New York dispatch. [volume], March 20, 1887, Page 7, Image 7

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

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IN THE NEST.
Gather them close to your loving heart —
Cradle them close t-> your breast;
They will Boon enough leave your brooding care,
-Soon enough mount youth’s topmost stair—
Little ones in the n st.
Fret not that the children’s hearts are gay.
That their restless feet will run;
There may come a time in the by-and-by
When you'll Bit iu your lonely room and sigh
For a sound oi childish fun —
When you’ll long for a repetition sweet.
That sounded through each room.
Of “ mother ! mother 1" the dear love calls.
That will echo Isng through the silent halls.
And lighten their stately gloom.
There may be a time when you'll long to hear
That eager boyish tread.
The tuneless whistle, the clear, shrill shout,
The busy bustle in and out,
And pattering overhead.
When the boys and girls aro all grown up,
And scattered far and wide.
Or gone to tho undiscovered shore.
Where youth and aged come never more,
You will miss them from your side.
Then gather them to yeur loving heart
Cradle them on your breast;
They will soon enough leave your brooding cars,
Soon enough mount youth’s topmost stair—
Little ones in the nest.
TBE BMTOFWdOYKE.
The Story of an Irish Castle and
Its Owner.
’• Thai tumble-down place a castle I never
should have thought it. It looks like the ruin
of ataedi.ival pig-aty.”
“ Nevertheless, it was once the residence of a
very great swell, and a very eccentric one.”
“ That must have been in dark ages ?”
•‘Not at all; only in the beginning of the pres
ent century.”
The speakers were a young English gentleman
“ touring it ” in Ireland, and an Irish friend who
was acting as a voluntary cicerone. The object
which was the subject ol their conversation was
a very ugly ruin, standing on the banks of tho
Boyne, near Drogheda.
“ And it is called Dundoyne Castle ?”
•‘ Yes, that’s it. name: and the last owner was
■sailed a hermit—the Hermit of Dundoyne—and
he was to all intents and purposes a hermit. He
shut himself up for several years in his ‘Castle,’
and was never seen by any one all the time.
But he gave all his money to the poor—or most
of it—and was therefore immensely popular. It
was said of him that he was as bountful as
Providence, and as invisible.”
“But you don’t mean to say that he was for
years unseen—a vol.ntary prisoner?”
“ Yes, he was just that. There was a woman
in the case ”
“ Naturally—there generally is.”
•‘ Quite so. He was, they say, crossed in love
—a complaint that affects people differently.
There was the pilgrim of love—you know the
song—who went wandering around ‘ quite pro
miscuous like,’ absurdly asseverating that for
him there was no rest but the grave—his was a
very bad type of the disorder. Then in the
olden time, we all know, the popular refuge of
the love-lorn male was a monastery. Nowadays
disappointments in the market matrimonial have
not such serious ooneeqences; they drive more
people—in Ireland, at all events—to drink than
to the cloister. The great majority they don’t
hurt at all. This particular lover, however,was
really and truly a very interesting person, and
the fame of his good deeds still endures in those
parts.”
“ You raise my curiosity—do you know his
story .?”
“ Well, yes, and I wouldn’t mind telling it,
only it’s rather long and exciting—that is, it ex
cites me, for I kn.w it is true.”
“That makes it doubly interesting. Do,
pray, let me hear it.”
“ Very well; you shall. First fill your pipe,
and we’ll sit down on the bank over there—for
it’s well in shadow and looks comfortable.
“To begin at the beginning; the hero of my
tale, one Squire D.pping, at the commencement
of the present century, succeeded to a very con
siderable property that lay all around hero. He
was only just of age when his father died. The
old gentleman was one of those riotous roy
sterers who in the last century constituted the
bulk of the landed gentry. He died suddenly of
apoplexy, altera hard drinking bout, that lasted
for several weeks ”
“I beg your pardon.” interrupted the listener,
“ bnt yon surely don’t mean to say that the
man drank for weeks without ceasing?”
“I do indeed,” replied the narrator. “It was
the custom of these tine old Irish gentlemen to
drink just sufficiently deep and continuously to
keep them in a state of semi-inebrity for weeks
together. They drank indeed like the Dutch
man immortalized in song—
" Mynheer Von Dunk,
Who never got drunk.
But sipped brandy and water gayly.”
Only for "brandy and water” read “claret and
whisky.” Dip into Sir Jonah Barrington’s Me
moirs, and other recorders of the Ireland of a
hundred years ago, and this wifi not seem so
improbable to yen. Bnt to resume: Charles
Dopping came into his inheritance when he
was just turned twenty-ono. He was rather
proud and reserved in his manner, but withr.l
bravo, generous and kindly in .disposition—in a
word, a thorough gentleman. He was, more
over, handsome of lace and lithe and graceful
of figure; but despite these advantages, he
was not a favorite in the circle in which hie
father moved. Indeed, his habits were those
rather of a student than a country gentleman,
eo that he had little in common with the inti
mates of his parent
“Soon after Dopping pere was gathered to his
fathers, Charles set out, with his tutor, the
Abbe Dupont—an emigre of vast erudition, and,
needless to add, quite a man of the world—on
that ‘grand tour’ which was in those times
hold to be indispensable for the completion of a
gentleman’s education.
“Of the wanderings and ponderings of the
young squire and his mentor in many lands the
records are but scanty. They journeyed far,
however, and with manifest advantage to tho
younger man, for travel was very efficacious in
—so to speak—rounding off the angularities of
his character and disposition, acquired by long
reaidenoo in the comparative seclusion of hie
country home, varied only by a short residence
in Dublin while keeping his terms in Old Trin
ity. He became, in truth, quite a polished and
courtly gentleman. After visiting and residing
tn every capital city of note in Europe, tho trav
elers arrived in Paris, on their homeward jour
ney, shortly after the occupation of tho French
capital by the allied armies alter Waterloo.
“ Charles had the good fortune to meet here
a friend who bad been his chnm in college, and
to whom he was much attached. John—
commonly called Jack—Beauford was the son
of a wealthy English merchant, who had
invested some of hie capital in Ireland, and for
that reason wished his so'n to finish his coilege
course in the sister country. He was tho exact
antithesis of young Dopping—save in personal
appearance, in which the contrast was not re
markable, for both were tall, handsome and
blond. But while the Irishman had none of
the special characteristics of the Celtic tempera
ment, tho Englishman seemed to be a Celt ‘to
the manner born.’ The former was as grave,
reserved and quiet-mannered as if be were a
typical Saxon of the present period; the latter,
on the contrary, was as vivacious, impulsive
and rather boisterous, as if ho, and not his
friend, were ef purely Celtic parentage and de
scent. Nevertheless, they were sincerely at
tached to each other. Beauford, after leaving
Trinity, had obtained a commission in a cavalry
regiment, and had served all through the cam
paign in the Low Countries under Wellington
with much credit. He was overjoyed to meet
Charles, and the two friends, while in the French
capital, were inseparable.
“ The distractions of Paris at this time were
multifarious and irresistibly attractive; there
was the best aoeiety -and the worst—to bo had,
so that all tastes could be gratified. While tho
young Irishman took more the part of the spec
tator than that o! a pleased participator in
the many entertainments to which be and
his friend were bidden, the latter joined
in them con amors, and became, for that reason,
much courted and sought after. Tho friend
ship of the young noon, however, lost nothing
of its warmth by the different manner in which
each deported himself iu society; but after some
time symptoms of estrangement began to man
ifest themselves in their intercourse, for the
cause ot which it was scarcely necessary to
seek.
