New York dispatch. [volume], June 12, 1887, Page 7, Image 7

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

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not ;s I WILL.
BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
Blindfolded and alone 1 stand,
With unknow i thresholds on each hand;
The darkness deepens ns I grope.
Afraid to fear, airaid to hope;
xet this one thing I learn to know
tach day more surely as I go.
That doors are opened, ways are made,
Bardens are lilted or are laid
By some great law unseen and still,
Unfathomod purpose to iulfill,
■•Not as I will."
Blindfolded and alono I wait;
Loss seems too bitter, gain too late;
Too heavy burdens in tne load.
An 1 too few helpers on the road;
And joy iB weak and gnef is strong.
And years and daj s so ong, so long I
Yet this one thing I ioarn to know
Each day more sure y as I go,
That I am gla 1 the good an I ill
By changeless la v are ordered still,
•‘ Not as 1 will."
*• Not as I will the sound grows sweet
Each time my Lps the words repeat;
B ‘ Not as I will,’ t .e darkness feels
More safe than light when this thought steals
Like whispered v-> c ■ to calm and bless
A l unrest and ali loneliness.
•‘Not as I will,” because the One
Who loved us first and t est has gone
Before ns on t«.e road, and still
Lor us must ail Hus love fulfill—
•• hoc as we w ill !’*
BY E. ADAIR.
” And there are the Chances -you must know
tho Chances?” Harry Belford’s manner w«s
always brisk, but ar mention of the Chances’
Xiame it became even brisker.
“I have no objection,” w .s the reply.
“Right-down eort oi girls—no nonsense
about them, you know. I say, Fort’’—Harry
lowered his legs from I heir comfortable eleva
tion on his friend’s tnintel-piece, and bent for
ward eagerly to make his reposition, his hands
in his pockets, his elbows st oking out squarely
• —“ let us go round there now.”
“ Now?” repeated ort, in astonishment. “It
is close on eight o’clock, is it Tesselton form to
drop inu-casually at eight o’clock in the evening
to make your first c 11 ?”
“ Bless you I” returned Harry, with an easy
laugh; “you have no idea how casual the
Chances are themselves. This is their regular
Reception evening, and some other fellows are
Hire to 1 e there, so come along.”
After a moment’s consideration, Fort assented.
Fie had just been appointed to a mastership in
Tessleton School, and Bad arrived in town only
a couple of days previously, whereas Harry was
a native of the place, and might therefore, fa rly
be considered a good authority on its manners
and customs.
“How many Miss Chances are there?” asked
Fort, as they turned out into the street. It was
a keen, frosty night, with a moon overhead that
looked like a wh re sickle, sharply defined
against a deep-bu-d sky.
“Six—six, seven.”
“ Sevan chances to one against your remain
ing a bachelor, Harry.
“ What a wret bed joke. I hope you are
ashamed of it : L see you are. However, many
a true word is spoken iu ,est. I may make one
of them mistress of Crosslands one ot these
days. It is only tour to one against me, though,
for the two voungest girls are still in the school
toon).”
“ Two from seven leaves five.”
“ Ah, but nobody counts Miss Chance. They
■call her the mischance of the family here,”
Harry, said, with his usual laugh.
“ What is wrong with her ?”
“ Nothing in particular. She seems an in
offensive kind of girl enough. I don’t dislike
her, but she is older than the others, and they
father laugh at her. Here we are. You’ll feel
at home in a jiffy.”
Which statement proved to be strictly correct.
Fort soon found himself one of a merry
group of young people in Colonel Chance’s hos
pitable drawing-room. He looked round with
fcome curiosity. Colonel and Mrs. Chance were
playing chess near the fire, leaving the enter
tainment of their guests to their daughters—an
arrangement which seemed thoroughly satis
factory to all concerned. The four Miss
Chances, who “counted, ’ struck him as being
Fike four robins—brown haired, red cheeked,
pretty, plump and pi ( wants. The eldest sister
Was quite unlike them, taller, and—Fort found
a word that exactly defined her to his own
mind—quiet-looking.
“Are you going to the bazaar, Harry?”
asked the four robins, in chorus, ot Belford*
“ Yes ; are you, Kato ?”
Harry directed his question to one in par
ticular.
“ Of course ; we take the flower stall—three
Of us, Sara and I ’’—and here came a short
|)ause, followed by a laugh that jarred on Fort
and Lollie.”
Two or three youths of tender years, who
Were also ot the party, gave themselves up to
suppressed amusement ; there was evidently a
fcood joke somewhere, though Fort could not
see it at once—not till ho noticed a pained flush
on Miss Chance’s usually pale face.
“I am not likely to be of much use,” she re- ;
marked, gently. “ Une of you must take my
place.”
“ Wo could not think of such a thing,” de
clared Katie, maliciously. “ Mrs. L’Estrango
particularly named you. She says Lollio leads
too retired a life for a voung girl,” she added,
With an air of simplicity, yet looking round at
her audience with a glance that somehow
evoked responsive smiles from most of them.
Lollie said no more, bus withdrew to the
Other side of the room. The action was full of
unobtrusive dignity, which Fort pronounced to
po “ good.”
The next moment he was taken possession of
by Miss Sara Chance, anti led away to look at
Some photographs, but in the pauses of his con
versation with that attractive young woman, he
-Gould not avoid bearing something of the talk
between Kate and Harry, who sat close by.
“ So absurd ot Mrs. JL’Estrange to insist on
Lbllie’s being at the flower stall,” the girl was
laying. “ I cannot fancy her proving a very (
Successful saleswoman.”
» VU buy no end of chrysanthemums ■
from her,” volunteered Harry,
faith conscious generosity.
“ You are always good-natured, Harry, but ■
One swallow does not make a Summer,” she
replied. Then, catching Kort’s eye, she added,
in an altered voice and manner : “ Poor old
Lollie! I am sorrv for her. She would have
done better selling her own hard work.”
“ What has she macle for the bazaar ? Art
Ueedle-work ?”
Again there was clearly an’ understood joke,
for Katio laughed.
“For shame, H rry. No, she has made any
quantity of coarse underclothing. She says the
poor people will be glad to buy it instead of or
namental things. I’m sure I hope they may.”
Fort rose abruptly he could beai’ this no
longer—and crossed the room to Miss Chance’s
side. She was careiully folding some pretty
fancy-work.
“ Your work ?” asked Fort, touching it.
“Oh, no; Sara’s,” she answered, opening the
piece. “ She works beautifully; they are all so
©lever at this kind ol thing.”
She seemed pleased and proud to tell him of
it. He took a chair near her as he asked:
“Are they your step-sisters?”
••Oh, no; but many people ask that question.
I am so different and -and older.”
“Not much older, 1 should judge.”
“Five years older than Katie,” she said, with
determined candor.
“ But you are different—quite.”
Fort spoke with meaning. She raised her
gray eyes quickly to his face, then dropped
them, the still aspect that distinguished her
changing. For one short instant he believed he
paw her as she looked when alone, with sad
lines about her mouth, that told their own tale
Of unhappiness.
“ What are you talking about ?” Katie stood
before them in a pretty attitude.
“ Mr. Fort was saying how very unlike sisters
we are,” returned Rolli© tranquilly, and rose to
leave the room.
Katie’s bright face wore a mildly meditative
air as she looked alter her.
“Lollie has a hard nature, I sometimes
think,” she said, with well-assnmed innocence.
' M She does not seem to mind being quite apart ‘
from us as a family.”
Fort made no reply, but his grave eyes left an
nncomfortable impression on Katie’s mind. He
Was older, and therefore more interesting, than
most ol their admirers, she reflected. Lollie
could not call him a “tennis young man,”
which term she had once declared to be ex
haustively descriptive of Harry Belford and his
kind; no, he was quite thirty, a tall, grave
strong-looking man, of whom any girl might be
proud, and he had begun his career at Fdeu
mount Lodge in quite an original way, by sig
naling out Lollie lor attention.
“Pretty girl, Katie, eh?” said Harry to
bis friend before they parted, after leaving the
Chances’.
“ You consider her so, I can see.”
