k THE STORY OF THE WIND.
BY LOUISA HAMMOND.
Hark ! the whisp’ring oi the trees,
As they eway against the breeze;
See ! they raise their heads on high—
Lift their arms toward the sky.
Moan and whisper human woe.
Sigh and murmur, murmur low,
Of the crushing oi some soul
Ere it reached its cherished goal.
Tales of blood and battle won,
Wounded gathered one by one.
•♦Chilling night," the sad wind said,
♦♦When they wept ior honored dead.”
Poor, poor souls, of noble mind,
Struggle hard their food to And;
While the wealthy roll in uold,
Others starve and die ot cold.
(• Die of broken hearts and woe—
Die for joys they never know.
Yes, ah, yes I" the sad wind said,
•‘l’ve seen it all—bow down your head,
•♦Stalwart man of honest heart,
Loving wife to do her part;
Laughing children round the hearth—
Doggie, too, to share the mirth.
•♦Virtue, love and peace dwell there;
No frowning looks nor angry stare.
Happy home I" the sad w.ud said.
Sturdy oak, lift up your head."
Hope, bright hope, gleams through the clouds,
Glowing sunlight aii enshrouds.
•‘Time will come," the w ud said low,
•‘Peace and love the world will know."
Mf LWFf GWE.
BY AN ENGLISH EX-DETECTIVE.
CHAPTERL
■» LADY CLAVELL,
••You think that it must be some one in the
house?”
•« I have not the slightest doubt of it, Sir
Arthur. You see, the money taken from your
desk—although a large amount-is nothing to
what they might have taken. You had five
hundred pounds in gold ?”
Yes."
•‘And only fifty-five have gone. Now had
that been an ordinary thief, he would have
taken the lot."
••Yes, that puzzles me. I can’t make it out.
My servants have beau in my family ior years.
I would as soon think oi doubting my own honor
as theirs.”
“ But some one must have taken the money 1”
•‘Undoubtedly it has gone. 1 have not let a
single person know anything about it—only you.
I have strong reasons for wishing to have the
matter cleared up, but stronger ones in keeping
it quiet. Should the—the discovery at all touch
the honor of my family . You understand
me, Mr. Gerval
“Perfectly.” I said ; although I added to my
self, “ Blay Ibe hanged if I do I There is more
mystery hero than sir Arthur chooses to ex
plain. But I will find it out. ’
“But surely, Sir Arthur, if it be only a small
sum of money—for fifty-five pounds is a small
sum ot money to you—it would be better to lot
the matter drop, and ”
“Leave suspicion on everybody I” said Sir
Arthur. “No, lam careful and sensitive as to
my own honor, and therefore would be the
same ot that ot the humblest of my servants.
Mr. Gerval, you must discover the thief, and I
alone must know who it. is.”
“Sir Arthur, I must tell you plainly, that if I
discover the thief. I shall do all 1 can to bring
him or her to U ustice. lam not one ot those
who like a law for the rich and one for the poor.
But, still, 1 will take the matter up, and will
leave it to you, as a county magistrate, to say
how far you will prevent the law taking its
course. Now you have employed me to find
out this matter, I will do my best, but I warn
you, should further inquiries become necessa
ry, lam not bound to silence. By binding my
self to that, I might almost become a partner in
a felony.”
“I should hold you clear/’said Sir Arthur,
proudly.
“Maybe you would, but I should not hold
myself clear. Look here, Sir Arthur: You
want this thing found out. If lamto do it, let
me do it. But if you are going to chain my
hands with all kinds of restrictions, I will throw
the matter up at once. OI course, when I have
discovered the true criminal, if you do not oare
to charge, the case ceases ; but I tell you this*—
if I find the slightest suspicion has been thrown
upon an innocent person, that person’s charac
ter must be cleared."
“I quite agree with yon. All I ask is that
you let me know beiore you arrest or charge
any one.”
“ Certainly. And now, Sir Arthur, lam your
guest No one must have the slightest idea of
my business down here, or they will be on their
guard.”
•• I see. I will do as you wish, Mr. Gerval—
©nly do discover the thief. That once done, we
•hall know how to treat the matter.”
•‘1 never make rash premises, but I will do
my best. However, you must keep my busi
ness a secret.”
“ You need not tear me. Do you shoot ?”
“Yea-that is, 1 used to be a pretty good
•hot”
•‘Then we will have a turn through the
woods. If wo don't have much sport, you will
have time to put any questions to me you de
sire. Have you any other plans you wish to
place before me ?”
“Not at present. You might tell your wife
that I am an eccentric fellow—been abroad a
good deal--sleep badly—am given to wander
ing about at night. Almost a kind ot harmless
lunatic.”
“You are giving yourself a nice character/’
laughed Sir Arthur; “but let it be as you wish.”
“That’s right, sir Arthur,” 1 replied. “Now
about the gold.”
“ Oh, I have removed that.”
“Then replace it. Do not let the thief have
the slightest idea that you suspect him. The
bait is too tempting to be neglected ior long.
The money that has been taken will not last
long, and then he will come for a little more.”
“He I Then you have made up your mind
that the thief is a man ?’
‘•I suppose s< i . Have you any reason to
think it may be a woman ?”
Sir Arthur s face Hushed red, and he an
swered quickly:
“No, no—oh, no ! Have I not told you that I
have no idea who can be the thiei ?”
Sir Arthur was a young-looking man—one of
those clear-complexionod, light-haired gentle
men whose age it is so difficult to discover. I
judged by the wrinkles at the corners of his
•yes that he was not so young as he looked.
His face was bright and honest enough, but
there was a weakness about the mouth
which the mustache lulled to conceal. I sum
med up Sir Arthur’s character as follows:
Strictly honest, and painfully sensitive about
the honor oi his family, lie was not wealthy
for his position, and had but little talent ior
business. He was essentially an idle man, dis
liked business of all kinds, but still, when
worked up to a pitch, the smoldering fire
would burst out into a uerce flame, as mad as it
was violent. But, like all fierce fires, it soon
burned itself out, and left the baronet weaker
in resolve than he had been be ore.
