
YK WIMIBWHEEL
BY E. P. P.
My grandmother had a habit of talking to
herself, now that she had no one else to talk to.
She had been a famous talker in her time, as
my mother well remembers.
Ah, but they are good lor nothing, these girls’
They cannot spin; they can only knit and sew a
little, and it is not nice sewing at all.
She was moving up and down with an old
style spinning-wheel. One hand would give the
wheel a twirl, sharp and strong, and the other
held out well from the body moved up the spin
dle, which drew the roll of wool from her hand
and wound it on itself as yarn. Then back she
stepped deftly, drawing the roll to make the
yarn even and fine. Now another twirl at the
wheel, and then forward to the spindle as be
fore. That indeed was art, and that indeed was
a woman. All day long, forward, march 1 Back
ward, march I The wheel roared and groaned
with weariness. The spindle buzzed, and bizz
ed, and gradually grew bigger with yarn.
By and by came the reel. Have you ever seen
a reel ? What shall we do with such ignorance ?
But tho reel and my grandmother were one.
Deftly tying one end of the spindle full of yarn
to the vim, she twirled it with all her might. It
flew round and round, and the yarn flew off the
spindle and on to the reel.
All this while her cap-strings flew out vigor
ously; they were purple Strings On a white cap.
My grandmother was tall. She was made to
command. There <tvas not a crook in her, ex
cept—yes, her nose; that was a real Roman, with
a*trifle of addition.
No, they are good for nothing but' to spend
money. Now, when I married Salmon I mar
ried him to help him, and I did it. Wo paid
for the farm together. What ails this roll ? I
believe there is a witch in it. And she stopped
to pick a burr out that the carder had careless
ly failed to remove.
Grandmother, I said, do you believe in
witches? I had come in without being seen—
a regiment could march in with that wheel
whirring and singing, and not be heard.
Witches, said my grandmother ; I have no
call to disbelieve them. Does not the Bible
speak of the witch of Endor? and I have seen
a witch. Oh, please, said I, tell me all about
it. Was it a woman witch or a man witch, and
was she on a broomstick ?
Who said it was a she or a he at all? It
was neither, tor what I know, bnt just an it.
And my grandmother tried to look sharp at
me. It came in at that door, when it was wide
open, one day m April, and I was here spin
ning. It danced and it whirled, and it flew
across the floor, and it threw its arms out at
me, and flung bunches of dry leaves at me and
about the room. Bless me, said I, but you
can’t scare me, and 1 went for it with the
broomstick, and then it flew for the chimney
and went up, and took halt the fire with it.
80, so, that was my witch ; but I hit it with the
broomstick as it went.
Then I knew that a little whirlwind had come
in the door with its arms full of dry leaves, and
had been drawn to to the fire-place by the
draught, and had gone up tho chimney. But I
said: So, then, grandmother, it was you that
rode the broomstick ?
But she was back again to her wheel, and
once more talking to herself: No! They be
lieve nothing in these days. They soon doubt
the story of Samson and of Johah and oi Elijah
going up in fire. Perhaps it was some poor
soul that chanced in, and went up in my fire.
How should I know? Ah! ah! but he needn’t
take the fire with him. Maybe a poor lost soul.
Ah! ah! And for a minute tho wheel went
slower, and she said very softly: Well, for my
part, they may all go up. If I had my way, I’d
let them all out to-morrow. I’d sick ’em. They
might have another chance, for what I care—a
dozen of ’em. Poor things! no doubt some of
them only needed a little love and comfort (and
she looked at her soft rolls as much as to say:
Ah! they had no comforts, those poor, lost
souls, no; but I would like to spin all my life
for them. But, she said, I suppose the Lord
knows best (only she didn’t think He did).
She would have had every soul in sheol out,
and every one fed and clothed, and comforted
and loved, and made something of. For my
part, she said, I could never see the use ot so
much misery. And tears as big as your small
glass agates, my boy, rolled down her cheeks.
Now her wheel stopped, and she went to a
great pile of stockings, and mittens, and com
forts, end all sorts ot warm things, and she
said: These mittens are for you, and those
three pairs of socks. And here is a long wrap
for your neck. Blue and white it was, and oh,
so soft. And then she put her hand on my
head and said, remember, Paul, one thing,
you old grandmother hopes you will never be
unkind to any creature in all your life. Love!
that is the thing! Yes, that is what does it!
Love will get love, and when you have got that
there is no more to get. The Lord bless my
precious boy and keep him pure.
I did not move. I wish I need never have
moved. Ah, but what a feeling that was; it
was like—no, it was not like anything else.
Something went slowly all through me, begin
ning at my head and spreading through my
limbs and bodv, and I felt, but said nothing.