“I know what it is, Fort,” discontentedly
“you thought her rather hard on Lollie about
the bazaar.”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Well, she always is rather hard on her I’ll
admit, but, as she says herself, every true’wo
man has a pinch ol spite in her composition ”
“Then 1 should say Miss Chance is not a true
Woman. By the way, Belford, where is this
bazaar to be held?”
“ You go to a bazaar ? You don’t mean to say
you are going in tor reckless dissipation of that
Mind in your old age ?”
“ Why should 1 not, pray? Where is it to be
held?”
“At the Town Hall. Goodnight, I despair
*L m ® ? ar , rr ,not Ka,ie Chance he con
fided to her that he believed old Fort was goto"
iorth Purpose of meet“
She sai ? d! milSa mrßteri °Ußly. “ We shall see,”
Fort often recalled tho look of pathetic sur
prise With which Lollie had greeted the little i
commendatory phrase as to ler being unlike i
ter sisters that be bad dared to utter the even ■
Ing they first met. He often saw her in the
Streets of Tessleton before the day of the bazaar i
name, and he as o.ten spoke to her. or Walked « .i
little way beside her. But she met him with <
coldness and parted from him without regret 1
Her heart had been too long started for want of <
vaye and approbation, to readily accept or to t
r num a friendliness to which she was SO en- i
jirely unaccustomed.
When the day of the bazaar camo. Fort and
Harry went dowh to the Town Hall together.
The “flower-stall was evidently populat, for
many customers, chiefly young men, stood
about it. Katie and Sara, in coquettish and be
coming caps and aprons, an£ looking particu
larly bright and sparkling, were busily selling
their wares, while Lollie stood unemployed at
her end of the stall, nowand then handing tis
sue-paper, wire, or scissors to her sisters.
Harry went straight up to her, and fulfilled
his promise by buying an ungainly button-hole
in the shape of a huge chrysanthemum. It was
Harry s own choice, but the general laugh that
greeted it seemed to reflect some of the ridicule
on the blameless seller, whose quiet face slowly
crimsoned.
“-How could you let him have such a thing,
Lollie r” cried Kate, pointing the laugh.
But Lollie made no defense.
Fort felt very indignant, but Tessleton society
was no wiser or kinder than other societies. It
accepted the prevailing opinion ofLollie’s unin
terestingness and incapability to bo as charm
ing as her sisters, without troubling itself to
find out whether it were well- ounded or just.
Mrs. L’Lstrange was clearly alone in her rebel
lion against the family verdict.
He was roused from these thoughts by Ka
tie’s voice.
“Mr. Fort.” She was holding up a lovely
camellia. “Only sixpence. Let me put it in
for you.”
“ Thanks, no; I never deck myself with gar
lands,” returned Fort, with a grave smile, and
allowed himself to be elbowed away by tho
crush.
When he looked again Lollie had disappeared,
and another girl had taken her place. He
searched for her some time fruitlessly. At last
he found her in a sheltered corner, engaged in
tying up parcels that could not be put together
by the busy stall-keepers. She seemed quite
? content, although she looked tired.
i Fort wondered at her—wondered at the dig
’ nity with which she accepted the position her
sisters had chosen to thrust her into, prema
turely depriving her of girlhood’s privileges and
> reasonable pleasures.
“ I hope you will allow me to help you ?” said
he, making his way to her side.
“ Thanks; I have not very much to do. But
Katie or Bara will be glad of your ”
“I should infinitely prefer to stay here, if I
may,” he interrupted.
A flush rose to her face; she looked almost
pretty. Again her eyes met his, with the same
half-troubled astonishment he had found so pa
thetic once before. It seemed incredible that
any one should want to talk to her, especially
Mr. Fort, who was reported to be so clever, and
to have won all sorts of honors at Ox ord.
“ I know nearly every one here, so ple.-se ask
me the names of all that interest you,” she said
with a nervous smile.
“ Why are you called Lollie?” he re’oined,
with a directness of meaning that disturbed her
lor a moment.
“Aly real name is Charlotte—such an ugly
name; but I was called Lottie at first, then the
children, when they ware babies, altered it to
Lollie.”
“ The babies were fond of you ?”
“Yes, they all were. You can’t think how
sorry I was when they grew older.”
“ They became more companionable, surely.”
“Not to me. They are naturally more with
Katie now,” she said quite simply.
Fort was not a man of ready words. He did
not know how to express his ideas about the is
olated position she accepted so calmly, ft must
be hard for her, be knew: even Iter parents '
cared nothing for the plain, unpopular elder
daughter. He vainly wished that ho could al
ter the conditions of her lile, and make them
right and natural, and happier lor her.
“ What do you do with yourself all day long ?”
he asked, alter a prolonged pause.
“ Nothing, or as nearly nothing as it is possi- 1
ble for a human being to do and exist at the
same time. I can do nothing clever or amus- 1
ing, and very little that is useful. 1 have not 1
any hidden virtues, such as I see you are try- 1
ing to make me con ess to,” she said, smiling 1
sadly. “ Most girls like me are redeemed by J
being excellent, are they not? But 1 am not 1
excellent; lam merely a nonentity that feels she ?
is alive, and ” ’
She stopped short. She had never spoken *
like this to any one before. For once the long 1
control of years had given way under the soft
ening influence of his persistent kindess. 1
“ i beg your pardon, Mr. Fort.” She spoke 1
again in her usual even tones. ( -
He locked down at her with steady, kindly
eyes, and said: ‘ t
“Please finish that sentence. lam interest- ?
ed in what you were saying—‘and ’ ” i
“And is conscious of the misery of living,” €
she ended; then added, with a hard laugh, “It 1
is very kind of you to be interested in the sort k
of life lam describing. I don’t find it very in
teresting myself.” a
“What is not interesting?” Katie said, sud- r
denly appearing at her sister’s side. c
“ My life,” replied Lollie defiantly. s
She had the mental strength, the unflinching E
courage, that deals simply and directly with
facts, at all costs. c
Fort believed he should have evaded giving t
that answer rather than have met the raised
eyebrows and meaning shrug with which Katie
greeted it, and yet he believed himself to pos
sess some moral courage. He had pitied Lollie v
before, now he admired her. She seemed to be *
a plant with vigorous inner life, but nipped and n
pruned back at all points. There could be no a
sweet blossom, no fair fruit. But the stem was if
sound, and strong, and healthy, and surely pos- t'
sessed rare capabilities yet to be developed.
“Girls,” said Katie next morning, when the k
sisters were d.scussing the events of the ba- s
zaar, “ask Lollie what she was saying to Mr. ©
Fort last evening.” u
“ I shall not tell you,” declared Lollie, walk
ing straight out oi the room.
As she went up stairs, however, she could h
hear the sound of Katie’s voice, followed by a n
burst of merriment. She ran up and locked g
herself in her room. It was too unkind, too a
hard. Could not Katie be happy, and leave her
to live out her unloved, empty life alone ? s
At this moment she saw on her dressing-ta- o
ble a small paper parcel, with a note. It was a
man’s writing. She turned it over breathlessly e
in her shaking hands. Who would write to
her ? Interesting little missives often came to il
Edenmount in manly scrawls lor her sisters, fi
but none had ever come before directed to Miss 8
Chance. a
At length she opened it. A very short note
it was, that ran as follows: h
“ Dear Miss Chance—l have just been read
ing the enclosed, and found it interesting, so v
have taken the liberty of sending it on to you, e
thinking you might care to see it. D
“ Yours very truly, °
“ Blackburn Fort.”
Lollie read over the words several times, 11
then she looked at the book—a French story.
She understood at once his motive in sending r
it, and the counsel thus indirectly given. Iler i:
life might be barren, but her mind need not v
therefore lie fallow. She took no time to be- v
moan her unhappiness resulting from Katie’s a
teasing, but straightway went to the school
room, sought out the best French dictionary I
there, and, wrapping her shawl round her, sat v
down at once to the work of translation. k
Once, as she worked, she caught sight of her
own face in the glass.