At luncheon tfie servant informed us the
Lady Clavell had a sick headache, and begged
to be excused; so we made a hasty meal, and
then, having put on dresses, we
took our guns and strolled into the plantation.
I do not think we had any idea of shooting, but
it was an excuse lor our being alone.
“ You have a fine place here, Sir Arthur, but
one which I should think would be a perfect
Paradise for poachers,”
“In my father’s time it was so, but I found
means to "put a stop to a good deal of it.”
•‘ Indeed 1 May 1 ask how that was ?”
“Why, ! gave my tenants permission to shoot
so many days in the season; so they became as
jealous about my preserves as if they were their
own. Thus every man became a gamekeeper,
and woe betide any stranger they caught here !
They take the law in their own hands, and
rough is the way they administer it.”
“ Not a bad idea, Sir Arthur. You might call
it the Converted Poachers’ Association.”
“ Yes, my people and I get on very well to
gether. I have only one disagreeable neighbor
—a fellow who lives down m the hollow yon
der. That little patch of land and that misera
ble cottage are freehold. It appears my grand
father, who was not too steady, wronged a farm
er’s daughter, and gave her that house to live
in, together with a small annuity. It is new in
habited by an old miser, about the only bad
character on the estate. I have offered the old
fellow four times the value of the wretched
hovel, but he reiuses it—does it out of spite to
me. I know ot no particular cause, unless it
was that my father once had him imprisoned
>for poaching. And he certainly was a most dis
honest old rufiian. Any way, there he is, and
there he sticks, declaring—and with perfect
right—that he has as much right to his estate
as I have to mine. There is a mystery about
the old fellow Ido not like. He left the place
for some years, leaving his ‘ estate ’ under the
care of a lawyer at Brasston—a man as bad as
himself. I hoped the old fellow had gone for
good; but one morning he returned as sudden
ly as ho had gone, i suppose it is a kind of
superstition; but somehow, whatever goes
wrong at the hall 1 put down as the work ot old
Silas Markham—even to the money which I
laave lost.”
“Let us cut through the wood, and have a
look at the old place/ said I.
“I must not go near it,” said Sir Arthur.
Br Once I did, and not only did the old fellow
order mo off the premises, but he sent me a
lawyer’s letter threatening me with an action
for trespass.”
We both laughed at this, and taking a gun
each, we strolled into the wood. Soon we came
on an open glade, beyond which, down in a hol
low, was old Markham’s cottage.
Suddenly Sir Arthur clutched my arm and
held me back.
The door of the cottage opened, and out ©f it
eame a lady dressed in a riding habit. She
spoke to some one in the house, but of course
we could not hoar what she said, though we
juould tell by her actions that she was in a violent
passion. Then we heard a burst ot coarse lang-b
--ier from the cottage, and an old man came out
making low bows of mock humility to the ladv
She raised her whip as if she would lash hiii
bver the face; but, controlling her temper she
, hurjried to the broken fence, where a horse had
i been tied, leaped on to its back, and rode awar
flireotly toward us
As she approached I took off my hat and
►bowed to her, while I noticed Sir Arthur con
sealed himself in the
She gazed haughtily at me at first, and then
turning her horse’s head galloped away.
I turned to Sir Arthur, seeking an explanation
of this. He was as pale as death, and his lip
quivered.
“This lady is ”
“ Bly wife,” he groaned ; and then he reeled
back against a tree for support.
Here was another mystery. Why had Lady
Clavell visited old Markham at that miserable
cottage ?
I waited until Sir Arthur had recovered a
little from the shock, and then said :
“ Sir Arthur, be warned by me—thia is some
family matter. You had better put up with the
loss you have had, and not pursue the matter
further. I don’t like the looks of things.”
I don’t know whether there is anything in
what the world calls “ blood ” —I do not believe
in it myself. I can only say that Sir Arthur
recovered his calmness in a most wonderful
manner, and drawing himself up haughtily,
said :
“Blr. Gerval, if a blot has fallen on my name, I
would not conceal it—as well for the sake of
those who have gone before me as those who
will come a;ter. My title, my very name, dies
with me, for I have only one child—a girl; but
not even for her sake would I live with a woman
whom I cannot trust. Listen to me, Gerval.
The truth of this matter I must know. Find
out all particulars—prove that you know the
thief—then leave the matter to me, and you
shall be well rewarded.”
“Very well, Sir Arthur, I’ll do all I can.
Now let us go down and have a look at the cot
tage.”
The cottage is a picturesque but miserable
place. At one time there must have been a
blacksmith s forge at the side of it; but the
large wooden shutters closed the windows, no
furnace roared under the blast ot the bellows ;
there was no ring of the hammer. All was
silent. No, not all—for out of this dismal
look ng place a shout of laughter came that
shook the very rafters. Sir Arthur paused, and
his face turned purple with rage.
“ And she has been there,” he gasped, as he
grasped his gun nervously. “She——”
“Come, come, Sir Arthur,” I said, “keep
calm, and do me a favor. That is, go back to
the hall, and wait there patiently until I re
turn.”
“ What would you do?”
“ Discover what 1 can of this robbery. If yon
are seen with me, I can do nothiug. Go.”
“ Very well, 1 suppose I must obey, ’ said Sir
Arthur. “But bow 1 shall meet Lady Clavell I
do not know. ’
“Meet her as if nothing had happened. If
she asks arter me, tell her that I have gone into
the town to see if any letters have come for me,
and that 1 shall be back soon. Above all, do
not let her think that I am a detective.”
Sir Arthur did not much like leaving me. I
rather fancy that he shrank from inquiries
being made now that the evidence seemed to
point to his wife, but I bad my notion of things,
and I determined to carry them out.
With bent down head Sir Arthur walked
away. I watched him out of sight, and then
turned down across the low field; walked up to
the cottage from which we had seen the lady
come, and knocked at the door.
The laughter ceased in a moment, and 1 heard
the hurry ot leet, as if some one was putting
away bottles and glasses. Then came the
mumbling ot voices and a pause, as if the peo
ple wished that the place should be thought
empty.