Now, 1 cannot be bad if I would. No, I cannot.
Perhaps she never left me after that, for to-day
—and it is nigh forty years since—l feel that
something. Ah, and I wish everybody, and
especially every boy, might feel that which I
felt. There are so many who never do feel it,
and never know what it is to be loved, and
blessed—only everybody wants them out of the
way, the brats, and God, too, they teach, wants
the poor sinners out of the way. And so it is
all cursing and pushing for room, and no grand
mothers at all
When the June days come, and sometimes
earlier, she would have her wheel out under the
trees. Ido not know but yon have seen a more
beautiful thing—indeed, I do not know what
you have seen—but the finest for me was when
the white apple blossoms came down in show
ers and lained all about my grandmother’s
white head. Then sometimes she would stop
her forward march and look up, one finger on
the wheel and two fingers holding the roll to
the spindle—for why should prayer break the
thread of work ?—and the shower gently touch
ing her lips with pink-white messages of love.
She would say aloud : “ Our Father who art in
Heaven, hallowed be Thy name ! Thy kingdom
come ! Thy will be done on earth as in the heav
ens. Give us this day our daily breadJ Forgive us
our trespasses as we forgive!” Forward march !
Backward march ! Why should we ask God
any such thing as that ? Pish ! but it would go
hard with us—“ as we forgive.” And there is eo
much going on of enmity and spite ! No, Lord !.
you must do much better by us than that, and
then maybe we will do better. And the wheel
fell into a sweet, soft sound, and forgot to buzz
and bizz altogether, for I think it felt a prayer
running through her fingers.
I think that is what we should pray with, and
not so much with the tongue. Oh, the fingers
are not so spiteful as the tongue. They do not
lie so much ! The fingers are more generous ;
but the tongue ! Ab, the less said about it the
better.
We young folk, when we came to sec her,
would run in and bring out the big rocking
chair, and set it under the apple-tree that bore
pink-red blossoms, and had a hole in the side
where the robins nested. Then we would say :
“ Come now, grandmother, sit awhile, and
tell us a story while you rest your bones ?”
“ There were daffodils in the grass, that I re
member, and there were blue violets. You see
the brook,” she said, “how full it is. But it
has not been raining—not here, but somewhere
up at the fountain heads it has rained. So it is
with me, little ones. lam full of the showers
and the floods of long ago. Bring me a bunch
of thqse violets. No, you would not think, but
so it was. They used to say I looked like a
violet; but now I am only a Christmas rose,
blossoming in a pale way under the snow.”
Then we nestled close down to her, and we
folded our arms all about her, and she told us
the stories of the good old days that were full
of her youth. Ah ! but how we covered her,
like the roses climbing over that apple-tree yon
der. Then we shook all the soit petals from
her with our caresses, and some we kissed
away. We would not let her go back to her
rolls, although she said she should not have all
our warm things done before another winter.
So it was all Summer; her thoughts were far
ahead, and then, all Winter, she was thinking,
and working for Summer; while we little ones
just took the days as they came, and carolled
through them, one by one. Such is youth, and
such is age, W$ haru PQ V? !<?<?k before us, and
befiina üß’' aiid by-and-by there la a great
treasure of memory, and another greater treas
ure of hope. These are the treasures thieves
do not steal, and moths do not eat up.
There was not much else but spinning that
my grandmother enjoyed, and knitting, for in
the evening the wheel stood across the corner
of the long room, and the firelight came out of
the big chimney and made it very pretty, and it
was pleasant to have it keep still sometimes.
Then my grandmother took her soft yarn, that
still smelled of tho carding, and she sat down
in her large rocking-chair before the other cor
ner of the fire. Heavens, how beautiful she
was ! Her white cap lay in soft folds and the
strings no longer stood out with the energy of
her work at the wheel. Gentle thoughts played
over her face, aad as she looked m the fire, she
could see all her life re-enacted in the drama of
the flames and coals. This I know, because
she would begin soon to talk softly to herself.
Yes! yes I Salmon ! I said yes to you just sixty
one years ago to-night Yes !we sat by the fire,
too; and the light made you a grand, haad
some boy, indeed. I looked at your stout
arms, and I thought, he has got the grip; and in
hia eye is the grit and the love together. Oh,
yes, I can trust hint. Everything was yes that
night, Salmon. I remember that the fire
snapped to the sight Then I slipped out into
the street and flung an apple-paring over my
shoulder; and it came down as a big 8. But
my heart said yoa above all the rest Ab, but
he’ was a handsome, olean-cut fellow; and he
only nineteen, and I was eighteen. Our folks
said wait; and we waited three years. But we
always said yeo. And we never bad a quarrel
net so long as he lived.