“The woman in this ease was a very charm
ing one. Tho Comtesse de la Vega-Toulotte
emphatically led the fashion—fashion, indeed,
lay in wait for her, pursued her, worshioed her,
and at all times was submissively at her beck
and call. She was young, lovely, clever,
enormously wealthy, and—crowning grace !—a
widow. Her married life lasted only just long
enough to entitle her to the reversion of the
large fortune of her busband, who died sud
denly within the first year of their wedded
existence. Her popularity was prodigious, and
her salons wore thronged with all that was
noble, brave, wise—and otherwise—in the gay
capital. But withal she was a true woman,
gentle and kind ol heart, and had that unaffect
ed grace of manner and unassuming natural
ness which charm so irresistibly by contrast
with the affected unreserve which one finds, as
a rule, among the fashionable in all countries.
And although she was acknowledged leader of
tho best society, and had, therefore, hosts of
male admirers, who would gladly have cap
tured her heart and lortune, she remained
heart-whole and contentedly single.
“Especial favorites ot this charming lady
were the two young friends. Her vivacious
and keen insight detected the well-spring of the
subtle sympathy which united men ot such
different temperaments in the bonds of the
most sincere friendship, and it gave her much
pleasure to undermine the reserve of the one
and restrain the exuberant impulse of the
■other. The success of her endeavor was far
more than commensurate with her desire, for
both fell incontinently over head and ears in
love with her. The unreatrainable Jack made
hardly any secret of his attachment; but his less
demonstrative friend gave no outward indication
that he, too, had lost his heart to the fair widow.
Curiously enough neither suspected that the
other was at all badly hit, and they both con
tinued their attentions to the ladv, without at all
•uspeotiug that they were in fact rivals.
“ At last, however, it began to dawn on Beau
ford that Dopping was much in the same
plight as he was himself, and he was greatly
disconcerted at the thought that there was pos-
Alblc rivalry between himself and Us triond
Acting, as was his wont when in the least per
plexity, on bis first impulse, he sought an ex
planation, or—to speak more accurately -he
made a lull and explicit revelation of bis own
feeling for the comtesse to Charles, in the as
assured expectation that he would be induced
to reciprocate the confidence. In that, how
ever, ho was mistaken, for although visibly dis
tressed and much agitated, Dopping made no
remark except to ask Beauford whether ho had
made any formal declaration of his love to the
lady herself, and he received a reply iq the
neg’ative— Jack asseverating furthermore, with
much emphasis, his unalterable resolve to do eo
without delay; and that, in fact and truth,
should his suit fail, life for him would be no
longer endurable.
“Seriously troubled and greatly pained
was poor Dopping at bis friend’s re^ela
tion; and the thoug ht that he had his
much esteemed companion for a com
petitor in paying court lo the widow, and, he
could not conceal from himself, » rival who
would probably be success ul, caused him great
perturbation ot spirit. The dilemma was ex
ceedingly awkward. He loved thelady—he had
not a doubt of that- hut he had not the faintest
conception oi her feelings; whether she regard
ed him merely as a friend or a lover; on the
other hand, lie suspected that she way not alto
gether unaware of the true signification of Be iu
ford’s attention, and he could see that she did
not give him any discouragement. But, of
course, on these points he could not form any
confident opinion— or all he knew to the con
trary with any certainly, he might bo the favored
individual himselfi Then, again, was it at ail
possible that she would accept either of them —
she who had notoriously re noted many more
eligible offers ? And supposing that she re
turned his affection, would it be honorable on
his part to forestall his riond ? The exact state
of the case, however, was, that the comtesse
merely felt interested in the two young men as
favorable types of male humanity, and, as a stu
dent of character, found much in their foibles
and contrasts to amuse and interest her; more
over, she was not troubled by any apprehension
that the tender passion would interfere to inter
rupt her study.
“Now, Charles was the very soul of honor,
and bis most earnest desire was to so act that
his friend should have fair field to urge his suit
without interference on his part, or the exercise
of any influence whatever that would be preju
dicial to his success. He was, indeed, sorely
distressed by conflicting doubts and fears, and
in his perplexity he had recourse to the Abbe
Dupont. He succinctly ‘stated a case’ for the
consideration and counsel of that eminent eccle
siastic, leaving, however, tho identity of the
lover undefined.
“ As I have said, the Abbe was a man of tho
world, and had secured great influence over the
young squire bj- artfully deferring to his wishes
and opinions in all things, eo as to make it ap
pear that it was his control and counsel that
prevailed. He was quite aware of all that had
passed, but as it would be not at all for bis own
interest that his patron should marry, he re
solved that nothing that he could say or do
should be wanting to prevent so undesirable a
consummation. So alter apparently giving
serious thought to the matter, and well weigh
ing the facts of tho case, he delivered himself of
hia conclusions in this wise:
“‘The Comtesse de la Vega-Toulotte is, I
know, a very estimable lady—charitable, re
ligious, and rich. No doubt your friend would
find in her a most excellent wife. But he does
not know whether she loves him or his rival.
Plainly, his only course is to ask her .’
“‘But,’ interrupted Charles, ‘ would that bo
quite honorable and lair to the friend who has
confided to him the secret of his attachment?’
“The Abbe saw bow the land lay—he had his
cue, and continued:
“ ‘ As you suggest, it would perhaps be better
that he should disclose his love tor the lady to
his rival—unless, indeed, his surmise that the
Comtesse loves that person be well-founded,
and in that case it would be worth his con
sideration whether he had better not keep
his secret rather than risk tho humiliation of
rejection, and loss, not only of his mistress,
but a good Iriend as well. It seems to me
also that there must be incompatibility of
disposition between your friend and tho
lady, that would render marriage a risky
matter, fraught with danger of much unhappi
ness for both. She is fond of society—lives, in
deed, but for its enjoyment; he, from what you
say, would seem to prefer at least occasional pe
riods of comparative solitude; so that it might
come to pass that either one or both would
grow discontented.’
“‘Perhaps you are right,’ again Charles
broke iu. ‘ I’ll think it over, and see my friend
again.’
“ And strengthened by the Abbe’s accurate in
terpretation of his desires and opinions, which
did duty for advice, he sought out Beauford
and ‘ made a clean breast of it;’ told him of his
great love for the comtesse, and his firm resolve
to renounce what pretensions he had to her
hand in his favor, and leave Paris at once. Such
magnanimity could not fail to touch the heartof
the generous Englishman. He felt that he could
not conquer his love, while at the same time he
could not contemplate without pain the great
sacrifice which Charles was prepared to make
in his favor. To be outdone in generosity ex
ceeded his pride, and was almost more than ho
could bear. Yet, what was he to do ? Acting,
as usual, on tbe impulse of the moment, he sud
denly seized tho baud of Charles, bold it in his
firmest grip, and with tears in his eyes—and in
his voice—vowed that he was the very noblest,
best, and most unselfish of men; bnt that he
would not hear of tbe self-sacrifice he proposed
to make. He insisted that Charles should first
formally propose to the comtesse, and that in
the event—which the powers forbid I—of rejec
tion, then, and not till then, would he, Jack
Beauford, tempt a similar fate.
“ Charles, however, was firm and quite un
moved; tbe only concession he would make was
to defer his departure for a few days, but he
protested that he would not see the lady again
until he could take leave of her forever.
“Beauford hesitated no longer; availing him
self ot tho first opportunity that presented itself
of having a tete-a-tete with the lady, and with
his natural impetuosity kept well within bounds,
he told his love with an eloquence that spoke lor
its truth, and had its effect on his fair listener.
She was much moved, and for a time remained
silent. But at last she spoke. In tones sweet
and tender, that thrilled through him with ex
quisite pleasure, and filled his heart with bliss
fnl anticipations, she dwelt much upon her sense
of the inestimable value of the love of so brave
and trne a gentleman, and of the honor he pro
posed to confer upon her; bnt—oh, misery un
paralleled I—she felt constrained reluctantly to
declare it, she bad made a vow, which was un
alterable and irrevocable as destiny, never,
never to marry again.