“Lollie,” ehe said, gravely addressing her- k
self, “ you are quite pla-n and nearly thirty; do k
not fancy Mr. Fort has any interest in yon
nothing like H.irry Belford's in. Katie, for in- I
stance—beyond that of*a good man who tries to k
rectify the faults and failures ot the human be- c
ings about him. lam much obliged to Mr. 8
Fortfor his advice; he is kind,but”—she aether 1
lips and went on with her reading. But, alas I t
hearts are not always under head control, and
“a dream cometh through the multitude ot 1
business.” Certain vague thoughts and des- f
irea, vain as they were vague, came to her that a
bright Winter afternoon, that nevermore could I
be persuaded to leave her. a
After this Mr. Fort met her in the streets. He a
often came to Edenmount. But although he 8
found she was following his unspoken advice, I
and working hard at various subjects, she did t
not seem to grow any happier. Her demeanor 5
was still as reserved as ever; but he noticed i
her too closely not to see that the old listless- a
ness had deepened to depression, and negative c
merged into active wretchedness. He was dis
mayed at his own work. He had meant to do r
good, but the result was evil. Soon she began a
to avoid him quietly, but steadily ; indeed, she c
could do nothing else under Katie’s laughing, h
but keen-sighted eyes. Fort asked himself a
. what he could do for her now ? The answer, s
though disheartening, was final: Nothing ! a
Meanwhile, Lollie’s awakening nature had
budded and borne fruit at last. She had not i
followed her own advice ; the needs of the hu- f
man heart once called forth are imperious in i
their hunger. She telt keenly, bitterly, all that c
her life lacked, and although she never for an t
instant dreamed of return, she bad the miser- -
able knowledge of a hopeless love within her. -
The slights and ridicule of former days had
hurt and worried her, but now, with the keen
sensitiveness born of her new feelings, they
became absolutely intolerable. Her slow-mov- ii
ing nature once set in motion, bore down all o
opposition. She determined to leave home, s
and, to her surprise, Katie actually helped her a
to carry out her plans. She undertook to fill h
temporarily the post of superintendent in a (
Nurse’s Home. She was not a qualified nurse ; n
but, being rather in a dilemma for want of some t<
one to fill the post, the institute accepted her t<
services for the time.
The Home was situated in a'romote town in b
the north of England, far from Tessleton, and o
Lollie felt the change to the new lonely life. t<
The nurses were usually absent, and although s
she had a good deal to do, and characteristic- a
ally did her work thoroughly, still there were h
times when memory was too vivid, and the long- a
ing to see Blackburn Fort once more, almost b
too strong to be resisted. In the long winter
dusk she used to sit and picture the doings at h
home ; the merry voices ; Katies pretty, glow- E
ing face ; Mr. Fort’s step in the hall, the sound fi
of which she had learned to know so well. Was
he beginning to love Katie ? She imagined over c
and over again how beautiful, how true, how s
grand a thing his love could be. Happy Ka- c
tie 1
It was hard to force herself to go through her h
duties. The thought of all that might have
been, was a perpetual heart-sickness. Many an tl
impatient short sigh she heaved over her ac
count-books and the household linen. For a v
while her power of self-command failed her, u
but there would surely come a time when she s
should care less than she cared now, when use
•less regrets and desires, grown feeble, would h
cease to poison and spoil existence. Her sore a
heart, in its suffering, almost longed for the old c<
days of ignorance and deadness to return. It
sometimes seemed impossible to “ teach her d
trial patience,” to go on living her methodical b
monotonous life, far away from the sight 9}
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 12, 1887.
d events which, indeed, she could have no power
to alter, but which so keenly and intimately in
i’ terested her. Katie’s letters were feverishly
d expected ; they were suggestive, and the men
>- tion of Fort’s name grew more and more fre
-- quent. Ho had done and said this and that,
g They seemed to have grown confidential, for
it one day Katie wrote: “ You must have been a
1- source of amusement to him at one time. He
often speaks of you.” The very vagueness of
d this was its torment. What had she, Lollie,
e done? What had he said? Was he base enough
s to have dissected her heart and life for mere
it amusement?
e And so two weary months slipped by. It was
y January now, and the weather cold and raw.
One evening, when the light was almost gone,
■, and the lamps were lit in the street, Lollie sat
in h(?r usual chair, looking out, and giving her
self her daily indulgence of halt an hour of idle
y thought. The rain pattered dismally on the
t *wet pavements, and all else was silent, save the
- footfall ot an occasional passer-by. Suddenly,
- as a tall man passed, something m his gait or
0 appearance reminded Lollie of Blackburn Fort.
;. Her heart leaped and sank as he disappeared
- from sight up the street. Had she ever known
before how passionately dear he was to her ?
- The pang of recollection quivered through her
like physical pain.
r A stop—a knock. The servant had gone out;
1 she must open the door herself. She drew back
the latch. Blackburn Fort stood before her.
“Is anything the matter at home?” she
1 panted.
) “No; they are all as well as can be,” he re
plied, entering and shutting the door behind
, him. “Won’t you ask me how I am, Miss
) Chance ?”
t She murmured something unintelligible, for
1 her heart was fluttering in her throat.
: “ I have something very serious the matter
> with me, lam hopelessly ill,” he said, quietly.
How tall and strong he seemed in that nar-
■ row hall! And he was looking so gravely at
■ her. In a moment the reserve and self-con
sciousness faded from her mind. Yet hevas
ill, although he looked so strong—dying, per
haps I She sprang toward him, with hands
outstretched and a face that told him her secret
only too plainly.
i “Don’t say that! Can nothing be done?”
He caught her in his arms and held her
there.
“Yes, my darling, and you have done it I
You love me, Lollie, and that is all I need.”
A Story of French Society.
FROM THE FRENCH OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT.
She had been brought up in one of those
Tamil es that live shut up in themselves—and
that always seem out of the way of everything.
They know nothing about political events, not
withstanding they talk about them at table—
for them changes in the government are matters
which take place at such a distance that they
can only be spoken of as historical facts—like
the death ot Louis XVI. or the disembarking of
Napoleon.
Customs change, fashions succeed fashions,
in such quiet fam lies, where the old traditional
manners are always kept up, these changes are
never noticed. And it any shocking occurrence
happens in the neighborhood, all the scandal
dies away at the threshold of their door. At
most, the father and mother may possibly some
evening exchange a lew words on the subject;
but in a whisper, because even walls have ears.
And, discreetly, the father may observe:
“You heard about that shameiul affair in the
Rivoil family ?”
And the mother answers:
“ Who could ever have thought it ? It is
simply frightful.”
And the children suspect nothing, and reach
the age of life with a bandage over their eyes
and reason—without suspecting what the under
side of existence means—without knowing that 1
people do net think as they speak,, do not talk
as they act—without knowing that one must
Jive in a state of continual warfare, or, at best,
of armed peace, with everybody—without ever 1
imagining th, t one is always sure to be tricked
if one is simple, deceived if one is sincere, mal r ■
treated if one is kind and good.
Some go on to the moment of their death in -
this blindness of loyalty, honor and probity— :
beings so thoroughly upright that nothing can
open their eyes.
Others, ultimately disabused, yet unable to
understand, are perpetually stumbling here .
and there in wild desperation, and die at last 1
in the belief that they have been the sport of ]
exceptional ill fortune—the wretched victims of ’
unlucky circumstances and of peculiarly evil- ,
hearted men.
The Savignols married their daughter Berthe J
at the age of eighteen. She married a young ’
man from Paris named Georges Baron, w’ho was .
connected with the Exchange. He was a hand
some fellow, talked well, had an exterior man
ner in all respects calculated to inspire confi
dence; but within himself he made “fun of his
old-fashioned parents-in-law. whom he spoke of
to his own friends as “ My dear fossils.”
He belonged to a good family, and his young
wife was rich. He took her to Paris to live.
There she became one of that peculiar pro- l
vincial class so numerous in the'metropolis, the
remained totally ignorant of the great city—ig
norant of its fashionable society, its pleasures,
and its ways—just as she had always remained
ignorant of life and its perfidies and its mys- t
teries. j
Always shut up in her own household, she r .
knew little of any street except her own, and if
she ever ventured into another quarter it seem- 1
ed to her like a long voyage to some foreign and t
unfamiliar city, bhe would say in the evening: i
“I crossed the boulevards to-day.”