Then the scene changes, and she saw him as
he was one night when the beam fell on him at
the burning of Widow Bradford’s house. He
had rushea in to save the last of the children,
and he did it. A wonderful light was on
herfaoe now. It was only half firelight;! the
other half came from heaven, I think, or from
her own pure souL Yes, he did it, she said
softly, with a smile, and I never regretted it.
Oh, he was always a hero ! 1 could not have
loved a coward. But the beam was very cruel.
How it bruised his dear body ! And he went;
yes, the great light went out forty and more
years ago. But 1 took a snark from it to kindle
a bigger light—eyen tho light oi loyo for the |
Great Father—and that burns on and on, and
will never go out.
Then the dip was lighted, and we went to
bed. Grandmother dearly loved to have one of
us over to bide the night with her. She made
up for us a little bed just before the great fire,
and she herself went to the bed where the tall
posts stood up in the alcove behind a curtain.
Once in a year she made these dips. It is a
lost art, a domestic idyl, a poem in long meter.
Dip! into the melted tallow went the wicks;
out., and then the long row of dips hung be
tween two poles to cool, while another frame
went in; then another and another, till twenty
times twelve candles were in tho way of growth.
We all stood around, our hands behind our
backs and our eyes very greedy. Then, as the
tallow grew stiff and strong, the oldest of us
was allowed to do the dipping. Quick, now I
etoady, now ! they must not be swung together.
Lift them up straight; dip them down with pre
cision; out with them before they are melted.
Cool, calm, steady, exact—so they grow. Now
they are done. Let them hang till morning.
We will go to bed.
Candles and firelight! That was all; but we
went with the sun-early to bed, early to rise.
Candles demoralized no one. They were rarely
used in summer at all. Was not the sun good
enough ? In winter we used them once a week,
when our newspaper came; and the mother
used them when darning our clothes, after we
were all asleep. Ah, but in those days we did
not have half the diseases of our modern days.
They have come of turning night into day. Our
nerves were well in control, though we worked
hard and ate simple fare. Our jaws were square,
and so were our shoulders, and our heads were
set well on.
She was ninety-and-nine and quite blind when
she died, and this is the way it was: She lived
in a house with two wings, and nobody; and in
the left wing, with the steps at the aide that
went down to the brook, lived my Uncle Horace
and his wife. And they always took care that
she should never ba without rolls. For as soon
as she got out of her bed she always went to
her wheel, That was her comfort; yes, it was
her life. She and the wheel would stop to
gether. So my aunt was very careful, and at
night, last of all things, she went in and laid a
bundle of beauti'ul, soft, white rolls tenderly
across the beam of the wheel. It seems, she
said, like the soul of the dear old creature.
Ab, well, ope morning she was, as usual, up
at five o’clock, and had gone to tho wheel. The
delicate roll was in her fingers. The wheel
whirled round. The yarn wound on. It was all
one—my grandmother, the wheel, the yarn.
Forward, march ! Backward, march I So the
commands of life had been heard for one hun
dred years. Forward 1 The thread broke !
the wheel stopped! my grandmother sank
slowly down—another cord snapped I Up
through the wheel, and by the spindle, went a
soul as white and sweet as tho rolls she left be
hind—up to the angels, who wear no robes
whiter than my grandmother spun.
The wheel has never been turned since. Its
music died when its soul went away to heaven.
Dear old wheel! Igo to the garret sometimes,
and touch it tenderly, and a soft, low sound
comes from somewhere—it may not be anything
but young swallows, but it seems not to come
from anywhere; onty a sound like the soul of
the blessing that she used to pronounce when I
went to her in my childhood: The lord bless
my precioua boy, and keep him pure I Ah, I
would not for the world fail of that blessing.
My wife says we will have that wheel in the
best room with the bric-a-brac and relics—bro
ken china and old trash I call it. Well, I say.
wait a bit: or. I’ll buy you one at an auction
one that has no soul. And my wife, who did
not know my grandmother, laughs, but says
nothing. “It is one of his queer points, but he
is a good husband; he shall have it aa he will.”
THE DETROIT*SOLOMON.
Not Party, but Candid—Ho was Embar
rassed.—Her Name was Hannah.
NOT PURTY, BUT CANDID.
“ Good morning, your Honor 1” saluted
George Sharon, aa he looked over the desk and
smiled in bis happiest manner.
“Prisoner, you are charged with being
drunk.”
“ All right, your Honor. Do I look like a
man who would get drunk ?”
“ You do.”
“ Very well, sir. It’s not for me to dispute
the likes of you. If you say I was drunk, that
settles it. I’m not purty, but I’m candid and
truthful.”