I knocked again, and then the door was
opened by the old man whom I had seen bid
ding the lady lorewell.
“Pardon my disturbing you,” I said, “ but I
hive been out shooting, and have lost my way.
Would you kindly direct me to Pinglebury?”
That was the nearest town to Sir Arthur’s seat.
The old man glanced sharply at me as he
slowly made answer:
“ Pinglebury is a long way from here—in
deed, you are coming away from it. There is a
quick cut across the plantation, but Sir Arthur
is a strict man—a very strict man. It you were
to walk across his estate without permission, he
would ha i . e you up lor trespass; and with that
gun, he would have you up for poaching - ay,
and press the bench to inflict the heaviest
punishment on you they could.”
“I do not think he would do it with me,” I
answered, carelessly. “In the first place, 1
know Sir Arthur, and have his perm’ssion to
shoot over his estate, and so I am sate.”
“ But you have not permission to shoot over
my estate and I won’t have it I * said the old
man, snarling.
“ 1 really do not wish to shoot over your
estate, wherever that may be. I only want a
drink of water, or something stronger, it you
should have such a thing. I will pay you well.”
At the mention of payment the old man’s re
pulsive, scowling face broke into smiles, and he
glanced quickly over his shoulder, as if to con
sult some one in the cottage.
“ Perhaps the gentleman is tired, Si,” cried
some one in the cottage. “Let him come in, by
all means, and rest. Maybe I’ll show him the
way to Pinglebury. I shall have to go over
there in the afternoon.”
The old m«n hesitated, but as that was the
very thing 1 wanted, I pushed by him and en
tered the c >ltage.
The cottage was a miserable place enough,
for all the walls were bare of paper, that hav
ing peeled off long ago. The ceiling was black
with smoke, and the furniture consisted of one
ricketty table, on which were a jar of spirits
and some glasses and broken pipes. The chairs
were what are known as Windsor chairs, and.
to my thinking, about the most comfortable you
could find; and in one of these a man, dressed
as a heavy swell, was seated, one leg thrown
over one arm or the chair, and his handsome,
bold, bad lace thrown back as he examined me
superciliously throgh his halt-closed eyelids.
1 don’t know what gives the instinct which an
experienced detective has, but I know directly
my eyes light upon a man whether he is good
and honest, or a scoundrel. I knew directly
this man was the latter.
“ Well, mister,” he said, coolly, “so you are
a friend of our neighbor, Sir Arthur? Gad!
but he has a fine place np there. Still he
begrudges us our little place down here. But
let him get it—if he can. We don’t care a pin
for Sir Arthur, and we’ll make him bow to us
yet.”
“Are you drunk or mad?” cried the old
man, trembling with passion. “Do you want
everybody to know our secrets ?”
“Secrets be hanged! If I don’t get better
terms than this, I will work my own way.”
“ Silence, you fool 1” said the old man; and
he snatched the bottle away from the fellow
who was about to replenish his glass. “ Don’t
take any notice oi him, sir; he’s mad drunk.
He often gets so, sir, since he was crossed in
love.”
“ Crossed in love ’” cried the fellow. “ I tell
you she was—nay, she is, my wile. I ”
“Take a drink,” said the old man, pouring
out almost a tumbler of neat Spirits and hand
ing it to the man.
The fellow gave a shout of laughter, drank off
the spirits, and crossing his arms on the table,
either did, er appeared to, fall into a drunken
sleep.
“Our friend had better take care/’ said I,
or ho will have the delirium tremens. This
whisky is strong too,” for the old man had
handed me a glass.
“Yes, yes—he will have it so. He’s my son,
sir. I—l brought him up abroad. He’s been
a heap of trouble to me—a heap; but he has
been a comfort at times, and never forgot his
old lather.”
“ The spirit is too strong for me. Blay I trou
ble you ler seme water ?”
The old man muttered something about the
well being hard to draw from; but taking a jug
from the table, went to get the required water.
In an instant 1 had stooped down and picked
up a glove—a small glove—which evidently be
longed tea lady. I managed to slip it in my
pocket unobserved by the other; but in stoop
ing to pick it np, I upset a bag which was on
the table, and out of it rolled some sovereigns.
“At that moment I heard the old man return
ing, and resumed my seat as soon as I could,
but not quick enough to prevent the old man,
who at that moment returned, from seeing me.
His bushy eyebrows closed over his nose un
til they met, and his eyes had that red glare
which only very bad men have.
“ What were you doing with that gold ?” he
snarled. “ What right have you to touch it?”
“None at all, and 1 did so by the simplest ac
cident. I dropped my handkerchief on the
floor, and in stooping to pick it up upset that
bag which ”
“There, that will do,” said the old man, as he
hastly thrust back the gold into the bag, and
then put the Jot into his pocket. “ Now take
your drink and go. You see I have enough to
do with my son.”
“ Your son ?” I said carelessly. •• It is sad to
see a man take so to drink.”
“It’s not only drink,” snarled the old man—
“it’s trouble, trouble. He has had lota of
trouble ”
“ It can’t be money matters, at all events,” I
said, “ for yon have plenty ot gold.”
Muttering an oath, the old man growled out
something about people minding their own busi
ness, and having been well paid for the drink
he hurried me away out of the house.
Here was a nice mystery to solve. I had no
doubt now how and where Sir Arthur’s gold
went These villains bad Lady Clavell in their
power, and compelled her to rob her husband to
supply their wants. But how was Ito break
this terrible news to Sir Arthur Clavell? The
baronet evidently adored his wife and child, so
that the news might almost kill him.
I determined to say nothing about the matter
at present, but to request that I might be per
mitted to sleep on the sofa that was in the room
by the sa e whenever I liked.
“You have discovered something, Blr. Ger
val ? ’ said the baronet, when 1 made this re
quest.
“I have; but nething of much consequence.
Only that her ladyship dropped her glove in the
cottage.”
He seized it eagerly, and, having examined it,
thrust it into his breast-pocket.