Two or three times a year her husband took
her to the theatre. These rare amusements g
were great events for her, which she never for- t
got the impression of, and was always talking e
about. j
Sometimes, three months afterward, she would r
suddenly burst out laughing at table, and cry a
out:
“ Don’t you remember that actor in the gen- c
eral's uniform, who crowed like a cock ?” 1
All her acquaintances were limited to two fam- 1
flies distantly related to her own, and these two i
families represented all she knew of hummity. t
She always spoke of them as “ tho Martinets ” c
and “the Michelints.” t
Her husband lived as he pleased, coming
home just when it suited him—sometimes at 1
daylight, always with the pretext of having been a
very busy; never bothering himself much, how- f
ever, to find excuses, so certain did he feel that c
no suspicion could ever enter the candid mind a
of his wife. j.
But one morning she received an anonymous 5
letter. c
She remained for the moment thunder-struck g
—being too upright of heart to comprehend the
infamy of denunciations, to despise the missive 1
wbose author pretended to be inspired by a
wish for her happiness, by the hatred of evil, 1
and by the love of truth. j
It was thus revealed to her that her husband g
had for two years been intimate with a young 1
widow, Madame Rosset, and used to pass all r
his evenings with her.
She did not know how to dissimulate, or to
feign, or to spy, or to lay plans. When he came a
home to breakfast, she simply threw down the a
letter before him, and fled sobbing to Her room.
He had ample time to understand, to prepare r
his answer ; and, having done so, he went and e
knocked at his wife’s door. She opened it at.
once, with her eyes down, not daring to look r
at him. He smiled, sat down, took her in his c
lap, and then in a gentle, half mischievous c
tone, he said : j
“My little darling, it is true that Madame a
Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her c
for ten years, and think very highly of her ; c
and may also tell you that I know twenty other 1
families whom 1 have never to you about, y
simply because I know you don’t care about t
society and receptions and introductions, and
all that sort of thing. But now, in order to t
make an end of all these infamous denuncia- g
tons, I bog you will be good enough to dress a
yourself immediately after breakfast, and let c
us make a visit together to this young lady. I c
am sure you will become good friends right
off.” g
She bugged and kissed her husband ; and, c
moved by that feminine curiosity which, once g
aroused, is not easily put to sleep again, she e
did not even refuse to pay a visit to this un
known woman, of whom she could not help
still feeling a little suspicious. She felt in
stinctively that a'danger, once known, is half /
averted.
She entered a pretty little room, full of charm
ing oddities, decorated with art, on the fourth
floor of a fine house. After five minutes’ Wait- I
ing in a drawing-room, shadowed by hangings, «
draperies and curtains gracetu ly arranged, v
the door opened aad a young woman appeared n
—very dark, small, a little inclined to be stout r
—who smiled and looked surprised. 0
Georges introduced them to each other : r
“ My wife, Madame Julie Rosset.” e
The young widow uttered a little cry of aston- t
ishment and joy, and rushed forward, holding r I
out both her hands. She hid never hoped, she v
said, for such good fortune, knowing that Mad- t
ame never received visitors; but she was so li
happy—so delighted ! She was so fond oi j<
Georges (she called Georges with sisterly fa
miliarity), that she had always been just crazy
to know his little wife, and to be fond to her, n
too! 0
Before a month was over the two women had ji
become inseparable friends. They saw each a
other everyday, often twice a day; and dined v
together every evening, sometimes at one house, s
sometimes at the other. Georges now did not
absent himself from home any more—declared n
his business no longer occupied all his time, a
and saying that he loved to sit by his own 1<
hearth. ' a
Finally, some apartments being vacant in the b
house occupied by Madame Rosset, Madame a
Baron at once rented it, so as to be nearer her t<
friend, and more often with her. a
And for two whole years there followed a fl
cloudless friendship—a friendship of heart and
soul—absolute, tender, sell-sacrificing, deli- V 5
cions. Berthe could scarcely open her mouth tl
without pronouncing the name of Julie, who, to n
her mind, represented perfection herself. h
She lived in happiness—a perfect, quiet, gen- xi
tie happiness a
But all of a sudden Madame Rosset became 0
very sick. Berthe never left her side. She sat t(
up with her night after night—her husband him- c;
self seeming to share all her anxiety.
Now, one morning, the doctor, after making h
his usual visit, took Georges and his wife aside, n
and told them that he considered their friend’s o
condition very serious indeed.
As soon as he was gone, the young couple sat tl
down and looked at each other, in dismay ; then k
both burst into tears. All that night they u
togethw toaide th® fi
;r • tenderly kissed the sick woman from time to
1- l time ; while Georges, standing at the foot of her
y bed, watched her all the while without moving
1- his eyes 'rom her face.
a- Next day she was still worse.
t. Finally, toward evening, she declared sho felt
r better, and constrained her friends to go down
a stairs to dinner.
e They were sitting in their own apartments,
)f sadly, feeling no inclination to eat anything,
), when the housekeeper came in and handed
h Georges a note. He opened it, turned livid,
e and rising, said to his wile in a strange manner:
“ Wait tor me a moment, 1 must go out; I will
s be bock in ten minutes. Above all things, don’t
’. go away.”
», And be ran to his room to get his hat.
it Berthe waited for him, tortured by a new anx
■- iety. But, obedient in all things, she did not
e think of returning to her friend’s room before
e Georges should return.
9 As he did not come back, it occurred to her to
, go to his room and see if be had taken hia
r gloves, which would be a sign that he had gone
. out to make a visit.
1 But the gloves were' there; ehe saw them at
1 the very first glance. Beside them lava piece ot
? crumpled paper. She recognized that also. It
r was the note which had just been given to
Georges.
; And a burning temptation—the very first she
i had ever felt in her whole life—came’upon her
to read, to find out. Her conscience, revolting,
3 struggled against it; but the gnawing of a pain
ful and terribly excited curiosity urged her on.
- She took the paper, opened it, and recognized
I Julie’s handwriting—a trembling scrawl, writ
-5 ten in pencil. She read:
“ Come by yourself, and kiss me, my poor
r friend; lam going to die.”
At first she did not understand, and stood
f there stupefied-being espec ally shocked by
. the idea oi death. Then, suddenly, the familiar
- tone of the letter caught her attention, and as in
t one great lightning-flash, illuminating her wholo
• life, she saw all the infamous truth, all tbe.r
J treason, all their perfidy, She understood their
- long deceit, their looks, their silent mockery of
J her good faith, their betrayal of her confidence,
t She saw them again, each in front of the other
at evenings, under tho shade of her own
lamp, reading the same book, consulting each
• other with their eyes at tho end of each page.
And her heart swollen with indignation,
! bruised with suffering, sank in a limitless de
spair.
Footsteps approached—she fled, and locked
herself in her own room.
A little while alter her husband called her:
“ Come quick I Madame Rosset is dying.”
Berthe appeared at her door, and said, with
white and trembling lips:
“Go back alone to her I she has no need of
mo !”
He stared at her wildly, half crazed by grief,
and repeated:
“ Quick 1 quick ! she is dying I”
Berthe replied:
“You would be better pleased if it were me.”
Then, perhaps, he understood, and went back
alone to the chamber of the dying woman.
He wept for her without dissimulation, with
out shame, indifferent to the grief of Jiis wife,
who no longer spoke to him or looked at him,
and lived alone with her disgust for him, in
dumb anger, praying morning and night to God.
Nevertheless, they still lived together, ate
together at the same table—in silence and de
spair.
Gradually his grief calmed down, but she did
not forgive him.
And so life went on—terribly unhappy for both
of them.
For one year they remained as completely
strangers to each other as if they had never
met. Berthe almost went mad.
Then one morning she le t the house at dawn,
and returned about eight o’clock, carrying in
both hands an enormous bouquet oi roses—
white roses—all white.
And she sent word to her husband that she
des red to speak to him.
He came, feeling anxious, uneasy.
She said to him:
“We are going out together. Plense carry
these flowers—they are too heavy for me.”
He took the bouquet, and .oliowed his wife.
A carriage was waiting for them; it started
immediately they had taken their seats.