“Do you want a chance to skip the town ?”
"Ido not. I like Detroit. Here my father
was buried, and here lives my girl. It would
take me a long time to get used to any other
place.”
“ If I suspend sentence, can you keep straight
for the next three months’”
“ No, sir. Tho Spring is coming on and I
shall need a tonic for my constitution, and I’m
apt to take too much.”
“ Well, I’U make it thirty days in the Work-
House. You are indeed a candid man.”
“So lam, sir. I wanted to go up so as to
save four weeks’board to buy me a nankeen
suit for Summer. Much obliged, sir, and if I
ever catch a party throwing stones at your
house I ll break his neck, sir.”
HE WAS EMBARRASSED.
John Shine didn’t slime for a cent as he toed
the mark and hung down his head and twisted
his finger into his button-hole.
“What is it, John?” kindly inquired the
Court.
“ 1 want to go home, sir.”
“ You appear to be embarrassed ?”
“ I am, sir. I was never so embarrassed since
the day 1 was married.”
“ Did it embarrass you any to walk into a
saloon and guzzle down three or four glasses ot
beer ?”
“N-no, sir.”
“ Wasn’t a bit embarrassed when you pitched
head first into the mud and turned over on your
back and went to sleep ?”
“ Oh ! no sir.”
" Nor when a couple of officers lilted you into
the patrol wagon? This embarrassment has
come to you all of a sudden, hasn’t it?”
“I-I guess so.”
“That’s what I thought. Well, you can save
your blushes. I’m going to elevate you for six
ty days.”
' “ Please don’t 1”
“ But 1 shall. You'll see lots of strangers up
there, and it will put you more at your ease m
society. Take your fingers out of your mouth,
Johnnie, and run along with Mr. Stebbins.”
HER NAME WAS HANNAH.
She was a tall, solemu-faoed woman of fifty,
and she stood on the mark with folded arms
and solemnly said:
“The wicked flee when no man pursueth, but
the righte us are as bold as a lion.”
His Honor was looking at the warrant and
made no reply.
“ The wicked tread the straight and narrow
path down to destruction,” she continued.
No reply.
“But the good go up higher and higher.”
“What’s your name?” asked His Honor, as
he looked up.
“Hannah.”
“Anything else ?”
“Just plain Hannah, and on the road to the
better land.”
“Oh, you are? Did you take a drink to help
yon along?”
“ I never drink, and I am one of the lambs of
the flock.”
“ Officer, how was it?”
“ I found her on Monroe avenue haranguing
a crowd, sir, and she was intoxicated. They
were having great sport with Ijpr. Here is a
bottle I took from her.”
“For the wind bloweth where it listeth,” ob
served tho woman, as she looked more solemn
than ever.
“If that isn’t whisky in that bottle I’ll resign
the bench to-morrow I” exclaimed His Honor,
as he snuffed al it and then took a sip.
“ I’in the food and the life,” remarked Han
nah.
“ Look here, woman,” said the Court, “ you’ve
got Salvation Army, bad whisky, oratory, and
temperance work all mixed up, and you are
hero as the result. Will you drop your non
sense and behave yourself in future?”
“I will.”
“ Thon you may go. If you have any mission
at all it is to take care of your homo and be a
wife to your husband. Next time you come
here I shall make it at least sixty days.”
EXERCISE FoFtHE FACE.
The Great Law of Beauty is Use—Gym
nastic Directions.
(From the Chicago Neics.)
All know that systematic exorcise of the mus
cular system develops and invigorates it. Why
not apply the same rules to the face that are
salutary for the rest of the body ? The great
law of beauty is use. If one wants a well
rounded and shapely arm every sort ot motion
is practised that will bring its delicacy of mus
cle, tendou, and nerve into play; it is not left to
hang helpless at the side until it has become
rigid and attenuated. But nothing is done lor
the exercise of jthe face, although tho same rule
would hold good there as well. After the first
roundness ot yonth is gone its lines are apt to
become sot and angular. All the soft contour
of chin and cheek is lost, and hard, grim angles
or cumbering fat take its place. This need not
and should not be. It the muscles of the cheeks,
chin, throat and neck are exercised and the
frosh blood drawn to them, tho shrunken parts
will be gradually restored to a live, firm con
sistency, and a semblance at least ot youth
secured.
This face exercise should be systematic and
persistent as well as intelligently applied. Find
wbere the muscles are, either by a chart or by
study at a mirror. Then treat them to a gentle
massage on the plan of resistance, being care
ful not to overwork or injuro them. Any de
sired muscles of the face may »e found by as
suming various intense expressions ot counten
ance-rage, merriment, wonder, grief, surprise.