“ Words could not convey even an approach
to a conception of the depth of despair into
which thia unexpected result plunged poor Jack.
For him the sun had left tbe heavens, and he
was adrift in the deepest gloom. For him, as
for tbe hero of the ballad—
* Heaven smiled on earth a little while,
and then no more.'
“ the utmost efforts of his friend Charles, to
whom he hastened after the momentous inter
view, were inadequate to console him. Indeed,
his distress seemed to be rather aggravated by
the well-meant efforts ot bis fellow-sufferer to
assuage his grief. In very truth, the poor fel
low quite lost his head over his disappoint
ment, and he even permitted himself to doubt
the good faith of his friend. He had the unac
countable imbecility to suspect that Charles had
been base enough to steal a march upon him,
and had secretly sought and won the love of
the comtesse. Thia unworthy suspicion rank
led in his mind until it became a certainty, and
at a subsequent meeting he charged Charles
plainly with the supposed betrayal of his confi
dence. This was more than the young Irish
man could bear. His self-control was usually
perfect, bnt it was not proof against such mon
strous injustice as this; and he hotly resented
the scandalous imputation on his honor and
truth, which it conveyed. The other persisted,
and reinsod to retract a word that ho had said,
and the friends parted in anger—anger so mad
ly unreasonable that it resulted in a challenge
from Beanford to hie friend 1”
At this point the narrator became excited, and
spoke with great vehemence:
“ Oh, the shame and the pity of it I That such
fine and noble natures should come in conflict
through the obstinate wrongheadedness of one
Of them, was enough surely to make angels
weep 1 What idea possessed them that, in the
sweet freshness of the early Summer morning
in tbe Bois de Boulogne, they should confront
each other, armed with deadly weapons ? And
—erewning horror I—that in a moment be who
had invited the encounter should lie to all ap
pearance dead upon the dew-damp sward, and
the other, in an agony of grief, lie prostrate on
the ground, clasping the inanimate form of the
friend he had slain in his encircling arms I
“The duel caused a great sensation—as might
be expected—and it did duty, as usual, as a nine
days’ wonder. Then no more was heard of it.
The friends of Charles Dopping hurried him on
tho fatal morning across the frontier into Belgi
um, to a quiet country village, where he lay for
many weeks sick unto death of brain fever—
lingering literally on the confines ot eternity in
a straggle for life. His fine constitution stood
him in good stead, and finaily rescued him from
the very jaws of death. But he was a changed
man. The memory of his great sorrow clung to
him, and would not be shaken off. The great
crime of which he felt that he was guilty lay, in
deed, heavy on hie conscience. But as he jour
neyed homeward the thrice-blissful intelligence
reached him that the good God, in His infinite
mercy, had been graciously pleased to spare the
life that he had been the means of placing in
such imminent peril. He learned—and bis
heart went out in a transport of devout thank
fulness to a merciful Providence—that Beauford
had nearly recovered from hie serious wound,
and was waiting bis arrival in Paris. He count
ed the moments until he once again stood in the
presence of his friend.
“The meeting of the long-sundered friends
was very affecting. Both were intensely moved,
but the pervading feeling with both was of pleas
ure; and their conference had not continued long
before they thoroughly understood each other,
and were completely reconciled. Beauford, it
appeared, not only had the tender care of his
own parents and sisters, but the comtesse bad
paid him frequent visits, and he had passed
many pleasant hours in her society. He did
not conceal from Dopping that bis passion for
her was as absorbing and enduring as ever;
neither could lie deny that he cherished the
hope e some day inducing her to withdraw her
refusal to become his wife. This revelation
was not quite a surprise to Charles, but it de
termined him to adopt a course that he had al
ready been seriously considering as some of the
reparation ba meant to make lor the part he
took in the so nearly fatal duel. This .was that
ho should himself plead Jack’s cause w.th tho
NEW YORK DISPATCH, MARCH 20, 1887.
comptesso ; and he had more than one interview
with that lady before he opened his mind to her
freely.
“ It was with difficulty that he brought him
self to speak ot hia own love ; but he touched
on it lightly, and with a consummate tact that
greatly impressed the listener. On tbe other
hand, ho was most eloquently persuasive in
painting the good qualities of his friend, and
the intensity of his affection for her. In short,
he played his part so well that the comtesse ad
mitted she could not withstand the many influ
ences that combined to overcome her resolution
not t 6 again marry. And, iu truth. Jack was
not at all indifferent to her. He was handsome,
generous, bravo ; he had risked his life through
love of her; she would therefore have been
more than human could she remain insensible
and unresponsive to his love. So at last it
turned out that she surrendered at discretion
to the irresistible pleading of Jack's good f riend
and very earnest and persevering ambassador,
Charley Dopping.
“ Jack rapidly regained health when he was
assured of the certain fruition of his fondest
hope, and soon he became unite convalescent.
Then his marriage was celebrated with great
eclat , and "Beauford made for life.
“But poor Dopping? He who had not only
made sacrifice ot his love for the only woman
who ever touched his heart, in favor ot his
friend, but was the means of securing her band
for him. What ot him? He turned his steps
homeward, a lonely but not altogether unhappy
man. His comparatively brief experience ot the
great world had revealed to him how ill-fitted
ho was to battle with it. He was quite without
ambition for distinction in it of any description,
and he had tasted of its pleasures sufficiently to
become convinced that he had no real zest for
them. The one thing that would make lite in
the outward world endurable to him was what
he could not have; namely, tho love of that one
good woman. That inestimable blessing was
not fated to fall to his lot. He had hoped for
it, but was disappointed.
“ That, and that only, he felt could wean him
from the love of an easy life of seclusion which
was gradually growing strong within him. And
yet he was young, healthy in mind and body,
talented, and sure to make his mark
did he seek pre-eminence socially or
politically, but such pursuits were uncon
genial, not to say absolutely abhorrent, to
him. In truth, his frame of mind was
such as that which has moved many men—
and women as well—to choose the life of the
cloister to any other. But that was not his in
tention. He would live like a recluse in so far
only as the seclusion such a life imposed, but
he would acquit himself of the responsibilities
of his station to the fullest extent duty demand
ed. Instead of joining a religious order and
endowing it with the bulk of his wealth, he de
termined to live among his own people and ap
ply his surplus funds to improving their condi
tion and promoting their prosperity. He would
be rigidly exclusive, but he would be happy—
happy in the knowledge that he was contribut
ing to the happiness of others.
“ This resolve he inflexibly carried out.
Arrived home at last, after years of absence, he
installed the Abbe Dupont as his representative
in all matters connected with the business of
his estate and of his household, and almoner of
his bounty to the poor and distressed as well.
For himself, he lived only in the companionship
of his books, and, save the abbe, he saw no one
from year’s end to year’s end. But the good
works performed in his name were incalculable ;
he was truly, as they said, as bountiful as Provi
dence, and as invisible. For years there was
no break in the monotony of his solitary exist
ence, but yet ho was happy. His thoughts were
always occupied in devising means for assisting
the necessitous and increasing the well-doing of
the prosperous people on his estate and in its
vicinity, and in this way the tedium of his lone
ly life was relieved of most of its oppressive
ness. As might be exijocted, his tenantry all
but adored him.
“ The fame of his goodness and his life of soli
tude extended all over the country, and his
death, after a long and undoubtedly well-spent
life, was regarded as a calamity and mourned
as almost a national loss. Be made no will, but
it was found that he had devoted nearly tho
whole of his large income during life to chari
table purposes and to improving the material
condition of his tenantry. Very many claimants
for the succession to his estate turned up, and
at last it got into Chancery, and, as a natural
consequence, gradually lapsed into the ruin and
decay which is its present condition.