She stopped at the gate of the cemetery. Then
Berthe, whose eyes filled with tears, said to 1
Georges:
“ Take me to her tomb.”
Ho trembled without knowing why, and walk- ;
ed on before her, still carrying the flowers in
his arms. Finally he stopped bo ore a white
marble, and designated it without saying any
thing.
Then ehe took the great bouquet from him,
and, kneeling down, laid it at the foot of the
grave. Then she prayed for a little while—
prayed suppliantly and* silently !
Standing behind her, her husband, haunted
by memories, was weeping.
She rose up, and held out her hands to him.
“If you wish,” she said,“we will be friends.”
—New Orleans Times-Democrat,
HE SALUTED HIM.
A Painful Incident in the Humdrum
of Life at Fort Dakota.
(From the Dakota Sell.')
Two officers at Fort Yatea recently had a fight
to settle the point whether or not the Second 1
Lieutenant should saluto tho First Lieutenant. 1
This matter of precedence in the army is a very
delicate point, and it isn’t the first time that it ’
has made trouble in military circles in Terri- 1
torial forts. A number of years ago, right here <
in Sioux Falls, at old Fort Dakota, it made 1
trouble. f
The officer who took care of tho horses in one 1
stable insisted that the officer who took care of '
the mules in the same stable should salute him '
every time he raised up while using the pitch- 1
fork. The horse officer was the larger, and he 1
made the poor mule officer salute him till his (
arm was lame. e
But one day the mule officer was feeling cross <
on account of one of his command having kicked I
him through the ladder that went up to the
haymow, and when the horse gentleman came 1
in he saluted him over the bead with a four
tined pitchfork, and then ho jabbed him in mis- ‘
cellaneous places, and chased him all around c
the parade-ground, jabbing and pounding. i
It was one ot the most rapid and exciting I
military movements that has taken place in the c
army for years. You never in your life saw a 1
force so anxious to got at the enemy as was that 1
commander of the mules. It was the most 1
active campaign ever carried on by the United >
States army. The officer was just wild, and the f
way he swung that pitchfork and combed tho 8
other down tho back and jabbed it into him was 1
simply awful. e
He acted as if he were driving a mule team 6
up hill. t
And tho language that.pursuing force used! 1
You might go to West Point forty years, and 1
you wouldn’t hear anything like it. It was the ;
strangest kind of talk to nse in an important '
military operation that you ever heard. And ‘
much ot it seamed to reflect on tho officer that 1
was executing the masterly retreat. I
He seemed to have a grudge against him, t
and raked up old personalities and family 8
affairs that you never would have thought of. 1
But he kept right on saluting him with that 1
pitchfork, just as it he couldn’t hardly show him
enough respect.
He yelled and hooted, and made up a lot of I
new names that nobody ever heard before to
call him, and kept up his salutes with that rusty t
old pitchfork till ho broke threo tines off, and <
the officer of the horses didn’t have more than
about half his clothes left on. At last he tired 1
out, and fell back to the stable, and went right ’
on associating with those mnles just as if noth- £
mg had happened. He was the funniest man
you ever saw that way—he didn’t seem to be a
bit stuck up about his victory.
And after about six weeks’ the commander of r
the horses got back again, and told the other ho ■
guessed he had sainted him enough to last lor
about 200 years, and that he would susnend his
order that the mule officer must salute the horse
officer.
He said this homage and fawning of inferiors i
got to be perfectly sickening when they put it !
on as thick as that fellow did out on the parade s
ground. I
MISCHIEVOUS MONKEYS. I
AND THEIH PBAOHOAL JOKES, 1
(From the Youth’s Cmnpanionj)
A monkey, in chattering, emulates Ihe most 1
loquacious man or woman. His four feet can be 1
used as tour hands, and can ent up antics 1
which no jester can rival; bat he cannot smile «
much less laugh. His antics may provoke upl I
roarious laughter, but the face ol this harlequin «
of animals is as solemn as that of a hired e
mourner at a funeral. Humorists say that the t
effect ot a funny story is always intensified, if
the narrator tells it with a grave lace. Mark s
Twain’s most laughable conceits are thrown off 1
with the air of a man intent upon getting t
through a hard day’s work. The humorists a
have evidently been sitting at the feet of some 1
jesting monkey. s
A monkey’s idea of fun is that of a practical 1
joker—the annoyance of others. One of the a
monkeys at Central Park, N> X., was the sole a
occupant of a large cage, which was next to one c
inhabited by a large leopard. The monkey’s 1<
amusement was to tantalize the leopard, irom
whom a board partition, as well as iron bars,
separated them.
In the partition there was a little aperture, tl
made by clearing away splinters from a crack, h
and through this the leopard would peer with n
longing eyes at J£;e monkey. The monkey’s s'
amusement was to excite the leopard’s appetite b
by appearing before the opening. Seated upon
a perch, and directly in front of the hole, so as
to be seen by the leopard, he would remain for
a long time absorbed in a pretended search for r
Ileas. I
When this attitude had become irksome, be
would hitch nearer and nearer the opening,
that he might intensify ths leopard’s excite
ment. The beast’s gleaming eyes, quivering d
lip and thrashing tail, delighted Jocko. Then hi
would come the climax. The monkey leaped w
against the partition and quickly bounded back o;
on his perch. The enraged leopard gave vent tc
to his fury by rushing and bounding about his si
cage, while the monkey chattered with delight. tl
Mr. W. H. Beard, who tells this anecdote in it
his book entitled “Humor in Animals,” also ci
narrates the mischievous freak of the monkeys t<
owned by an artist in Borne : One morning the si
larger of the two monkeys freed himself from ci
the rope by which he was tied, and then re- si
leased his smaller companion. In a tew min- ft
utes an excited woman rushed into the artist’s si
i® wjbjl.iju to tojjfeej'fj tod iwn a
to pelting her with green figs from out of her own
ir tree.
g A man was sent to arrest them. They ran
over the wall into an adjoining garden, and
continued their flight until the ptfrauer lost
It sight of them. As evening was coming on, the
n artist, while sitting at a window which opened
into a little court, heard something which
3, caused him to look up. His runaway pets,
?, seated in a window opposite, were trying, by
d sundry amusing antics, to conciliate their mas
1, ter, and then get off from punishment.
r: The artist looked at them with a grave ex
-11 pression, though he was struggling to keep
t from laughing. The monkeys, having exhaust
ed their resources, seemed to despair. Sud
denly the larger monkey had a happy thought.
Catching his small companion by the tail, he
it began swinging him in the air like a pendulum,
e The absurdity of the action, and the anxious
expression with which both monkeys watched
o its effect upon their master, broke down the
s artist’s self-control. Ho burst into long and
e loud laughter, and the monkeys, seeing that
they were pardoned, joined in with a glad
.t chatter.
l{
o A PRETTY STORY.
9 MAIDENLY INGENUITY—FATHER
r LY SOLICITUDE.
- {From the True Flag.)
There was once a tailor who had a beautiful
I daughter. All the young men from far and near
- came to visit her because oi her beauty. Two
rivals sought her one day and said: “It is on
r your account that we have come hither.”
“ What do you want of mo?” sho replied,
1 smilling.
7 “ We love you,” returned tho two young men,
i’ “ and each of us wishes to marry you.”
i The maiden, being well brought up, called her
) father, who listened to the two lovers, and then
said: “It ia late; go home now, but come again
i’ to-morrow, and you shall then know which of
f you may have my daughter.”
At daybreak the next morning the two young
? men returned. “ Here we aro,” they cried to
l the tailor; “ remember what you promised
i yesterday?”
“ Wait a little,” he replied. “I am going to
town to buy a piece of cloth. When I return
• home with it you shall learn what I expect from
you.”
i When the tailor returned from town he called
his daughter, and on her appearance he said to
the young men:
“My children, there are two ot you, and I
have but oue daughter. To whom shall I give
her? Whom must 1 refuse? Behold this piece
of cloth; I will cut from it two suits of clothes
exactly alike; each one of you must sew oue of
them; he who finishes his task first shall have
my daughter.”