Cooke, the actor, developed his snarling mus
cles to an astonishing degree. The comedian
strengthens and perfects his laughing muscles.
When any special muscle has been located and
defined, work upon it with the hand judiciously
until it is tired ; a delightful glow will follow.
Tram tho muscles of the neck and chest by
any approved gymnastic directions. It is sur
prising what an altered look a defective figure
will assume after a lew months of systematic
discipline. Not only will the contour improve,
but the complexion with it, provided the skin
has special hygienic care. A clear, soft, well
conditioned skin may not be wholly the result
[of external treatment, yet that counts for a
good deal. Back of it, of course, must be the
i general health—what is oaten and drunk and
what avoided.
Music in Belgium.— A correspondent
of the Boston Courier says there is perhaps no
country in the Cid World whore the notion and
appreciation of music are so widespread as in
Belgium. Every Belgian, from the most heavy
looking peasant to the most refined among the
upper ten thousand, has learned how to sing,
or to play on some string, wood or brass instru
ment, and the reason why is very curious. It
lies in the political organization ot the country
and the unlimited freedom of association
vouchsafed to its citizens. King Leopold’s
subjects have always been so accustomed to
club together that the habit has grown into a
downright want; and the result is that there
are no fewer than 35,000 associations of all
kinds in a country numbering no more than
5,500,000 inhabitants. The Belgians meet to
gether for the mere sake of meeting ; those who
are at their wits’ ends to discover an object,
meet to make puns or to invent practical ,okes
—anything for a pretext to start a society ; but
the larger number come together to learn vocal
or instrumental music wherewith to charm the
“savage breasts” mentioned by Shakespeare.
I have often remarked., with amusement, ibe
wondering looks ot Americans or other
strangers in Brussels at the sight of ilbclad
native roughs singing, as they march past, -with
a sweetness and ensemble. that would do credit
to the most select of professional choirs* Not
a single hamlet, perhaps, throughout Handers
or the Walloon provinces could be found with
out its brass band, and no band, either, could
be found that does not seize every possible op
portunity to “ air its talents,” competing for
and gaining prizes in international festivals,
executing bridal hymns in nuptial processions,
death marches at funerals, or political anthems
in the midst of the most stormy political de
monstrations. A burlesque is at present being
performed at one of the Brussels theatres, in
which one of these bands is seen to turn up
with blowing trumpets every five minutes and
in every conceivable circumstance of life. Na
tive spectators hardly smile; it seems so little
like a satire and so much like what every one
sees every day off the stage.
A Martyr to Art. —Strangers who
pay a visit to the Ecole des Bcaux-Arts, Paris,
will not fail to be attracted by the bronze Mer
cury who is drawing a thorn out of his heel.
The right arm of the god is wanting, and they
may&imagine, not alone from the nobleness of
the work, but from this delect, that they are
looking upon an old Greek statue. This Mer
cury was the last work of the luckless sculptor
Briants. Although he had gained the Prix do
Rome, and his genius was acknowledged as in
comparable among bis French contemporaries,
he was almost always, so far as commissions
went, unemployed. A garret served him as
studio, living-room and bed-room. Hero dur
ing the severe Winter he worked at bis Mercu
ry, always saving his small quantity of coal for
the hours during which his model was sitting to
him. He spent the rest of the day without a
lire. One night the cold was so bitter that he
heaped upon bis bed all the clothes he pos
sessed. He suddenly remembered his master
piece, which he had just finished, and dreading
lest the damp clay should be frozen, he stripped
himself and put all his clothing and bed-cover
ing around the figure. When his friend Cavilie
entered to seo him on the next day, the sculptor
lay on bis bed frozen to death. His Mercury
also, in spite of the artist’s sacrifice for his art,
was frozen, and the right arm had fallen on the
floor. His friends had the Mercury cast in
bronze; but they resolved, in memory of the
sculptor, that it should be cast without the right
arm exactly as it was found at his death. This
is the figure which is now exhibited for the study
and inspiration of young French sculptors in
the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.
Leprosy in New Orleans. —Says the
Chicago Times: While delving for information
on the subject of the city’s health I ascertained
what L believe is not generally known in New
Orleans—that leprosy exists there to a remarka
ble extent. It has been known in a vague sert
ot way that there were some cases of tho dreaded
disease in the lower parishes, but not that it
prevailed to any extent in New Orleans. There
are now under treatment in the charity hospital
no less than eighteen cases. What is more re
markable, and should be of absorbing interest
to people there, is the fact, I am informed on
authority, that tho luckless victims of the
disease do not know with what they are afflicted,
and are going about their usual avocations. One
of these, a woman, is a cook I lam told tho
nature of their disease is concealed so as to
spare them the isolation that would be forced
upon them should it become known. Perhaps
the distinguished medical gentlemen at the
hospital know best what is proper in the prem
ises, but the unprejudiced observer would say,
far better these unfortunates be shunned and
forced into isolation than that they spread the
malady by contact and by bearing* children,
which’they are now in danger oi doing inno
cently.