“ That’s tbe story, but badly told. At all
events, it is true. My father, when a boy, saw
the s uire on one occasion—the only one on
which lie made his appearance in public tor sev
eral years. It was in honor of the visit of his
friend Beau'ord and his charming wife. A groat
fete was given to the country people, and tho
hermit appeared for a few moments in sight of
his guests while he received his friends. My
father describes him as a marvellously hand
some man, deadly pale, but with an ineffably
sweet and k'ndly expression. This was many,
many years before his death, and he was never
afterward seen in public.”
The White Spirit of Neerh-o-Da.
BY GRANVILLE T. SPROAT.
In tho Summer of 1836, a party of Sioux war
riors attacked a Chippewa village, situated on
one of the branches of the Upper Mississippi.
The attack was wholly unexpected, but the in
habitants came out bravely in its defense, and,
after a fierce conflict with the enemy, they fled,
leaving their dead and wounded behind them.
Among the inhabitants was a prophetess, named
Neerh-o-Da (two hearts), who often foretold
future events, and also warned her friends of
the red race when danger was approaching.
She had done so the evening before the attack
on the village ; but an old Jossaheed, in league
with some deceiving intelligences, had with
stood her, and told the inhabitants that they
were all safe, and that no such attack would ba.
made upon them. They believed him sooner
than the prophetess on whose word they had
always relied, and so the Sioux warriors came
rushing upon them when they were wholly un
prepared to meet them.
Neerh-o-da’s lodge stood apart Irom all the
others, and the poor frightened women ol the
village fled to it for protection as soon as they
heard the noise ot tho attack. Neerh-o-da
calmed their fears, and told them that they were
all safe, lor so the good and kind spirits had
told her.
“Sit down,” she said, “and wait quietly for
the direction of the spirits. They will not suffer
a hair of your heads to be touched if you are
obedient to them.”
So they comforted themselves with these
words ot the prophetess, and all sat down in the
centre of the wigwam. While they were seated
there, the attack was renewed with great vigor,
and tbe bullets of the Sioux were continually
flying around them. But none of them were
touched by them, for they were protected by a
white spirit that stood in the centre of the lodge,
which they all could see, and could hear it con
verse with Neerh-o-da, who sat there with her
head lifted up, and a strange fight flashing from
her eyes. Neerh-o-da would talk with the spirit,
and her words were comforting and uplilting to
the poor, defenseless women sitting at bar aide.
They could hear her voice above the noise of
the battle that was raging so fiercely around
them. When the bullets camo whirling through
the walls of the wigwam aha would say:
“Sit still; not one of them shall harm you.”
And they did not The mo-koks of tbe wig
wam (birch bark boxes used tor packing pro
visions) were afterward found pierced by many
bullets. But what strange music was that they
heard? A drum and rattle used in the sacred
worship of the Me-ta-wa (lodge of worship),
that were suspended from tbe walls of the wig
wam, commenced playing a tune, such as they
had often moved to in the dance of worship.
They played when the fight was raging the
most fiercely, so loud as nearly to drown the
noise of the battle.
A Sioux warrior camo and put in his head at
the door of the wigwam. His tomahawk was in
bis hand. He raised hia arm to throw it at
some one of the defenseless inmates. He gave
a loud shriek and his arm fell useless at his
side; the tomahawk dropped from his hands
and he departed, shrieking louder and louder,
with staggering steps. A power from the spirit
world had arrested him juet as he was about to
strike the fatal blow.
The battle raged for several hours, and all that
time the white spirit stood in their midst,
speaking words ot comfort to Neerh-o-da and
her companions. At last, when all was still,
Neerh-o-da rose from her seat and told the wo
men all to bow and thank the good spirits for
their protecting care, which they alt did, with
hearts overflowing with gratitude and love.
Before they had time to leave the lodge, a
Chippewa warrior came in, bringing with him
an arm that he had cut irom the body of a dead
Sioux warrior. He laid it down before them,
expecting that they would stamp their feet upon
it, and gnash their teeth with rage and griet lor
friends lost in battle, according to tho custom
of many oi the Northwestern tribes. But
Neer-o-da took it up carefully, and wrapped it
in a piece of clean, white cloth, and eaid:
“ Aly sisters, take it up carefully, and bury it
by the side of the little stream that flows by the
door of the wigwam. Why should we seek re
venge on the poor, lifeless one to whom this
arm belongs? He knew not what he was doing.
The spirits sent by tbe Master of Life were more
powerful than the bravest Sioux warriors. Let
him rest in peace. He only obeyed what the
war spirits of his tribe whispered in his ears,
and knew not that they were all the time de
ceiving him.”
So the women took up tho arm and buried it
carefully on the banks of the little stream that
flowed by the wigwam of Neerh-o-da. And
they planted a fir tree on the sjx>t, for they
said:
“ This shall be in memory of the protection
received irom the white spirit when the battle
was raging so fiercely around us, and not a hair
of our heads could be touched by the war bul
lets of the Sioux.”
HOW 1) LD fl GEF THERE?
A GOLD PIECE FOUND IN A SING
ULABLY ODD PLACE.
the Globe-Democrat.)
J. B. Raymond, a butcher, of Nicholasville,
Ky., has in prosecution of his business just
experienced a singular incident that involves a
peculiar mystery. Mr. Raymond some time
ago purchased a cow for the purpose of butch
ering. She seemed to be in every way a good
so was slaughtered. In cutting the
cow open an embryo call was found. This sur
prised Raymond, because he had no idea that
the cow was in such a condition. lie, however,
having hu hand in, continued, cutting, and
dissected the embryo calf. His knife came
noon something hard, and upon examination a
•$5 gold piece, bearing the date of 1849, was
found. Naturally he was surprised at such a
discovery, and after exhausting all his own
theories to explain the presence of the piece in
such a remarkable place without success he
determined to make inquiries.
He had bought the cow from Pat Mulligan,
living in Garrard County, near the eastern line
of this county, who was asked whether ho
could explain it. Mr. Mulligan said that he had
owned the cow ever since she was a calf. He
said that early in life he took the gold fever
and went to California, returning little better
off than when he went, but having picked up
in his wanderings a gold coin peculiarly marked
and bearing the date 1819. This coin he gave
to his sweet heart, afterwards bis wife. The
coin had been loet by one of. the children years
later and no one had since given it a thought.
He (described the peculiar marks on|the lost
coin, which were found to correspond with those
on the coin found in tbe unborn calf. How the
coin got there and by what devious course it has
been brought back to its owner will furnish a
problem for scientists to ponder over.
THE BEBEL YELL.
BUT THE OLD FLAG COULDN’T
BE INSULTED.
(From the Terre Houte, Ind. t Mail,)
With some pride we transfer to the columns
of the The Mail from this month's “Century”
the following beautiful and patriotic poem.
Tho author is our townsman Dr. H. W. Taylor,
who fought on the Confederate side during the
war. His brother, H. 8. Taylor, of Englewood,
111., was a Union soldier, and wrote “The Man
with tho Musket,” published in the “Century”
for July, 1886.
The incident seized on by the poot is the fol
lowing: On the Fourth of July, when the stars
and stripes were flying at the top of every
flag-staff all over the country, the Mormons, at
Salt Lake City, Utah, displayed it at half-mast.
Iu that city at that time there were many per
sons who had served in the Confederate ranks.
Seeing the old flag at half-mast on the national
holiday, they went to the city hall and demanded
that the flag be run up to the top of the flag
staff. The authorities taking counsel of their
fears, run it up. The incident is made immor
tal in this beautiful poem, which will bear more
than one reading. Indeed it improves on a
second reading. It is entitled
THE REBEL YELL.