Each of the rivals took his task and prepared
to set about it. The lather called his daughter,
and said to her:
“Here is tho thread; make it ready for two
workers.”
Tho maiden obeyed her father, and taking the
bundle of thread seated herself near the young
men. But she was as clever as she was beauti
ful; though her father did not know which of
the young men she loved best, nor the young
men themselves, she knew well enough. The
tailor went away; the maiden prepared the
thread; the young men took their needles and
began to sew. To the one she loved the beauty
gave short needlefuls, but to the other she did
not love she gave long needlefuls.
They sewed and sewed, in eager haste. At
eleven o’clock the work was not half done, but
at three o’clock the young man who had short
needlefuls bad completed his task, while the
other had yet much to do.
When the tailor returned, the conqueror
brought to him the completed suit, while his
rival still sat sewing.
“My children,” said the father, “I did not
wish to favor one more than another, that was
why I divided the cloth into two equal Darts
and told you, ‘ He who finished his task first
shall have my daughter.’ Did you understand
me ?”
“ Father,” replied the two young men, “ we
understood you, and accept the test. What
must bo, must.”
The tailor had reasoned thus: “He who finish
ed first will be the most skillful workman, and
consequently better able to support a wife.”
But he never imagined that his daughter would
give long needlefuls to a man she did not wish
to marry. Cleverness carried the day, and the
maiden really chose her own husband.
an abFlincoln story.
HOW A DONKEY WAS MADE
COURT ASTROLOGER.
(From the Boston Post.}
I haard a story ropaatad the other day as an
“ Abe Lincoln story,” but which is older and
must have slumbered somewhera for a good
while. Certainly it is not one that tho politi
cians would repeat on tho stump, because it
reflects on their craft. In a littla group at the
Parker House a rather noisy young politician
from tho City Hall was echoing the sentiments
ot Henry Watterson and defending the princi
ple that tho spoils belong to the victor.
“I see no reason,” eaid ho, “why any Re
publican should bo kept in office here in Bos
ton, while I, a Democrat, who have worked hard
for tho party, am loft out in the cold.”
“That reminds me,” said an elderly man,
whom all the town would recognize if I were to
describe him, “of an incident that I heard of 1
early in Lincoln’s administration. There was
a local politician who went on to Washington to
get an office that he felt sure only awaited his
application to be given him. In a couple ot
weeks he came back. ‘ Well, did-you get your >
office?’his friend asked him. 'No,'said he. ‘Did
you see the President?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ 1
‘ What did he say ? ‘ Well, we went in and stated
our errand. He heard us patiently and thou '
said: “ Gentlemen 1 am sorry that I have no 1
office for Mr. , but if I can’t give you that,
I can tell you a story.”
We thought best to hear the story, and let him
go on. i
“ Once there was a certain king,” ho said,
“ who kept an astrologer to forewarn him of
comingevents, and especially to tell him whether 1
it was going to rain when he wanted to go on
hunting expeditions. One day he had started
off for the forest with his train of ladies and *
lords for a grand hunt, when the train met a t
farmer, riding a donkey, on the road. ‘ Good
morning, farmer,’ said the king. ‘ Good morn
ing, king,’said the farmer; ’ whereare you folks
going?’ ‘ Hunting,’said the king. ‘Lord, you’ll !
all get wet,’ said the farmer. The king trusted 1
bis astrologer, of course, and went to the for- ,
est, but by midday there camo up a terrific
storm that buffeted and drenched the whole par
ty. When the king returned to his palaeo he 1
had the astrologer decapitated, and sent for the >
farmer to take his place. ’Law sake,’ said the ‘
farmer, when he arrived, ‘it ain’t me that knows !
when it’s goin’ to rain; it’s my donkey. When '
it’s goiu’ to be fair weather that donkey carries ‘
tea ears forward, so. When it’s goin’to rain, j
ho puts ’em backward, so.’ ‘Make tho donkev (
the court astrologer 1’ shouted the king. It was ,
done: but the king always declared that tho ap- (
pointment was the greatest mistake he over
made in his life.” i
Lincoln stopped there. >
“ Why did he say it was a mistake ?” we asked
him. “ Didn’t the donkey do his duty ?”
“Yes,” said the President, “but after that
time every donkey in the country wanted an
office 1” ,
The shout of laughter that echoed from the 1
hotel corridor at the telling of this narrative 1
would have made the fortune of two or three 1
entirely new stories.
A PECULIAR INDUSTRY, ;
THE WAY STORAGE IS RUN IN I
CITIES.
(From the Chicago Journal.) <
One of the industries peculiar to cities, and <
which attains its greatest growth in large cen- j
tres of restless population like Chicago, is the s
storage business. A friend of mine who has e
followed it since his boyhood, and who now 1
manages probably ths largest establishment of «
the kind in the country, told me a story the
other day illustrative of the lights and shades d
of life as observed from his standpoint, which I f
have thought worthy re-telling after his own 1
fashion, d
“A Norwegian, bearing the national name of
Hansen,” said he, “bronzed, beringed and
bearded after the manner of sailors, left an old ‘S
leather trunk m my keeping about three years
ago. He got his receipt for his goods and went “
bis way. About a week ago he returned, hale
and hearty, but bearing evident marks of a sev- *
ere tussle or two with Boreas and Neptune in f
the interval. *
“He was after that old trunk. After some 8
search it was found and hauled down from a 1:
loft, dust-covered and dirty. Of course the first s
thing that Jack did was to open it. He pushed 4
aside its contents with eager hands till the bot- b
tom was reached, disclosing a bundle of time
stained letters tied about with a bit of ribbon ?
These he drew forth with an airo! triumph, and J,
after a hasty and loving glance stowed them n
away in a capacious breast pocket. He then
closed the ancient keyster with a bang and d
locked it.” s ;
“How much is the charge?” he demanded. P
“ Nine dollars,” was the reply. v
The money was promptly handed over, and 11
the man of the sea departed happy. The trunk h
has not since been called for, and probably si
never will be, as he asked for no receipt lor
storage and seemed entirely satisfied with his 8 1
bundle of old letters. ?
v
APTER DEATH.
Funeral Customs in an Average Middle- ’
Class English Household.
Directly the breath leaves the body the win
dow-blinds, usually inside Venetian shutters
are pulled down, the windows of the room fl
where the death occurred being left slightly a
open, however, from the top, to permit the spirit w
to take its celestial flight. This latter is an old 7
superstition, a very poetic one. In the country
the bouse door is left ajar on the day of the tt
funeral, until after the mourners return. “ Be- w
cause,” they say, “to shut the door would be it
to shut out the corpse. To leave it open, is to w
show a welcome to the spirit's return.” In the cl
country, notably in Hampshire and Somerset- "
shire, the usual shroud of the simpler village -v
folk, is composed of white cotton waddin", ai
shaped about the body dressed in ordinary tin-'
W coffin i$ borne oa the shoal- c;
'D doia of friends to tho cemetery, the ether
mourners following on foot to the grave.
,n Naturally such customs are impracticable in
d a city like London. Only intimate friends, but
at not the more immediate family, accompany the
e body to its burial place. The leave-taking of
d the family is private. Other friends assemble
h in the drawing-rooms. There is no service
3, until reaching the chapel in the cemetery,
y where one takes place, if at all, as supplemen
i- tary to a final one at the grave itself. Only
when the deceased has been a great public man
> is there a service in the church he attended in
p life, or in St. Paul's, the Abbey, or other noted
t- sacred edifice. This’service is called a “mourn-
I- ing function.” Memorial services, on the
t. other hand, for a noted man or woman, may
e occur simultaneously in many churches.
i. There are no crape streamers on the door
s knocker or bell handle, as in cities in America,
d The blinds are down, the knocker muffled, and
e frequently straw is placed in the street tor half
d a block to deaden the sound of vehicles. It is
it also an unwritten courtesy of the neighbors to
d draw their blinds on the day of the death, and
on that of the funeral. Thus we know that the
“ king of terrors ” holds his grim, dumb court
within the house with drawn blinds and muffled
knocker.
j Here is a story, from a correspondent, of
0 ONE OF THE LOST.
a In tho suburbs of Calera, Ala., I found a white
man sitting by the roadside. He was dusty, rag
ged, long haired and down-hearted, and the dug he
had with him looked even worse.