“It is her glove, and she has robbed me for
these scoundrels 1” he muttered. “Blr. Gerval,
I met Lady Olavell in Paris. She was a young
widow. I lell in love with her at first sight
Her husband, she told me, had died in Aus
tralia- at the gold diggings. I believed all she
said—l lov ed her too much to doubt. I married
her, and ms til this cloud of suspicion rose up
between us, no people in the world could be
happier.”
“Perhaps, Sir Arthur, you had better let this
matter drop. Get rid of these fellows at any
price, and then ierget ”
“ Forget. Never! Shall I blind myself to my
own dishe»*r ? No, Mr. Gerval, I owe a duty to
society, and mu»tfulfill it—at least, I will know
the worst.”
At that moment a beautiful little girl came
running into the room, and throwing her arms
about the baronet, said :
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JUNE 19, 1887.
“ Oh, papa, do ooms into tho garden. Mamm a
has come back from her ride, and is quite well
now. She eent ma to ask you. 1 ’
“ Not now—not now, my dear Ella,” said her
father. “Beside, do you not see that I am
engaged?”
the girl drew back, and looked at me with
her largo, earnest eyes, like a startled fawn.
Then she advanced to me, and, holding out her
little hand, hade me welcome, and asked me to
go with her papa into the garden.
“ Wo may as well go, Sir Arthur,” I said.
"Certainly we can do no more business here.”
“ Very well. But, mind, not a word about
the glove. Come, Elia, we will go.”
Wo passed out into the beautiful grounds,
and soon saw Lady Clavell. Her- back was to
ward us, and my practiced eye saw there was
something wrong. Her bands wore firmly
clenched, and as she paced down a path which
ran between hedgerows, ebe now and then
stamped her foot with angry impatience.
“ Mamma, mamma,” cried little Ella.
The lady turned. Her large, dark eyes were
flashing, and her cheeks were burning with
rage as she turned round. But no sooner did
she see Sir Arthur than the face became deadly
pale, and as the little girl ran to her, she
stooped down and kissed her forehead.
The fire had died out of those eyes then, and
bright tears had taken their place, and I heard
her whisper:
“ For your sake, I will sacrifice all.”
Then, drawing herself up, she was introduced
to me, and Sir Arthur and all ot us sauntered
through the woods.
I found her a most pleasing companion. She
had traveled in France, Italy, Spain and Ger
many. She loved the sea, and declared Sir
Arthur must take a yacht for the Summer.
But, for all her pleasant talk, there was that
in her ladyship’s eyes I did not bko—a look of
trembling terror, which was only concealed
from careless observers by her firm will.
I watched that she played carelessly with a
letter, and that when Sir Arthur was looking
the other way, she threw the letter behind a
bush, and then walked hastily on. I followed,
but took the first opportunity of returning and
securing the letter. It ran as follows :
Dear Eu,t—l am glad you have oome round
to reason. Think what I gave up—your own
charming soli, and all for a tew paltry pounds 1
To-mgbt you must let me in to the library, and
give me tho key of the safe. Then I will leave
tho country for ever, and take old Silas with me.
I think I let you off cheaply. The windows
must be open at two o’clock. Your -—- well, no,
I will not say it. G. M.
Hero, then, was the mystery explained.
Should I tell Sir Arthur of this ? No; but 1 re
solved that night to sleep on the sofa by the
sa e, and not even the baronet should know of
my determination. What came ot it the next
chapter will show.
CHAPTER 11.
A CONFESSION.
Acting on the permission which I had re
ceived from Sir Arthur, after I had remained in
my bed-room a couple ot honrs, my light out
and myself dressed, I stole down stairs and en
tered the library where the safe was. Rolling
myself up in a traveling-rug which I had
brought for the purpose, I laid down on the
sofa, taking care to so place the rug as to well
conceal me.
Time passed slowly enough for me, until I
saw a light between the cracks of the shutters.
A knife was inserted in tbo, division, and the
iron bar which fastened it removed off the
catch. 1 saw at once that all had been pre
pared for tho bnrglars to have tree access to
tho bouse. For what purpose? Could that
dark, handsome woman, Lady Clavell, really
and truly be in league with the thieves ? It
seemed like it, lor the shutters were closed and
Hie bars put up, but not fastened. These were
now most oarelully removed, evidently by a
skillful hand; for after one had been
raised out of the bolt, it was left to swing quietly
down so that scarcely any noise was made.
In tins way the shutters were unfastened,
and the burglars were about to open them
gently, when a female form clad in a dressing
gown, glided into the room, and took up her
place beeide the safe. 1 noticed by the gleam ot
the moonlight that she held a revolver in her
hand.
1 don’t know how it was, but there was a
strange dramatic effect in all this which seemed
to charm and bold me spellbound.
I watched the scene with a fascination
which made me almost forget my purpose of de
tection.
Scarcely had the lady taken her place, when
the shutters were pushed gently back, and in an
instant tbo room was flooded with the soil silver
light of the moon.
I can see that room now, with its rows of
books, its massive oak furniture, tbo iron sate,
and that pale, handsome woman crouching
down, waiting, fearing, and yet with the glare
of the tigress in her eyes, clutching the pistol.
A terrible scene, which I watched with in
terest.
The first man who entered I recognized at
once as the younger fellow whom I had seen in
the cottage in the delL Tile second was old
Silas Markham.
“ George, George,” whispered Silas, “be
cautious—now do 1 I—l don’t like this busi
ness, You will ruin Ella.”
“ What do 1 oare about ruining her?” said the
fellow. “Keep quiet. I will soon have the
safe open. I know my fine lady, and do not
mean to stop here.”
“She dare not do anything against us.”
“Bah ! She dare do anything 1 You ought
to know that I tell you that was a detective
she sent down to the cottage. He thought me
asleep, but I saw him remove her ladyship’s
glove. Come, old father Silas, here is the sate.
Let us clear it out and then be off. This place
is getting too hot for all ot us, I think.”
“ Well, well, be it as you like—only let us
make haste. I don’t know how it is. I have
been in many a difficult case like this, but I
never felt such fear.”
“Tut! You are getting old and nervous. I
told her where to put the key. She will do it
right enough, and then we will draw upon her
from a distance. She shall be our agent, and
her husband shall be our banker.”