The thirsty rays of the July sun
Drank tho breath of tbe summer morning
Over Utah fitfully blown
From ponderous mountain lips of stone.
That seemed in grim prophetic warning
Curled in a vast and massive Booming,
As if the roar of the morning gun.
Tho faint far crackle ot distant rifles.
Were part of a sum of mortal trlflee.
Thon woke Deseret's mountain mon
At sound of an old familiar thunder.
Woke with a qnick heart-leap; again
Drew their brows in listening wonder.
With eyes of warriors gleaming under;
For these were the soldiers of the South
Drifted away on the wreck of battle
To this far mountain isle of drouth—
Listening uow to the pulsing rattle
Of rifle volleys, while memory taxing
In half-awakening explanation:
‘•Ha!” they said, their brows relaxing,
“This is the birthday of our Nation 1
The common day of American glory I
How will the Mormon render the story ?”
Then some from Stonewall’s old brigade.
And some from the noted Hampton Legion*
And some irom the Black Horse cavalcade,
And more from a far less famous region—
Tbe men that followed Old Pap Price
From early trials of Cow Skin Prairit
In and;out of Missouri, twice—
Followed their leader bold and wary
On to final and sure disaster,
As men have never followed a mastsr.
As men go anywhere, baud and glove,
Even to death, with the loader they love*
These men questioning thus and replying.
Looked from their cityward windows all*
Beheld the dome of the oity hail
And the Stars and Stripes at half-mast flying 1
As with one impulse, down to the street
From many windows disappearing,
Every obstacle leaped and clearing
With old-time rush of the charging feet,
Toward tbe town hall they thundering hurried.
Where Mormon chiefs sat flushed and flurried.
“ Run up tho flag 1” the foremost cried.
With voice like the roar of a joining battle.
“Up to tbe top I” And those at his side
Echoed his cry as tho pattering rattle
Of a full brigade when it “ orders arms,”
Or a regiment firing a single volley.
Tho Mormons answered: “What wild folly,
Men of tho South—and after the harms
That came to you from this striped rag,
Tainting you still with the smell of treason I
This is nover your blue-crossed flag !
How flies your courage ! How fails your reason!”
And then tho soldier spokesman rose
As if he rose in a ringing stirrup.
Over the cowering be.ids of foes
The while his strong steed sprang at a chirrup;
“ Not yet was it treason when we flew
To arms for a question vexed and nettled
From times of the Colonies and on through
To Appomattox— but there it was settled."
Pausing, he knitted his grizzled brow,
And with a glance that seemed to sever
The hearts of the men at the lowered bunting
Whilst ho for the strongest phrases hunting
Shouted: “To us it is treason NOW I
From Appomattox on and forever !
Run up our flag ! Wo give you ono minute.
Not to consider it, but to begin it !’*
Then, when a dozen of shaking hands
Swiftly drew on tbe rising pulley.
Till, soaring up on its sea-grass strands
The bright silk flag unfolding fully
Floating high in a sun-flood gleaming.
There sprang from hundreds of soldier throats
A shrill fierce cry like eagles screaming.
Out on the morning breeze it floats,
On, to the cabined sides of the mountains,
Hushing the murmurs of winds and fountains:
Men leaped up wherever it fell.
Catching it up like a song forgotten,
Filled the air with the rebel yoll,
Tbe lost war-cry of the land of the cotton,
Till all the resonant fibers of pines
Every power of sound enlarging
Rang with tbe thrill of a shout that never
Sprang from aught but the terrible lines
Of tho dauntless Gray-men fieroiy charging,
Echoed it back from tbe mountain's brow
From the tallest pines and stunted sages,
A shout that shall echo through future ages—
“ To lower the flag is treason now.
From Appomattox on and forever !”
WHY THEY'DANCED.
A GOOD STOBY THOUGH A TBIFLE
“CHESTNUITY.”
(From the Omaha Bee.(
The police have juet been apprised of a little
adventure which a short time ago befell Mr.
John Kelkenny, a well-known South Thirteenth
street liquor-dealer.
One night a tall, roughly dreseed fellow,
whose style of costume ehowed that he was a
cowboy, stepped into Kelkenny’s saloon. He
was plainly under tbe influence of liquor,
throwing his hat back on his head, he swag
gered up to the bar and asked:
“Be you the proprietor of this yere place?’
“I guess I am,” replied Mr. K., calmly.
“Well [then,” ((drawing a big revolver from
his belt), “I want to see you dance a little for
me!"
“But I can’t dance,” replied the proprietor,
keeping as calm a demeanor as he could under
the circumstancee.
“Yes, yer kin. Yer bet you’ll have to if I say
so,” replied the drunken cowherder, brandiah
ishing his gun threateningly.
Mr. K. thought of the ancient maxim, that
discretion was | tbe better part of valor
and coming out from behind the bar went
through all the dance steps he could think of.
He flung bis feet in lively style for ten minutes,
before tbe cowboy was satisfied.
“ That’ll do, now,” said the latter. “ I guess
yer all right. Now gi’ me a horn of yer best
whisky.”
Mr. Kelkenny obeyed with an alacrity which
was born ot a desire to please a dangerous cus
tomer. As the cowboy was enjoying the whisky
John looked carelessly at the revolver and re
marked:
“ Fine revolver you’ve got there.”
“Yes,” replied the cowboy, evidently flatter
ed, “it’, a daisy.”
“Let me look at it a minute, will you?” asked
Kelkenny, pouring out another gloss for the
cowboy.
“Certainly,” replied the cowboy, handing
over the weapon with one hand and seizing the
glass with the other.
He never drank the whisky, lor as soon as Mr.
K. had the weapon in his hand ho pointed it at
the cowboy and uttered the stern command,
“ Now you dance,” and he put th, cowboy
through all the paces imaginable, fast and slow.
For half an hour he was compelled to keep his
feet going at the point ot his own weapon. When
the ordeal was over he slunk out of the saloon,
a very tired and ashamed but wiser man. Ho
was minus bis revolver.
THE FLAT WHEEL.
SOMETHING FOB BAILBOADEBS
TO BE WA BE OF.
(From the Chicago Herald.)
As a train was pulling out of the west side
Union station in Chicago, a passenger sat still a
moment as it listening to something, and then
rose from his seat, picked up his luggage and
asked his traveling companion to go with him
into tbe first car ahead.
“But we have just got comfortably seated
here,” replied the other; “why should wo make
a change ' Car too hot for you ?”
“ No, the temperature is all right,”
“ Too cold, mebbe ?”
“ No, it’s not too cold.”
“ Then what is the matter ? Why should we
go into the front car ?”
“ Well, I’ll tell you. You know I used to be a
railroad man—a conductor—and of course I
picked up some ideas on ths road that a man
gets only from experience. As soon as the
train started, my ears told me there was a flat
wheel under this car. Don’t you hear it rap
ping on the rails ’ Wait till the train slows up
for the first stop, and then you’ll hear it—run
ning too fast now. Yes, sir, car-wheels flatten
out, and have to be closely watched. Some im
perfection or unevenness in the iron, or some
extraordinary blow on a rail or obstruction,
makes an impression on the surface of the
wheel, and then every revolution thereafter
adds to the injury. A wheel will flatten out in
a remarkably short time, and on long runs ot
through trains, a flat wheel is a source of dan-
ger. If thia wheel runs from here to New York,
and happens to be a pretty soft wheel, the
chances are that it will arrive there in a very
bad condition, after doing ae much damage to
the track on the journey as the company will
get in passenger money from all the occupants
of the oar. Of course there's not much danger,
but I make it a rule never to ride in a car that
has a flat wheel nnder it, and if you don’t mind,
we'll go up ahead.’’