The Bullrush Caterpillars. —Among
the most curious productions of New Zealand is
the singular plant (called by the natives
awheto), the bullruah caterpillar. If nature
ever takes revenges, one might imagine this to
be a case of retaliation. Caterpillars live upon
plants, devouring not only leaves, but bark,
fruit, pith, root and seeds ; in short, every form
of vegetable life is drawn upon by these vora
cious robbers. And here comes a little seed
that seems to say, “ Turn about is fair play,”
and lodges on the wrinkled neck of the cater
pillar jnst at the time when be, satisfied with
his thefts in the vegetable kingdom, goes out of
sight to change into a chrysalis and sleep his
way into a new dress and a new life. A vain
hope. The seed has the situation. It sends
forth its tiny green stem, draws its life from the
helpless caterpillar, and not only sends up its
little shoot with the bullrush stem capped with
a tiny cat-tail, but fills with its root the entire
body of its victim, changing it into a white pitb
like vegetable substance. This, however, pre
serves the exact shape of the caterpillar, it is
nut-like in substance, and is eaten by the na
tives with great relish.
A Lesson in Warfare. —A corres
pondent of London Vanity Fair says: “ I hear
from Malta that on the 16th ult. a sham invasion
took place, and further, that the said invasion
was completely successful in misleading the
defenders. The Duke of Edinburgh under to k
to land 4,000 men on the island, but of course the
point of attack was kept secret. It was gene
rally supposed that it would be St. Paul’s Bay.
At 11 A. M. four men-of-war steamed into the
bay, but it soon became evident that this was
only a feint. The 4,000 troops were landed
elsewhere, and came up in force long before the
defending army could be brought to oppose
them. The honors of the day, therefore, gg
tirely rested with the navy, and the officer
commanding the Seventy-filth Regiment Is much
blamed for not having detected the feint in
time. The moral is that, given the temporary
absence of our fleet, Malta is not altogether se
cure against a hostile landing. It is true that
an iavader’s ship would encounter some rough
handling at the Vanguard Fort. The attacking
force was led by the Duke of Edinburgh and
General Davis.
Beauty Professionally Rebuked.—
An anecdote now going tho rounds is related
of a prominent young lady in society whose
handsome figure, displayed in the most decol
lete style, has for several seasons past been the
subject of universal comment. Recently, hav
ing determined to go to New York ior a stay of
several weeks, she summoned the family physi
cian and informed him of her desire to be vac
cinated before leaving. In response to the
natural query whether she would have tho
virus applied to her arm, she shrugged her
pretty shoulders in horror at the bare idea.
“Oh, dear no, doctor, not on my arm, of course;
put it—well, put it any place that will not bo
seen.” For an instant there was silence in the
room; then, after a caretul survey from the
crown of the shapely blonde head to tho tips o'
the small, well shod foet, the physician shook
bis head, looking in the anxious face of the
beauty as he gravely remarked: “In that case,
madame, there is but ono thing to be done—
you must swallow' it,”
Long Rope?. —A wire rope used in a
coal mine near Sharpsburg, Pa., is 7,000 feet
long, in another mine in the same vicinity,
where the coal dips about two feet to the one
hundred yards, the coal is hauled out and up
on to the tipple with a wire rope 3,500 feet in
length, the empty trips being drawn back to
tho gathering point with a tail rope. Ropes of
this length are not common in coal mines, al
though a rope may be made to any desired
length by splicing. Very few ropes exceed 200
feet in length. Among those in use in the mines
near Pittsburg 150 feet is considered a good
length. Long ropes find their legitimate use in
the cable roads. The rope used in St. Louis is
two and one-half miles in length, or about 10,000
feet.
Telling Fresh Eggs. —The following
is a simple French test for telling whether eggs
are fresh or not: Dissolve two ounces of kitchen
salt in a pint of water. When a fresh-laid egg
is placed in this solution it will descend to the
bottom of the vessel, while one which has been
laid the day previously will not quite reach the
bottom. It the egg be three days eld, it will
float in the liquid, and, if more than three days
old, it will float on the surface, projecting above
the latter more and more as it happens to be
lighter with increased age.