Even the old man chuckled at this, and they
advanced toward the sate.
“ Stand back I” said a clear, sharp voice, and
Lady Clavell rose to her leet and presented the
revolver at George Markham, who started back
as if he had seen a ghost.
“By Jove,” he cried, “it’s Ella! What is the
meaning of this acting ?”
“It means that I am at bay—that I am pre
pared to brave the worst sooner than submit to
being in the power of such men as you. You
thought to bold me under your thumb—to com
pel me by terrorism to rob my husband to sup
ply your wants. Fool that I was, I yielded out
of tear, and so deceived the noblest man and
best ot husbands. Success made you more and
more rapacious. Your demands grew heavier
and heavier, and I sank more and more in your
power. I saw my husband’s suspicions were
aroused, and when I agreed to your coming
here to-night, it was that I might take you in a
trap. Dare to touch one thing in this house,
and I will shoot you down like a dog. Vihat
are you to me ?”
“Only your husband, my fine lady. Call up
tbo house it you will. 1 think any man has a
right to enter any bouse and claim /its wife.”
A deep groan made all start and turn round.
There at the door, looking like a ghost in the
pale moonlight, was Sir Arthur Clavell. His
face was ghastly to behold. It was deadly
white, and the features twiched with emotion.
Nevertheless, ha advanced boldly into the
room, and, controlling his voice with marvel
lous power, said :
“Ella, I have heard all. Tell me the truth.
If I cannot forgive, I will pardon. But think of
our cbdd.”
“Arthur, Arthur,” cried Lady Clavell, "I
will confess all. lam not that man’s wife. My
father—heaven forgive me for having to speak
so ot a parent I—was a gambler. He came of a
good family, but the liie he led made all his
friends leave him. He married a French lady.
I was born, and for some time fortune seemed
to smile upon him. We traveled from place to
place—to all the towns where gambling was
permitted. One day the luck changed, and
poverty stared us in the face. At that time that
man, George Markham, crossed my father’s
path. They became partners, and, weak and
broken as my father was, bo soon fell into that
man’s power. I was scarcely more than a child
then. My mother was dead, and 1 had no one
to aid or advise me. I allowed myself to bo
betrothed to this man. My poor father seemed
to be in the wretch’s power: still, he did all he
could to prevent the marriage taking place, and
it was put off from time to time. At last the
wretched day came. But Providence was kind.
At the church door, as I was being led in, two
gendarmes seized that man as an escaped con
vict. He denied it, when bis coat was rudely
torn off, bis shirt-sleeve rolled up, and there,
branded on his shoulder, were the letters ‘ T.’
F.’ He had escaped from the galleys, to which
he had been condemned for life. He was then
transported to New Caledonia, from whence he
escaped to Australia, where he met that old
man.”
Here she pointed to Silas Markham.
“ He says he is his father, but I do not know.
Again they escaped—by some means having
obtained money—and oame hUre. They recog
nized me, and, by threats ot tho vilest' nature,
made me supply them with money. Forgive
moi my husband. I have told you all.”
“ Yes, all,” said George Markham. “She was
legally betrothed to me, and, in the sight of
Heaven, is my wife.”
“Stand back 1” cried Sir Arthur, as he folded
his wife to his bosom. “She is my wife, and J
will protect her. Officer, do your duty f”
I sprang up in a moment and rushed at
George; but he was too quick for me. He
snapped a pistol in my face, but it missed fire.
Still, it bad the effect o! staggering me. I was
out ot the window and after him like a shot.
There were horses there by which the would
be robbers had come. He seized one horse and
leaped into the saddle, I the other, and away
we raced through the park. He rode well, and,
thank goodness, so did I. Suddenly I saw him
half check his horse at a leap—a'nasty ditch
with a bank about two feet higher than that
from which the leap had been taken. The horse
took it well, but its hoofs slipped, and it rolled
back into the stream, having its rider beneath
it. Before I could reach the spot, the horse
had scrambled away, and was tearing wildly
over tho country, but the man lay gasping, al
most drowning, in the water.
I dismounted, and, rushing into the stream,
soon hid him on the bank, and shouted loudly
for help, which, fortunately, was at hand, lor
Sir Arthur had dispatched some people after
us. The unhappy wretch was carried back to
the hall, where he expired, never having
breathed a word.
| But where was old Silas? Gone—l never
; could tell where. In truth, 1 had good reasons
for not inquiring— gouien. reasons.
Sir Arthur attended the inquest,, when, ot
course, a verdict of “accidental death” was re
turned. After this Sir Arthur sold his hall and
estates and retired abroad with his wife and
family,
And so ends the story of “My Lady’s Glove."
A FURNACE OFFLAME.
MILES OF FIRE THOUSANDS OF
FEET UNDER GROUND.
(From tree Salt Lake Tribune.)
The Comstock Lode is of itself one of the
world’s wonders. It is, moreover, wonderful as
a spot in which the greatest marvels of mining
have been performed. When the great bonanza
was being worked 3,000,000 feet oi timber were
lowered into the depths and set in place month
ly for forty months. Well, that mass of timber
has been on fire for two or three years past, and
at last has become so terrible a feature that it
must be subdued or that portion of the great
lode abandoned.
borne time ago it was hoped that the fire might
be arrested by bulkheads, and so solid walls of
masonry were built sixteen feet in thickness to
ward off the terrible fire. But tho walls soon
became hot and the fatal gas generated by the
lire found its way out into the open chambers
of the mine. Something else had to be done,
aud so it was determined to try to drown the
tire with carbonic acid gas. The trial now
under way, and Dan De Quille, in the Enter
preset gives a description of it. It reads like
the description of a battle between mortals and
gnomes.