THE FAMILY ALBUM.
A LITTLE REAL-LIFE PICTURE
WELL DRAWN.
(From the San Francisco Chronicle.)
Do you ever open the old album and look
over the pictures ? Well, the old folks—your
father and mother—always look well, for, don’t
yon know, parents are always old-fashioned.
But there’s your aunt, with a coal-scuttle bon
net and hoops, and her hair pasted down over
her forehead and parted in the middle; with a
kind ot jaundice complexion and bright eyes
that show in their pupils nothing but the ex
cited, intense interest of trying to look into the
camera for fifty seconds without winking. And
you thought she was so pretty then, and you
remember as a child when you went and told
your mCflher you saw her being kissed by her
beau at the garden gate.
Then there’s her beau, who afterward mar
ried her. He was so handsome, don’t you
know ? Look at him. He wears a long frock
coat with lapels that curl up under his arms;
he has a flaming necktie and a shirt front show
ing down to where the coat looks as if it was
tied by a string tight around his waist. His
trousers don’t fit, and his face is all covered
with yellow specks, and he looks as if he had
swallowed a fly and he daren’t cough ior fear ot
spoiling the picture.
Then there’s yourself. Well, that's not so
bad. You know you were very pretty as a
child, and you remember the dress, and—well,
you're not quite so old-fashioned—to yourself
—as the others. And you turn the page.
There’s Fred, whom you jilted. You look at
him, and you’re glad you jilted him. He used
to be so beautifully pensive. Now he looks like
an idiot, and—well, you doubt if he over could
have been so horrid, anyway.
Then your husband comes along and turns
the book over and says: “Do you remember
that?" You close it on his fingers; it’s tearful.
You have an old-fashioned, shapeless black silk
gown that looks like gingham, or something,
with wide sleeves and big ruffles, and the skirt
is gracefully bunched out like a half-exhausted
balloon. And you’ve had the picture painted,
and the beautiful red of your cheeks has be
come mottled, and the neck is yellow, and the
hair is a dirty brown color, and you've got hold
most awkwardly ot a green chair. And your
husband wonders what he ever could see in
you, until you show him his own picture. Then
he shuts up suddenly, like a knife don’t you
know. And the old gray-headed man comes
and takes up the book.
He has lost the taste for fashions and styles,
and only the faces speak to him. He thinks, as
he looks at this faded and yellow portrait—it is
Iris wife when they were both thirty years
younger and photographs were not so common
—she is tor a moment young again, and he re
members how he stood in the corner afraid to
breathe until the cap was put on, in case some
movement ot his lips might break the spell and
frighten away the sunlight.
But he has another picture, older than the
paper photograph. It is a daguerreotype. He
keeps it. to himself. It cost him dear. It is of a
young girl in the first blush of womanhood, and
all the modern cameras in the world, with all
the most patent improvements and all the moat
embellishing effects, can never make so beauti
ful a picture tor him.
a naughty; boy.
Which is a Story of the Boy, the Bird
and the Giant.
Once upon a time there lived a little boy who
spent all his time either in bird's-nesting or in
setting traps to catch the old birds.
The other children used to tell him that it
was very wrong thus to kill the poor birds, who
did harm to no one. But he would answer :
*• I don’t care; it’s good fun.”
One day ho caught a pretty bird, with green,
yellow and red feathers. You inay fancy how
pleased he was.
“ Alas I" said the bird, “ are you going to kill
mo, too ?”
“ Holloa I” cried the little boy, “my bird can
speak I’’
“ Won’t you let me go ?” continued the bird.
“Oh, no,” he answered, “you speak too well
and your feathers are too pretty for that; be
side,'l’ve got you, so you belong to me.”
The bird said no more, feeling sure it was no
use reasoning with such a naughty boy.
That very same day, in the evening, as the
child was playing in the neighboring wood, a
groat giant suddenly appeared among the treos.
The little boy, with a scream of terror, tried to
run away. The giant, however, put his foot be
fore him and stopped him, for the little fellow
was no higher than the giant’s instep. He
stooped down, and taking the child between his
finger and thumb, li ted him up to hia eyes.
The poor follow screamed as loudly as he could,
but the giant only exclaimed : “ Why, this little
animal can scream I”
“Alas, Mr. Giant,” said the child, “I’m not a
little animal, but an unfortunate little boy, who
begs you not to kill him."
J he giant then began to skip over the tops of
the trees lor joy, exclaiming: “ This little thing
can speak I”
The poor child, with joined hands, began to
entreat:
“Oh, please,{do let me go !’’
“No, no,” replied be; “you speak so nicely,
and you are such a nice little fellow, I should
like to keep you. Do you remember,” he con
tinued, “ that you said the same this morning
to your pretty bird ? Beside, I’ve got you, so
you belong to me.”-
“ I was very naughty then and made bad use
of my strength.”
" I know that very well,” replied the giant,
“and I might do the same; if I liked I could
even kill you, but I will be more just. 1 only
want to teach you that it is very wrong to do
harm only because you have the power to do it.
Go and let your bird loose, and in future don’t
destroy birds as yon have done."
You may be sure he agreed to thia. He at once
let fly hia many-colored bird and during the re
mainder of his life never forgot the lesson he
had been thus taught.— From “ French Fables."
Stanton’s Public_ Receptions.
The Great War Secretary was Always
Accessible to Soldiers Who Had
Fought.
(From the Century Magazine.)
Although Mr. Stanton was by nature an ac
cessible man, it was simply impossible for him
to give private audience to a tithe of the persons
who daily inquired ior him. Even Senators and
Representatives in Congress often had difficulty
in seeing him at times and in the manner they
desired, and frequently accepted pot luck with
the crowd in the public reception room. Col.
Hardie, a handsome Scotch looking officer, took
charge of this room early in the morning, and,
in the name and by authority of the Secretary,
dispatched the business of such as neither
needed nor insisted upon the personal action of
the Secretary... Ho also sent in the names of
such callers as he thought the Secretary would
privately receive, and, from time to time, went
m himself to take the Secretary’s commands
upon some case of special difficulty or import
ance.
As nearly as possible to eleven o’clock, the
secretary, who had an almost religious regard
for this daily observance, cams into the room
and took station at the little high desk near the
bottom, Col. Hardie or Major Pelouze being in
attendance to assist him. He waved everybody
back who approached him, until he had com
pleted a deliberate scrutiny of the company,
and had received from the officer in attendance
a statement, in a low voice, of the exceptionally
urgent or meritorious cases.
Then, one after another, he indicated those
whom he wished to draw near, beginning with
the soldiers, and, after them, calling up the
plainly dressed women, who looked as though
they might be soldiers’ kinfolk. If he happened
to notice that a soldier had crutehea or was
weak from illness he would leave the desk and
go to him where he was seated. Officers bear
ing visible tokens of wounds or disability were
also preferred suitors, but with other gentlemen
of tbs shoulder straps he was usually curt.
Civilians he treated accordingly as his humor
was affected by their statements or manner, but
there was always a general observance of the
underlying principle that this public reception
was for those who had no other means ot access
to him. It was here that Mi'. Stanton might
usually be seen at his best If a case of unusual
galantry, merit, or suffering were stated, he
would comment upon it aloud to the company,
ending with a moral inviting to patriotism,
virtue or fortitude. On the other hand, if he
found a woman suppliant embarrassed by the
publicity of statement and action he would draw
her beyond the desk to the window recess and
hear her there, or send her to his room to be
beard more leisurely or privately.
Some of ns need to think, while watching the
Secretary at these receptions, that a great power
had been loot to the pulpit when he became a
lawyer-; for he was an admirable preacher, and
far from averse to sermonizing.
aTougiTcase.