Wind and Water Gods. —A curious
belief of the Chinese is what is called the
“ Fengchui,” or the influence of wind and water
upon the physical and mental prosperity ot the
race. There are regular authorities in this be
lief, and without consulting them a Chinaman
will not build a house or choose a grave. This
belief has one great charm, insomuch that ev
erything in a Chinese city is found to harmon
ize with nature. The houses all face to the
south, and wherever the eye rests, it moots with
a pleasing picture.
Neuralgic paroxysms are often of ex
treme violence, and brought on by the slightest
provocation, such as a draught of cool air. The
skin is swollen and inflamed, and even alter the
attack has abated fools stiff and tender. On the
first intimation of such an attack rub with Sal
vation Oil. 25 cents.
Sixty Years Married. — Says tho
Louisville Courier-Journal: Sixty years ago
yesterday Alanson Moroman and Rachel Stith
were married in Hardin county. Mr. Moreman
was born in Campbell county, Virginia, Nov. 18,
1803. When he was lour years old his parents
removed to what is now Meade county, in this
State, where he lived until 1860, when he re
moved to a farm near Valley Station. He has
always been a farmer. Rachel Stith was born
in Hardin county, July 18, 1812. She was not
quite sixteen years of age when married, but
was already mistress of all the mysteries of
carding, spinning, dyeing and weaving, and an
adept in the housewife’s arts. It was by her
hearty co-operation as well as by her own close
attention to business that Mr. Moroman suc
ceeded in amassing a compet ncy.
They have seven sons, all of whom are good
citizens and successful men, and three daugh
ters, all married, who train their children in the
excellent model of their parents. The ten ar®
scattered in Texas, Missouri, Florida and Ken
tucky.
Mr. and Mrs. Moroman are devoted members
of the Methodist Church, but have made it a
rule to extend all the assistance in their power
to other denominations by their attendance and
contributions. They have also been liberal
friends of education, and in every way have
demonstrated that private station may in-doed
become the post of honor.
They are spending the Winter at Lake How
ell, Fla., with their son Augustin, as happy in
retrospect as sixty years ago they were in antic
•ipatioiu
The Test of a Man’s Character. —
The sharpest test of a man’s character is in hie
treatment of what is in his power and wholly
below him. Motives of self-interest are suffi
ciently strong and numerous tj produce irre
proachable conduct toward superiors, or equate
in strength or knowledge They have it in their
power to defend themselves from attack, to
bring persona to account for misdoings, to resist
injuries.
Much of what renders life valuable is in their
hands, to bestow or withhold: When, therefore,
we so order our conduct as to conciliate.and
please those who can thus control our happiness
and welfare, it may be a token of intelligence,
but it does not indicate nobility of character.
When, however, we come into relations with
those who have no such power, who must accept
without appeal what we choose to give them,
who have no more substantial reward to bestow
than gratitude or affection, and no severer
penalty than secret and impoient wrath, wo
show something of our true solves by tho way
in which we treat them.
There’s Many a Slip.”— A few days
ago, says the Belgian TVews, a eouple presented
themselves at the Maison Communale at Cas
tcau Thieusis, accompanied by their respective
families and witnesses. The bridegroom elect
was attired in new clothes from head to foot, a
S resent from the bride, a servant in a family at
lons. When the burgomaster had read the
articles of the Code respecting the duties of
married persons, he addressed the man, Phile
mon Nepomucene:
“ Do you consent to take Catherine Bronton
as your wife ?”
No answer. The question was repeated, when
he replied:
“No, Monsieur le Mayeur, all things con
sidered, 1 have no wish just now to put a rope
round my neck.”
Great was the stupefaction of tho company.
The bride turned pale and said :
“ Well, that’s all. I can say I was never be
fore so near. But the loss is not great.”
And so the ceremony ended.
They Saw Signs of Lovb. —The young
ladies in a popular retail establishment have
been joking one of their number, a pretty,
curly-haired brunette, about her seeming in
atuation for a good-looking bank-teller. The
young woman in question displayed anxiety to
make the daily deposits at the bank, and always
on her return could be noticed in front of the
mirror. Her companions decided that there
could be but one explanation of such conduct,
and that the brunette was in love with the teller,
and consulted the mirror to assure herself that
her ch rms were not ou the wane. But a few
days ago the young lady made such a satisfac
tory accounting that the joking ceased at once.
“You see, he has short, curly hair just like
mine,” she explained, naively, “and he gives it
the most beautiful tw st over the left ear. I’d
give anything if I could only got my hair to look
like that, and I study his style every time 1 go
to the bank, and then brush mine to correspond
as soon as I get back to the store.”
Stovis in Germany. —German stoves
are of a large, cumbrous size, resemble a fur
nace in shape, but are anything else in reality.