” Are you farming around here ?” I asked, as I
’ sat down near him.
” No, sir; my farming days are over,” he replied.
1 “I didn’t know but you bad some crops in t"
1 “No, s.r. Haven’t raised a crop of anything but
i rags since 1860/’
f “ You work at something else ?”
*’ No, sir,”
r “ You live about here ?”
j “ Well, I sort of exist, 1 suppose/ 1
■ •• Good country, isn’t it ?’*
** Poorest on earth.”
“ Good people ?”
) «i Worst lot I ever saw.”
i “ Isn’t there a good show to got along 2.”
I “ No show at all.”
” You are the most discouraged man I’ve met in
[ the State. What seems to be your trouble, any
j bow ? What's the bad luck which has followed
you ?”
[ “Look, hero, stranger,” ho answered, as ho
squared himself around, “ when the war opened, 1
owned half a nigger. That durned Lincoln gov
ernment came down hero and run him off, and the
’ Jeff Davis government stood me up ior three years
f to be shot at. When the war closed my half of that
) nigger was in Ohio, I had two Yankee bullets in my
body, and I couldn’t accustom myselt to the new
i order of things; I can’t yet. I'm trying to, but
it’s no use. and me’n’ the old dog have set out for
Mexico to die. Good-by, stranger. My half of that
( nigger was worth S4OO, and I can’t get over it—
never can, and sha’n’t try to.”
A correspondent of the Cincinnati Times-Star
relates the agony he suffered when
BUYING A PAIR OF LADIES’ STOCKINGS.
This letter explains how I came to have an ox-
i tremely disagreeable experience;
“My Dear Son—You ask what would be a nice
commencement present for your sister. 1 know
that she would appreciate a pair of silk stockings.
Sho could keep them all her life, and girls think
very much of such dainty things. With love, from
your affectionate Mother.”
When I read this letter it gladdened my heart.
For weeks I had been puzzling over a commence
ment gift for my sister, who is soon to graduate,
and now here was the very thing. The thought
that I should have the least trouble in buying a pair
of silk stockings never crossed my mind. It was
with a feeling of serene confidence in my abilit es
that I entered one of the largest dry goods houses in
the city. The polite man who rubs his hands to
gether and smiles softly to himself—he is called a
floor walker, I believe—at once fastened his eagle
eye upon me, and inquired what was wanted.
“I want to buy some stockings,” I replied, not at
all abashed.
“Ah, yes; third counter to the left, down four
rows,” and he waved his hand in a general way,
much as if a wind vane had attempted to do duty
ior a guide-post.
When at last I found the third counter to the left,
down four rows, the young man who presided be
hind it said they had some excellent stock from last
year, good as new, and only half price.
“ 1 want stockings,” 1 sai l in answer.
“Yes, sir—you mean socks.”
“No—silk stockings,” and I felt that the sugges
tion of a blush was hanging on my manly brow.
“It’s socks, sir—socks, sir.” reiterated the clerk.
“ But I want them for a lady,” jjtnd as I said these
words I grew red.
The clerk looked at me as though he was saying
to himself, “Well, that fellow will bear watching,”
but out loud he said:
“ H-m-m-m—oh, yes, yes ! Fourth counter to tho
right, down two rows.”
It was a young lady who stood behind this
counter, and she maintained a stony silence until I
asked her to please show me some silk stockings.
That seemed such an indefinite or general request,
that she did not even reply. She simply looked at
me.
“I want to see some silk stockings,” I repeated.
“White or colored ?”
“Why, I hadn’t thought of that I Which would
you suggest?”
But this question seemed to freeze her, for she
again relapsed into silence.
“Which is the fashionable color for ladies?” I
went on, bound to treat the matter as a mere busi
ness transaction. “I man, do young ladies usually
wear colored stockings ?”
This seemed to make matters worse, for the
young woman glared at me. I thought that per
haps I had made a mistake about co.or, aud so I
continued :
“Well, after all, I guess white will do. Just
wrap me up a pair of your best white silk stock
ings.”
“Will you have clocks ?” she deigned to ask.
“ No, not clocks, stockings,” and I looked at her
in blank amazement.
“ I mean, will you have them clocked or not
clocked.”
Now, I hadn’t the ghost of an idea what she was
driving at, but didn't intend to confess my ignor
ance. A bright idea struck me.
“If you were buying them for yourself, which
would you prefer ?”
“What ?”
“I mean, if—if you were me, which would you
prefer ?”
The glare in her eyes I interpreted to mean :
“Go no further, sir; I regard yours remarks as
offensively personal.”
So I went no further, and said I’d take them with
out clocks. My sister had a watch, and she could '
get along very well with that.
“What size?” was the young woman’s next in- i
inquiry.
“ Oh, the usual size for young ladies,” said I,
“You must be more exact, sir, ’ she said.
“Well, she—that is, the person who is to have s
these stockings is about five feet high. Oh, she is
just the size of most young ladies. Sho is no larger ;
than you are. Now, what size do you think she’d
wear?” ’
“Sir, I don’t know.”
But lam not going on with this painful narra
tion. All men who have been in the same fix will
appreciate my feelings. At last, however, I could
stand it no longer, and I blurted out that I wanted
a pair of silk stockings for my sister as a commence
ment gift, that I was willing io pay for them, aad I
didn’tknow anything about buying them. Then the
young woman relented. She no longer glared,but in
her’sweetest voice suggested that she wrap up a pair
of,.the best stockings she had at random, aad that I
write to my sister that ij they didn’t fit she could .
exchange them.
This I did. and so nos? everybody is happy, but the
sun will rise in the west before I buy any lady’s
stockings again.
Old “CarlDunmor” turns up again, and
TELLS THE CHILDREN A FAIRY STORY.
If you shildreu vhill kheep shti.ll some more I g©.
on m.t my shtories. I like to shpeak mit shildrea.
In aleedle time you vhas all grown oop und pecome
men und vhomans, und us olt folks vhas all in der
graveyards. It vhas petter dot you pegin all right.
Now shildren, once upon a time dere vhas a poy
who tells lies. He lies mit his mother und mit his
fadder. If he preaks someting—if he loses someting
—if ho shteals sugar or shweetcake he doau’ shtand
oop like Sbeorge Washington vhen he cut dot cherry
tree, but he lies aboudt her. I like you to know dot
der liar vhas more to be despised as a tief, und dot
vhen he vhas in trouble nopody feels badt for him.
Vhell, dis poy, who vhas named Shoseph, keeps
on lying for a goodt while, und he gets eaierypody
aroundt him into troubles. One day he goes oudt
to walk py himself, und he finds a ring in der roadt.
It vhas a gold ring, und vhas wort ten dollar.
Shoseph puts him in his pocket und says he vhill
soli him und puy a pistol. He vhas going along vhen
he meets a leedle oidt womans who vhas crying mit
all her tears, und she wants to know:
“My poy, I vhas in great grief. In coming along
dis roadt I lost a gold ring. It vhas come down to
me from my groat grandmother, und if 1 can’t find
him I vhas all proke oop. Maybe you find him ?”
“ No, I doan’ see him,” says Shoseph, und he
doan’ even plush mit shame.
“ You vhas sure ?”
“Oh, yes. I vhas such a goot poy dot if I find
. somepody's ring I giff him oop right off quick.”
“Doan’ you meet somepody ?” asks der oldt wo
mans.
“Ah, yes ! It vhas a poy like me, only he haf on
an o'.dt hat und vhas parefoot. I see him shtoop
down in der roadt, und I vhas sure he find dot ring.
Foor oldt womans I but how sorry I vhns for-you/’
You see, shiiarone, aoE vhas all a lie, und Sho- J
seph haf der ring all der time, like I told you. He J
laughs, ba, ha, ha ! to himself to pelief he vhas so t
shmart, und he dotin’ care for dot old woman’s I
tears. Do yon pelief dot vhas right ? You shall see
how he came oudt.