From the intensely interesting statement we
condense some naked facts. A furnace for the
manufacture of the gas is placed in position on
the 1,700 level ot Ophir mine. The furnace is
iron, like a steam boiler, lined with brick, and
the material used ior the manufacture of gas is
coke and charcoal. The furnace is fed at one
end and the gas is discharged through a twelve
inch pipe at the other. The account says:
“The draft through the furnace is very
strong, and when the door is open the flames
within roar like a blast furnace. Cast iron, or
any ordinary metal, would be melted in a mo
ment in the great heat. The furnace makes
40,000 feet of carbonic gas daily, and it is esti
mated that fifty days will be required to sub
due the tire, as it is believed that it fills 2,000,-
000 feet oi the mine. The pipe is at a white heat
when the gas leaves the furnace. This is car
ried down to a tank or flume, 80 feet in length,
over which ten inches ot water flows constantly
and cools it. Then the pipe enters the main in
cline, still lying in the trough, and goes down
70 feet to the 1,700 level. The water dashes
down through the trough and over aud around
the pipe with tho noise of a small Niagara.”
On that level the pipe enters the bulkhead,
which at this point is 24 inches in thickness.
The pipe is tamped in with clay, which is kept
constantly wet.
The account says : “ A tremendous draft in
side the bulkhead sucks iu the carbonic acid
gas brought there through the pipe. When
the bulkhead was cut through for the purpose
of inserting the end of the pipe, all were aston
ished at the draft that disclosed. It was so
great that the workmen were obliged to bo on
their guard against being sucked in and carried
into the regions of interior fire.”
This may appear to be an exaggeration, but
an anemometer placed in the current of air
showed it to have a velocity of 500 miles an
hour. On the surface of tho earth eighty miles
an hour is thought to be an awful gale, but here
is a gale of 50u miles. This brings into one’s
mind at once thoughts ol the tremendous gase
ous disturbances to which tho suriace of the sun
is subject.
Of course, this draft was not long left open,
tho inrush of atmospheric air, combining with
the carbonic oxide gas within, being liable to
form an explosive compound. The pipe is in
readiness, with its lower end closed ; and it was
at once thrust through the opening, and the
work of tilting in around it begun.
As tho gas passes in behind the bulkhead, it
settles down into the lowest part of the inclosed
space, being heavier than the carbonic oxide
gas within, and also heavier than atmospheric
air. There it will be stopped off and prevented
sinking further by water. Thus all the enclosed
space in which are the smoldering timbers, will
be filled up with carbonic acid gas, which will
displace the carbonic oxide gas, just as water
poured into a bottle displaces the air.
When all the burning section has been thus
filled up, the fact will be known by carbonic
acid gas flowing out through the pipe on the
1,500 level through which the gas from the fire
is now escaping into the old Consolidated Vir
ginia shaft.
It may be stated that after the enclosed sec
tion shall have been filled to overflowing with
the carbonic acid gas, it will be allowed to so
remain a month or two before any of the bulk
heads are opened. The opening will be very
cautiously done, and only after carbonic acid
gas has taken the place oi the carbonic oxide
gas, at the escape pipe. This may be known by
several tests. A very simple one is to intro
duce the gas into lime water, when a precipi
tate will at once be formed of the contained
lime.
The rock in the mine will retain heat a long
time, but this may be overcome by the use of
water thrown on through a hoae, once the fire
is out and the gas gone.
HIE CHILI) TYRANT.
An Infant who Insisted on Paddling in
Mutton Gravy.
(From Fraser's Magazine.}
A droll anecdote, illustrative of parental fond
ness. is related of Quick, the comedian. He
had invited a friend to dinner, when the follow
ing scene took place between himself and his
daughter, a spoilt child of six years old.
The main dish on the table, when uncovered,
excited the curiosity oi Miss Quick, who either
had not seen the joint before or had forgotten
the name of it, which she now eagerly demand
ed; and on being told that it was a saddle ot
mutton, she stood up and promptly announced
her intention of riding upon it forthwith. To
this preposterous recreation the parents were
fain to entreat the little imp s forbearance. In
vain, for she declared saddles were made to
ride upon, and to ride she was resolved.
After much ado, her patient father and moth
er luckily suggested that the obvious beat of
the seat she aspired to, and the inconvenience
likely to arise from such exercise, would distress
her and spoil her new frock. The difficulty
seemed surmounted, and the child desisted
from further importunity, but immediately af
ter perceiving the dish almost overflow with the
juice of the mutton, she cried out:
“ Oh, let me put my loot in the gravy. I will
put my foot in the gravy.”
The father, albeit not unused to see such ec
centric fancies, was a little startled at his sweet
pet’s desire, aud exclaimed in a tone of as
sumed wonder and deprecation:
“My precious love, what a preposterous
thing you propose ! it’s quite out of the ques
tion. No, do be a good child, and let me help
her—to some mutton. ’
“ Oh,” reiterated the little treasure, “ I will
put my feet in the gravy first 1”
in vain the devoted parents argued, threat
ened and coaxed; in vain promised that they
would next day be without a visitor, and she
might then do as she pleased. All, all in vain,
for upon a more determined opposition the
sweet little angel yelled out her wishes in such
a piercing key that her mother, a very mild
maunered woman, addressed her husband:
“ My dear,” she said, “ I’m afraid we’ll have
no peace until we allow the dear child to do as
she likes.”
“Well, but, my love,” urged Mr. Q., in re
ply. a little ashamed of their unnatural weak
ness before their guest, “ What will Mr.
say to such a proceeding ? It is really so im
proper !”
Blr. —, willing to see to what a length extreme
parental folly would go, withheld both his opin
ion and permission, preferring a state of neu
trality; and Blr. Quick, finding the little tyrant’s
determination grow warmer every minute, and
the mutton grow colder, proposed a compro
mise—namely, that the little darling should
have another dish brought in, and placed in a
corner of the room, with some gravy in it, and
then paddle about, while themselves and their
friend were at dinner, and return to the table
when the fruit came in. No; “the treasure/ at
the very top of her voice, once more declared
that she would have the dish and nothing but
the dish before her, and further, that she would
abate not one drop of the gravy.
At this perplexing juncture Quick turned to
ward his friend in apology for the scene before
him, assuring him at the same time that it was
oi “no use to thwart the dear child, who would
have her way.” Then, calling for another dish,
the poor father placed the shivering saddle
upon it, and lifting that containing the gravy
from the table, carried it to the furthest corner
of the room. He was followed by the “little
duck,” who, after a persuasive kiss from the
goose, her father, consented to have her shoes
removed, and to remain splashing about until
the dessert appeared upon th© table.