A LIGHTNING CHANGE ARTIST.
(From the Atlanta Constitution.)
“I ran against a tough case a few days ago,”
said a Chicago drummer, in a clicking way. “It
was in Chicago, which by the way, beats all
creation in everything but base ball. A girl—
she was not more than 20, very pretty and as
innocent looking as a lamb—wae caught beg
ging and looked upfor obtaining money under
false pretences. When taken to police head
quarters and searched the girl was found to bo
arrayed in the garments of a lightning change
artist of the vaudeville stage. Her dress re
vealed a new phase of criminal cleverness, and
when she saw that she was discovered, Miss
Innocence owned up and operated herjeostume
for the entertainment of her captors. She wore
a tight, dark suit, and, what seemed to be a
dark felt hat with one of those rolling wide
brims so often seen upon the streets. A swift
emplacement of many hooks, eyes and buttons
and a deft movement ot fingers' around the bat,
changed the shape and drapery of dress, re
vealing a differently colored front, and upon
her head was a neat turban. Another manipu
lation of the dress changed her into a Sister of
Charity and still another into a fashionably
dressed girl. Hundreds of charitable people
and nearly every church of every denomination
in Chicago had given up to her. Only Chicago
could have produced such a girl. And I think
it will take good care of her for many days.”
a storFfor boys.
I CAN’TAND I WILL.
When bed-time came, Sammie looked so hap
py his mother said she knew he had something
to tell her, and he laughed and said ’twas a long
story, but ho thought for all that she would like
to hear it, and as mother certainly did want to
hear it, he began :
“ Well, all the way to school this morning I
kept thinking of ‘ I cau’t ’ and ‘ I will,’ and said
to myself, • I will make this old temper of mine
give in.’ Yesterday I thought, ‘ Oh, I can’t, I
can’t, but now I will,’ and the first thing while I
was thinking these thoughts, some one jumped
at njb and screeched * Boo,’ as loud as he could,
and there was that bothersome Nick Neal
again, and my first thought was, ‘ I can’t keep
my temper,’but quick as a flash, I said: ‘I
will.' Soljust laughed and said: ‘Well, that
was pretty well done, Nick. Suppose you try it
again.’ Well, he plagued me all the way to
school, and that • can’t ’ and ‘ will' kept up a
battle all the whole way, but ‘ will ’ came out
victorious.”
“ Well done,” says mother, “I’m glad to hear
that.”
“ But the best of it,” continued Sammie,” was
when recess came. Nick wanted to borrow a
knife, and none of the fellows would lend him
one—his hands were dirty, and he looked so
mean. I had another battle with ‘can’t’ and
‘will,’ bnt up I marched and handed Nick my
knife. And if you’ll believe it, mother, Nick
used it as careful as he could, and when he
brought it back, said, like a gentleman, ‘ Thank
you, Sam ; I won’t bother you any more, nor
won’t let any of the other fellows, either.’
“ But after recess I failed in geography, after
I’d spent an hour studying, and thought I knew
my lesson perfectly. Oh, how I wanted to growl
and fret; but then came another battle with
‘can’t’ and ‘will,’ and I got the better of my
temper again.
“ This afternoon, while we were playing ball,
Tommy Ting let the ball fly right iu my face,
and gave me the biggest blow; my, how it
hurt I I ached to hit him back, and ’twas the
worst battle I had to-day; temper kept saying,
‘ I can’t restrain myself,’ then the ‘ good giant’
would say, ‘ I will;’ and so I said, • Please try
and not do that again. Tommy,’ and he actually
wanted me to take a dime his father gavs him
to spend, but of course I wouldn’t.
“I had one more battle when cook wouldn’t
give me a biscuit after school; but it came easy
that time; and I rather imagine 111 keep right
on fighting, by-and-by I won’t have so much
trouble with this temper of mine.”
HE GOT THE BLOOD.
It Was Taken from the Nose of One
Who Failed to Make It.
In the published memoirs of John Bernard,
an old English actor, is a story told of Fennell
and a property man, who became so interested
in Fennell’s performance of Maobeth that he
forgot to attend to his duties. Fennell, striding
off the stage with due effect to murder Duncan,
called for the rose-pink to give his hands and
dagger ths necessary token. The demand
aroueed Obadiah to exclaim, inquiringly:
“ Mister I”
“ Where’s the blood, sir?”
, “Blood, sir? 'Tarnal natur’, I hain't made
none I”
“No blood, sir I no blood ! when the plot ol
the play, my very return to the stage, where the
audience are expecting me, depends on it 1”
“Sure alive, sir, I’m mortal sorry; but—
Here ths fellow paused, speechless and mo
tionless, gazing in Fennell’s face and Fennell in
his. His genius pointed out the only way by
which the respect duo to Macbeth and to the
audience could be maintained. Doubling his
muscular arm he planted with the speed of
lightning a well-directed blow on the nose of the
offender. In an instant out gushed a liberal
stream ot crimson. Fennell, without departing
one iota from the dignity of his assumption,
caught it in his hands, smeared with it his dag
gers, then bending on the stupefied delinquent,
who had staggered against the wall, a look ot
satisfied vengeance, strode back to the stage to
exclaim, with more than usual emphasis;
“I have dons the deed I”
Thia poet relates a story of a young lady who
was
DISGUSTED WITH A BASHFUL MAtf.
He sat beside her near the stove,
A prey to bashlulaess;
To her he spoke no words of love,
Nor sought her band to press.
No maiden ever had been wooed
By him; the fact was plain,
For silently he sat and chewed
The knob upon his cane.
Sometimes he at the celling gazed,
Sometimes his glance would stray
To her, but when her eyes she raised,
Ho looked another way.
And thus they silent sat till she
Said, ’• John, I ought to state
That pa and ma are out to tea,
And won’t return till late.
“ Now while they’re absent, do not tease
But pray remember this :
My hand you must not try to squeeze,
Nor steal from me a kiss.’*
At ones the knob that graced his cane
John from his mouth withdrew.
And said, “I won’t; don’t think, Miss Jane,
That I’d do that to you 1”
A deeper silence then ensued
Thau had prevailed beiore;
John vigorously his cane’s knob chewed,
A frown Jane's visage wore.
And thus they sat till half past ten,
And when John rose to go,
And asked if he might cull again,
Jane curtly answered, •* No I”
Old “ Carl Dander” presents his worldly wis
dom about the way of
BRINGING OOP A POY.
Sometimes somepody comes to me and says vhas
I Carl Dunder? I vhas. All right, Mr. Dander.
How yoa do mit your poy Shake vhen he vhas a
leedle feller? Vhell, I take him oop on my knee und
say:
“Shakie, once oopon sometimes der vhas a leedle
poy aboudt sojhigh. und he haf a fat face und short
legs, und his ladder vhas some Dutchmans.”
“Vhas dot me, fadder?”
“Vhell, pooty near It vhas. Dis leedle poy vhas
sent oudt to pick oop chips for his mother, und he
runs avhay. He goes in some woods all py himself,
und pooty queek a great big wolf shlips oudt on
him und says;
•• ’Leedle poy, how you come here ?’
“'I runs avhay?
“•Doan’ you haf some good homes, und won’t
your parents kiudt mit you ?’
•> ‘Yes?