“So my ring was gone!” screams der oldt wo- s
mans. “ Vhell, I plow oafer my finger like dot, und
I cross my thums like dot, und I wish der ring to
turn into a serpent und bite der poy who finds him
und lies aboudt it.”
Shildren, dot vhas awful! Shust as quick as I
drop my hat dot gold ring was a shnake, und dot
shnake he bites Shoseph all oafer his body 1 Der
poy shump und yell und call for his mother, but it
vhas no use. He vhas gone oop. In a leedle time
he falls deadt, und der poison shwells him oop until
he vhas almost too big for a wagon. Dot vhas his
sadt end. He vhas buried in der graveyard, und
sometime when you see der spot eaferypody vhill
tell you dot a liar vhas buried dere. Dot vhas all,
shildren. It vhas now time to go to bedt, und I ask
you to took notice dot der poy who tells der truth
vhas all right.
It is a foolish thing for teachers (and that is
what ministers of the gospel should be) to /
speak over the heads of their hearers, as was
the case in this story of
PUTTING ON THE WEDDING GARMENTS.
About four miles out of Tuscaloosa, in returning
from a Sunday visit to a plantation, we stopped at N
a negro church in which about a hundred blacks
were assembled for divine service. The preacher 1E
was a man with powerful voice and gesture, and
his sermon was about the necessity of being array
ed in the wedding garments and standing ready for
the Master’s call. His congregation soon began to
warm up, and pretty soon one and another com
menced to drop out as if overcome. The sermon
was grand and impressive, but way beyond the
comprehension of the ordinary plantation hand.
When we finally went out and drove up the high
way we found men and women scattered along here
and there in the shade, and pretty soon came to one
young man who sat with his arm around a girl. We
stopped the buggy, but neither of ’em seemed to
car?, .-.k ’ pretty soon the colonel observed;
it ” George, Is thsft a case of love ?”
“I reckon It ar’, enh, but I doan’ quite know,”'
n | was the young man’# reply. “ Dat’s a powerful
lt sermon of Elder Jackson s to-day. He’s dun told
us to put on de weddin’ garments if we want to be
saved.”
a “ 80 y° u intend to put them on ?”
0 “ ’Deed I does sah. I only come out half an hour
0 ago, an’ I'ze 'greed to marry fo’ different wimin in
r, dat time. Gwine to git all de weddin ga’ments
1- right on soon’s I kin, an’ if a cyclone comes de
v Lawd will take car’ of me, I reckon. See any mo'
n wimin down de road, kurnel, tell 'em Gawge will
n be long d’rectly I”
1 We have all read in tho daily papers about
Kissane, and how he baa been persecuted lor
y the sins of bis youth. The following ia
THE LAST HEARD FROM A KISSANE VICTIM,
“I can tell you another of Kissane’s rascalities.”
” exclaimed a man from Butler county, as he came iu
u and seated himself on the snake editor's desk.
Li “He cheated me ”
8 “ Hold I” interrupted the snake editor. “ Whosa
O rascality is this you are about to relate ?”
d “Kissane’s. He cheated ”
Q “ But who i« Kissane ?”
>t The gentleman from Butler county opened his
i eyes wide and ejaculated ;
“ W-w-what ?”
“I asked who Kissane is?” replied the snake edi
tor. “1 don’t want to listen to any of his rascali
ties unless 1 know w ho he is.”
“Don’t you know who Kissane is ?”
“Never heard oi him till this minute.”
“Why, the papers have been full of his meanness
for a couple of months,” explained the visitor.
" Uh. come, now,” replied the snake editor, 'you
can t impose on me like that. I rea l the papers
every day, and I certainly should have seen it if
there had b-en anything in them about him.”
e 7, S 01 aIJ tlie er mes imaginable.”
He is ? Well, that's interesting. You may toll
me how fie cheated you.”
1 “ Well, it was in the Fall of 1856 ”
“Stop!” again commanded the snake editor.
• “We don t want anything quite that ancient. If
you have a nice fresh iraud to report, bring it in,
but you can’t impose any back-number cheatery on
us in that shape. The Fall of 1856, indeed I Tpis ia
a daily newspaper, sir. not a monthly magazine.
Good morning.”
And the latest Kissane victim left the office in a
dazed condition o mind.
The Norwich (Conn.) Bulletin tolls us how a
darky of that town got
A BIG DOSE OF THE SHAKES,
t Norwich has no river police, but the Thames
river is more or less iniested by tnieves, and the
j captains oi boats and barges oiten miss little arti
cles of value from their vessels.
( On a recent night, some one boarded a barge and
L cast off the line. The captain did not like the idea
of having his boat setadrilt while asleep, so he came
( to towfi and bought a horse-pistol, having made up
} his mind to take care of the thieves himself.
t Ihe next night ha stood guard, and his vigilance
t was rewarded by the appearance of a boat in charge
r of two well-known colored individuals, late in the
t n ght. Justas one of them was quietly dipping
ids pall into a barrel of liquid paint on deck, he felt
. something cold touch his cheek, and turning round
cautiously to see what it meant, beheld the captain
oi the barge by his side. The thief never moved,
but yelled, in a tone of agonv: ,
’ r..7 Lord ’ Ca P’ D » yer shoot! I’ll settle, cap'n,
111 settle !”
The captain laughed at the fellow's fear, gave
him a bucket of paint, and told him “to git and to
keep clear of the vessel hereaiter. - ’
The thief left in a hurry, thanking hjs stars that
* he had neither been killed nor arrested.
The next day the captain met the Invader on
Water street, and, accosting him, said:
“Well, how are you feeling to-day ?"
“Don’t mention it, cap’n,” replied the colored
man. “Ise tremblin' now. I nebbor had da
shakes like dis beio’/'
SCINTILLATIONS.
Paris green—The American tourist in
France.
Food for reflaction—The good dinner
that you missed.
Man wants but little here below, and
he generally gets it,
• ?!, an a bad egg,, but he’s all
right till he gets “broke.”
If wishes were gas, every town in In
diana would smell to heaven.
It is nothing derogatory of a bass ball
club that there are several base men In it.
The malady from which youths, who
wear a single eyeglass suffer is, in many cases on
tlcai delusion.
There is one method of transportation
not affected by the luter-State law—the hearse. Th.
deadhead travels there, as usual.
When does a lady treat a man like a
telescope ? When she draws him out, looks hint
through and then shuts him up.
‘‘There goes the champion light
weight.” •• That so ? He doesn’t look much like a
fighter.” “He isn’t; he’s a coal dealer.”
May I help you to alight ?” said a
young man to a lady about to leave her carriage.
“No, thanks,” said she; “ I don‘t muniift,“
A swimming school in Frankfort-on
the-Main announces in English: “Swimming in
structions given by a teacher of both sexes.”
Mistress (to new servait)—“ We Jiava
breaklast generally about eight o’clock." K.-w
Servant—" Well, mum, If 1 ain’t down to. U, don’t
wait.”
An economist has sagely observed
that, no matter how large its population may be
come, there will always be enough earth to no
round. u
A woman’s will is strong.
Believe it though you don’t;
But you'll find out ere long’
It’s weaker than her won’L
Chief Justice Cole, of Wisconsin,
pretty clf-avly expressed the functions of a«ourt
when he eald in reply to a.question of what he v>as
busy at: “uh, guessing out cases. We have the
last guess,”
A Lowell minister preached last Sun
day on: " Why Do tlrn Wicked Live ?” We don’t
know surely why they do, but we might suggest
mildly that if the wicked didn’t live it would be a
cold day for the minister.
“Ah! what’s this?” exclaimed the
intelligent compositor; “‘Sermons in stones, book!
in the running brooks ?' That can’t be right. I
have it. He means 'Sermons in books, stones In
the running brooks.’ That s sense.”
Very Young Man—“ You wouldn’t
think.it, but I’ve just paid $70,000 in cash for a
house, all made by my own. plucs and persever
ance." Young Lady—" Really 1 What business are
youin !’’ Very Young Man—l’m a son-in-law.”
As an item of interest it might ba
stated that a pile of strength that would reach half
way to the moon is wasted in this country every
year by people holding up. hymn-books in church
who,don’t know.a.B flat note from the howl of ft
brindie cat.
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