Solitude and Perseverance.
A STORY OF OLE BULL.
Tfhen Ole Bull, the renowned violinist, was
staying in Paris in 1810, he returned home late
one evening trom a concert and, as the night
was cold, he ordered his man to make a fire in
his room. The latter dragged toward the fire
place a hnge en which the word "Fire
wood” was painted in large letters. In answei’
to Ole Ball's astonished inquiry, the servant
told him that the Box had been delivered that
day at noon by hie master’s orders, as he
thought. O» being broken open, the box was
found to contain twenty-two violins and the fol
lowing letter:
“Great Master—The undersigned, being
members o! various amateur philharmonic so
cieties, hereby declare that they will henceforth
cease to perform on the accompanying instru
ments. The same wood hom which Ole Bull
can draw li r e, love, sorrow, passion and melody
is only to be regarded as fuel for the flames in
the hands of the undersigned, who therefore
request the maestro to make an auto-da-fe of
the enclosures, and to look upon the ascending
smoke as incense offered to his genius by peni
tent dabblers in the noble art.”
This curious epistle bore the signatures of
twenty-two young mon. Three days afterward
Ole Bull gave a dinner, to which ho invited all
the senders ot the valuable “firewood.” Each
guest had lying before him on the table one of
tho violin* referred to, and by tta aide a gold
rin<j with the inscription “Solitude and Perse
verance”—a piece ot seasonable advice to the
faint-hearted apiatenrs, and a symbolic indica
tion of the means by which the virtuoso himself
had attained to lame.
MORRISSEY’S ROMANCE.
How the Rising Bonanza King Escaped
a Funeral in the Mines.
(From the San Francisco Examiner.)
“John D. Morrissey has struck an awful
streak of luck. There is no telling what he is
worth, nor how gigantic his fortune will be in
the end, but he is almost now a rival of Flood
and Mackay. His Crown Point mine at Lead
ville now nets him $3,000 a day. Figure that up
for a year, and how much haye you got ? Over
a million, ain’t it ?
“ Well, there are seemingly inexhaustible
beds of ore there. He has struck it on what we
call both the upper and lower contracts ; that
is, where a given hanging wall is limestone and
the foot wall porphyry, ho has gone through
the porphyry by shaft and struck the carbon
ates again. In one place in this second mile,
as it may be called, the ore is lorty feet thick,
and nowhere is it less than a dozen, and it
roaches every way much farther than has been
explored.”
So stated Sanford Bell, a mine owner of Lead
ville, to the Examiner's representative at the
Lick, recently, and, continuing, he said :
“ But Morrissey has other mines there. One
right alongside of the Crown Point is a steady
producer, and others contiguous to that prom
ise just as well.
“He has made all his wealth in three years.
Ever since he struck carbonates in the Crown
Point he has made money out of everything. If
a disgusted, disheartened miner came to Mor
rissey and sold a prospect to him, satisfied that
be could never strike it, perhaps in a fortnight
Morrissey would have pay ore.
“His success with fast horses is an instance.
Taking a fancy to horses he wont to Montana
and bought a scrub colt there—Montana Re
gent. What does the scrub colt do but turn
out a terror on the track—scooped Baldwin’s
nags at Louisville the other day, and is cutting
a wide swath generally.
“Other horses of Morrisseys also made good
winnings. Recollect, this string are all young
and have never been heard ot till lately.
“Morrissey got into Leadville the last of ’7B.
He was there through all the phenomenal dis
coveries ot the following three years and never
made a winning on anything. Half the time it
is doubtful if he had enough to eat—roughed it
from the word go.
“ But the toughest time he had perhaps was,
I think, in the Spring ot ’B2. John had been
mining over the range at Kokomo. There were
several claims in that wild mining district.
There was a crowd known as the Elk mountain
boys, and another called the Sheep mountain
crowd. Morrissey belonged to the latter, and
Ed Lowe, Tom Coleman, Jim McDonald and
some others to the former. They were old
timers. Ed Lowe was the discoverer of the
Elk mountain ledge—that is the outcroppings of
the rich, continuous veins of all the great mines
up there.
“ Well, one night at the time I have stated all
the boys were down in the camu. They stayed
up late and enjoyed themselves pretty well.
Along about one or two o’clock in the morning
Morrissey and his friends adjourned to the
street, and, while enjoying a social talk, sud
denly somebody shot Morrissey in the back
with a monster 45-revolver. The bullet tore
through the left lung, right close up to the
heart, and he fell over in the snow as limp as a
dish-rag. We all thought he was done lor.
Well, some of Morrissey’s friends saw a man
running away. They took after him—and lo
and behold—it was McDonald, the owner of
the Badger mine on Elk mountain. McDonald
was one of the quietest, nicest men in the
mines, and everybody was completely sur
prised. Mac was in the same condition as
some of the other boys, but he had no gun on
him, and here the people were surprised again.
“ Morrissey was taken to the Summit House,
and hovered between life and death for weeks.
But the pure, light air kept him- from dying
from the awful wound, and he got out again.
“ Meantime, McDonald had been arrested for
an assault to commit murder, and while Mor
rissey was so low, was in hourly expectation of
being charged with murder, as were all his
friends, and he had a good many of them, too.
But meantime another strange story got out
that there was a romantic reason why some of
the alleged friends ot Morrissey should just as
lief have him securely laid away under the dai
sies. In short, there was a love affair, and you
know in primitive mining towns, short work is
sometimes made of such matters. The future
bonanza king, however, denied that there was
anything of this sort, and expressed the fullest
confidence in his friends.
“But, be that as it may, the charge against
McDonald was dropped, and he drifted away, I
think, to Montana, and nobody knows what be
came of him. It was a queer case. I think,
myself, that probably McDonald was so wild on
that particular night that he didn’t know what
he was doing.
“But it was the closest call John Morrissey
ever had, and came mighty near spoiling him
for a bonanza king.”