One can never catch a glimpse of flame, and
Irom their nature, if heated in the morning, be
gin drawing in the afternoon. Their merit lies
in the fact that they preserve a room at a uni
form temperature, without ever allowing it to
become hot. The favorite attitude is to loan up
against them, to ascertain whether they are
heated or not, as there is no possible danger ol
scorching. The white color ot the porcelain is
in striking contrast to the dark iron cast of
ours, and looking something like an old-fash
ioned cupboard, a stranger never recognizes a
stove in one until the fact is mentioned. Id
parts of the empire, partioslarly in the Rhine
district, the American stove is being rapidly in
troduced, in spite of the fact that the average
critic declares our stoves—as most of our prac
tices looking to comfort—to be very unhealthy.
Getting Out of a D lemma. —Wo be
gin the publication ov the Roccay Mountain
( yctone. with some phew diphphiculties in tho
way. The type phounders ov whom we bought
our outphit pbor this printing ephphice phailed
to supply us with epbs or cays, and it will be
phonr or phive weex bephore we can get any.
The mistaque was not phound out till a daj’ or
two ago. vVe have ordered tlto missing letters,
and will have to get along without them till
they come. We don’t liqua the leox ov this va
riety ov spelling any better than our readers,
but mistax will happen in the best ov regulated
phamilies, and iph the phs and cs and qs hold
out we shall ceep (sound the c hard) the Cy
c one whirling aphter a phasbioa till the sorts
arrive. It is no joque to us—it’s a serious aph--
phair. _ •
The Mahogany-Trits in India.—Ma
hogany is being introduced into every part ol
India, where it promises to thrive. The seeds
sown have germinated remarkably well, a sin
gle pound planted in greenhouses in the south
ern districts having yielded between three
thousand and lour thous-iud nlants. It is
thought to be quite probable that tho world,
may some day look to India for its mahogany
as well as for its quinine. Tho Eastern pro
duct of the latter has already become so exten
sive and ot such superior quality that tho cin
chona bark exports of the I nited States of Co
lumbia are said to have diminished fifty pel
cent, in five years.
P efsr to Be Called Negroes. —Ths
New Orleans Southwestern Christian Advocate,
a newspaper for Negroes, says that according to
its observation the great mass ol white persons,
when talking with each other, say “Negro” (the
low bred say nigger), but when speaking to Ne
groes they say “colored people,” which is the
same as to say: “ You are Nogroes, but 1 cater
to your foolish pride in saying colored.” “We
can stand and prefer,” says the Advocate, “to
be called Negroes all the time, for the simple
reason that we are Negroes.”
After Thirty-Three Years. -—George
W. Monisty was a slave, and was sold from his
parents in 1853, being taken to Mississippi. He
since served as a Union soldier all through
the war, and finally settled at Lafayette, Ind.
While at the Wabash station recently, George
fancied he recognized two colored women, who
were passing en rout® to lowa. The recogni
tion was mutual, and with tears, cries of joy
and embraces, the mother, brother and sister
came together after a separation of thirty-three
years.
A Wonderful Talent. —There is a
little negro boy about seven years of age living
near Uniontown, Ala., who seems to possess a
wonderful talent. He can take a lump oi mud
from the roadside and with his hand form any
animal he ever saw, and the representation is
almost perfect. All the proportions are good.
To Save Life
Frequently requires prompt action. An
hour’s delay waiting for the doctor may
J>e attended with serious consequences,
especially in cases of Cr.ap, Pneumonia,
and other throat and lung troubles,
lienee, no family sh.uld be without a
bottle of Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,
which has proved itself, in thousands of
cases, the best Emergency Medicine
ever discovered. It gives pr.mpt relief
and prepares the way for a thorougl
cure, which is certain to be effected bj
its continued use.
S. H. Latimer, M. D., Mt. Vernon,
Ga., says: “I have found Ayer’s Cherry
Pectoral a perfect cure for Croup in all
cases. I have known the worst cases
relieved in a very short time by its use;
and I advise all families to use it in sud
den emergencies, for coughs, croup, &c.”
A. J. Eidson, M. It., Middletown,
Tenn., says: “I havo used Ayer’s
Cherry Pectoral with the best effect in
my practice. This wonderful prepara
tion once saved my life. I had a con
stant cough, night swoate, was greatly
reduced in flesh, and given up by my
physician. One bottle and a half of the
Pectoral cured me."
“ I cannot say enough in praise of
Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral,” writes E.
Bragd'on, of Palestine, Texas, ‘‘believ
ing as I do that, but for its use, I should
long since have died.”
Ayer’s Cherry Pestoral,
PREPARED BY
Dr. J. C. Ayer 8c Co., Lowell, Mass.
Bold ail HrjJXMtMata. Price £1 l «cft IwlUe*