“ Vhell, you vhas a badt poy, und I shall oat you
all to pieces I ’ ”
Dot makes my poy un.derstandt dot some bad
ness vhas all wrong und shall be punished, und
dot a goodt poy vhas all right, und so he doan*
make us some droubles. Sometimes somepody
comes to me und says, vhas I Carl Dunder? I
vhas. All right, Mr. Dunder; how you do mit your
poy Shake vbsu he vhas twelf years oldt? Vhell, I
calls him oop some day and say:
“Shake, doan’ be afraidt uff me. I vhas your
fadder, but I vhas also your freudt. Come und tell
me if you haf some droubles. I like you to haf lots
of fun, bat I like you to shday home nights und
not pe foolish mil your money. Be civil mit safer?-
pody. Be honest und truthful. It vhas prains dot
make der money dor-lay. und prains vhas no goodt
unless you go to school.”
Vhell, dot makes Shake all right, und we baf some
good times, and he vhas a good poy. Sometimes
somepody comes to me once more und says vhas I
Carl Dunder? I vhas. All right. Mr. Dunder, how
you do mit your poy Shake Then he vhas 18? Vhell
I calls him oop und says:
“Shake, you vhas a long time In school, and it
vhas now time for peesnese. Go mit a shtore—in a
shop—in somepody's office. Id three years more
you vhas a man und must help der world moaf on.
A good man vhas sure to get along, but a badt one
vhas all gone to pieces- in no time. I may gif you
some money, but you must make yourself. Der
worldt vhill sbudge you by your character, und not
by your money. If you vhas clean in your mouth
und square in all your doings, eaferypody vhas
your trendt und your life vhas pleasant. Go oudt,
my poy, und remember dot I vhas always your
ftendt when you vhas right.”
“Und dot vhas aIL”
Even the Inter-State act brings out some hu
mor from the American funny men, who have
discovered that
THEY MUST PAY THEIR FARE.
The Toledo Blade resurrects the following pla
card, which many years ago was conspicuously sus
pended In the office of a general passenger agent in
Ohio*.
Thou shaft not pass.—Numb., xx. 18.
Suffer not a man to pass,— Judg., iii. 28.
The wicked shall no more pass.—Nahum, i. 5.
None shall ever pass.—lsaiah, xxxtx. 10.
This generation shall not pass.—Mark, xiii. 30.
Though they roar, yet they shall they not pass.—
Jer., ii. 42.
So he paid the fare and went.—Jonah, j. 3,
To which the Shoe and Leather Reporter adds these
Shakespearean inhibitions of the pass:
“The ways are dangerous to pass.”—“Two Gen
tlemen of Verona.”
“He shall not pass you.”—•• Measure for Meas
ure.”
•* I have no power to let her pass.”—“ Henry VL”
“These silken-coated slaves I not pass.”—“Hen
ry VL”
“You may not pass; you must return."—“Corio
lanus.”
“My lord, you pass not here.”—“Titus Androni
ous."
“Then thou canst not pass.”—”Romeo and Ju
liet.”
Thia woman knew how to catch on to
A DISAGREEABLE SITUATION.
She had selected the biggest trunk in a Pittsburg
salesroom, and when the clerk asked her if it was
for the seashore, she replied:
“ Thatdepeuds.”
“On the ?"
“No, sir. My husband has put his last dollar
Into wheat. If the price goes up, we go to Long
Branch in July. If ii go. s dowh, we’ll want this
trunk to go to housekeeping in out West.”
It is so seldom that the much-cursed composi
tor, the man of types and spelling and punctua
tion, word ot commendation, that wa
willingly publish these verses indited
TO A COMPOSITOR.
0 much-reviled and harshly-scolded one,
I—of the pen a humble wielder—can
Witness that you with my essays have been
A very patient, long forbearing m&u.
Full many a word ommitted you’ve sreppliod.
And many a word superfluous left out..
And many an Involved paragraph released.
And many a line parenthesized about.
And O, what thanks for semicolons, and
Whole colons, too, to you, my friend, belong;
Help which from realers mine the fact has kept
That 1 in punctuation am not strong.
True, once you cruelly “boiled” my heroine
When she but “toiled,” and once amazed I saw
My hero “kicked" instead of “kissed,” and once
You made me lay down “jaw” in place of “law."
But I forgive you. and your oause espouse.
Let others frown at you, I am your friend,
And will be even when—l fear too soon—
My little literary labors end.
The whist player will not blame Mr. Brooke,
under the circumstances, for
QUITTING THJE GAME.
Out in the west end of Portland (Oregon) there is
a whist club composed of middle-aged ladies and
gentlemen, who meet once a week. An incident
'’occurred last week which broke off amicable rela
tions between two families. Mr. Brooks had for a
partner a neighbor lady, who played whist fairly —
for a woman. Games'were even, and tho score was
six and six on the seventh game. It was during
the last hand that the unpleasantness occurred.
Mr. Brooks and his partner had five trioks and
their opponents six. Eleven trumps had been
played, and two cards remained. It was Mr,
Brook’s partner's lead. She fumbled nervously
several seconds, undecided which card to play. Evi.
dently she held the commanding trump and was
considering whether if she led the trump she
would find the thirteenth in her partner's baud,
and whether it were not better to lead the odd suit
card, allowing her partner's trump, if ho held it. to
fall, thus securing the game. Under these circum
stances, if they existed, a good player might be
forgiven for slight delay, but after fumbling sev
eral seconds longer the lady laid both cards face
down on the table and inquired of the lady on hat
right:
“ Maggie, where did you get those eggs that yot
put under the speckled hen ?”
Mr. Brooks left the table, rushed to the hall, aul
quitted the house without the formality of saying
good night.
SCINTILLATIONS.
A relic of the passed—A bit of card
board which will not be honored by any railroad
after March 31.
When you inquire anxiously after tha
health of the furnace in the morning, it is not ex
actly comforting to be told that it is “well enough
to bo out.”
Belmont, Ga., boasts of a woman who
“goes out and. chops the wood with her husband."
It is customary to use an ax, but ho may be an un
usually sharp man.
Young lady (to brother) —“ Bob, what
is the most fashionable color for a bride ?” Bob—
“ Well, sis, I don’t know about fashion, but for me
I should prefer a white one.”
“ What’s a life insurance ?” asked one
boy of another. “ Well, I s’pose,” said his compan
ion, "it s a concern that keeps a man poor all tha
time he’s alive so that he may die rich.”
As viewed by the fair. “ Mr. Money,
bag baa buried ma third wife. Can you fancy •
woman marrying such a monster?” “ Wed, ho is
°gly. but, then, he does give such magnificent fu
nerals I”
Wigwug—“ I don’t know what I’m to
do about that bill I owe at Sontag's; he annoys me
fearfully.” Wife—“ Well, you know if he become
unbearable, you can pay it." Wigwug—“ Yes, I
can do that.”
“Iu Armenia the bride is not allowed,
to speak in the presence of her husband’s mother.”
A legend exists that in America there are time*
when the husband is not allowed to speak tn the
presence of his wife's mother.
“ Never would call a boy of mine
•Alias, said Mrs. Jones, “if I had a hundred to
name. Men by that name is alius cuttin' up oa
xx. wf 6 8 Alias Thompson, Alias Williams,
Alias tha Nighthawk—all been up for stealin’.”
Ha waa a sad-eyed man. He must
h»vo been henpecked. She said, - Now, make baste-
I don’t believe you would hurry to do anything for
me if I were dying.” He said, “Wouldn’t?- If I
only, thought ” But his eye caught tho wo-
man 5, and he never concluded that speech.
A variety actor attempted to allay a
panic in a theatre by coming on the stage and be
ginning to slug, “Don't Leave Your Mother, Tom.”
Iho efforts of th“ audience to get out of the house
wore increased seventy-five per cent, thereby, and
many persons were seriously injured, baths strug*
gle.
Coughing in a shady grove,
Sat my Julianna.
Lozenges I gave my love
ipecacuanha.
And from the box the lovely maid
A score or two did pick.
And turning to mo sweetly said,
“ Dear Damon I am thick !"
ToConsiwtiveS
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