NOW 18 THE’ SEASON.
AMATEUR NEWSPAPER WRITING.
(From the Boston Courier.)
The season has arrived when the would-be
summer correspondents haunt the editorial
sanctums and offer their services to furnish let
ters, in return for which, they usually expect
sums sufficient to maintain them in luxury at
the most fashionable and expensive Summer
resorts. There is something at once touching
and exasperating in the confidence these people
have in their powers, and widely distorted ideas
they cherish concerning the pecuniary results
of a summer correspondence.
“I thought,” one of them remarked to the
editor, with a candor beautiful to see, “ that of
course newspapers wanted information about
the best society, and of course to get that, one
must live at the best hotels.”
“ Why not have a cottage and be done with
it?” retorted the editor, whose temper was
somewhat harsh that morning. “There is a
feeling in favor of cottages nowadays, you
know, and mere guests at a hotel haven’t the
best chance after all.”
Her large and childishly pathetic eyes filled
with tears.
“ You make me feel as if I were a fool,” she
said gently.
“ 1 beg your pardon,” he apologized. “ I
certainly didn't mean to be rude or unkind, but
there are so many people who want to write
letters, and they all have such wild ideas that it
is difficult to be patient always. You have never
written, you say*?’’
“ No, but I am sure I could do it. My
friends have always said 1 write very bright
letters.”
The editor opened his lips, but he closed them
without saying anything unpleasant.
“I don’t doubt that,” was all ho replied,
“only it is difficult to find a place for all the
nice things that are written. There are only so
many columns in a newspaper, unfortunately.”
When she was gone he fell to pondering, for
the thousandth time, why everybody believes it
possible to write lor a newspaper without train
ing. People do not, as a rule, think it a simple
matter to make a table without training, and
surely journalism is a more difficult art than
carpentering; while if the rewards ol news
paper work were as great as these amataur con
tributors seem to think, editors, instead of sit
ting in hot offices performing the unpleasant
duty ot dashing the hopes of ardent young
souls, would own their seaside villas and be
themselves off to cool seaside resorts at the first
hint of scorching Summer days. Correspond
ence is not only an art, but it is a difficult
branch of journalistic work. Of all the crowd
of rash aspirants who rush hopelessly alter
every possible vacancy, not one in a hundred
get even a chance to try; and of those who try,
not one in 500 ever succeed in doing much be
side filling a few futile and unhappy columns.
Superstition Birds.
Visitors Which Bring Bad Luck—
Omens of Good and Evil.
In Fr.nee the handsome white owl, with its
plumage, is accepted everywhere as a forerun
ner ol death. As if that were not enough to
draw upon it the animadversion of all, this
bird is often accused of sacrilege, lor in Prov
ence and Languedoc it is charged with drink
ing the oil ol the church lamps.
In the South ot Germany the crow bespeaks
good luck, but in France anything but that if
seen in the morning. . The same with the mag
pie—ill luck if it flies on your leit; if, on the
contrary, on the right, you may be assured that
the day will be a foj-tunate oue. In England
the influence ol the Appearance of this saucy
bird upon jurrent events is governed by the
numbers in which he appears, and is" thus
summed up:
One for Borrow,
Two for mirth;
Throe for a wedding,
Four for a birth.
If the chaffinch perches on your window sill,
beware of treachery. It was the wren which
aided Prometheus in stealing the sacred fire
ol knowledge from beneath Jove’s throne in
heaven. Accordingly, he who kills a wren wil.
have his home destroyed. If yon have money
in your pocket when you hear the cuckoo for
the first time, it is a good omen, and you will
have your pockets well lined during the year;
if, on the contrary, you have no money, culti
vate your friends, for you will be in need of
assistance before long. The blackbird which
crosses your road brings you good luck. No
physician should fail to procure a bed of par
tridge feathers. A patient laid upon such a
bed, no matter what his disease, will never die
of it, although he will not necessarily get well.
Among the negroes ol the Southern States of
America the moaning dove moans to save a
man’s soul. To kill one of these doves is a sign
of death, but more frequently the death of a
ch:ld. A buzzard ora crow on the house-top is
believed by the same people to be an invariable
sign ot death or disaster; a visit at the door
from a rooster, the approaching visitof a friend;
the notes of the screeching owl, or “shivering ”
owl, are a bad omen of many interpretations,
while, the common owl hoots ou your right’
good luok will follow, but bad luck should he
take ud his position on your left side and hoot
therelfom. The reputation ol all night birds
great or small, is no better, but Southern
imagination has discovered a remedy tor all
their spells. It consists of throwing a pinch oi
salt into ttfo firs a* soon as their squad is heard.
DATES.
GREAT DIFFICULTY IN BEMEM
ING THEM.
Nothing ia so hard to remember as dates;
and, accordingly, various artificial mnemonic
schemes, more or less complicated, have been
devised to meet the difficulty. The system
adopted by the old lady mentioned below is sim
ple enough for any child, but very particular
persons may raise some objection to it on the
score of possible inaccuracy. The old lady was
on the witness stand, and her lawyer said:
“Now, madam, in order to get at the truth of
this matter, we want to know the precise date
on which your son John went to sea.”
“Well.it was a little more than four years
ago, and in the spring of the year, just be
fore ”
“But we must know the exact time.”
“ Well, it was either the day before or the day
after my son Tom’s boy came down with the
measles, and I can’t just ”
“ But what day ot the month was it ?”
“I’m not quite sure, but it seems to me it was
the same day Jenny Kimball’s baby swallowed
her brass thimble, though, now I come to think
of it, it seems more like it was the day after.”
“But you are not giving any dates, madam.”
No?” she said, innocently. “ Well, let me
think. Jethro Hawkins’s smoke-house burned
down the first week in April that year, and our
men folks was putting in spring wheat when it
happened, and 1 remember that they-—”
“ That has nothing to do with the date we
want, has it?”
“ Well, may be not: only that I know the
spring wheat was all in on the day the deed was
made out, and it seems to mo we’d broken up
some of the corn ground.”
“But what day was it?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? Well.it was before the
middle of April, for ”
“ Was it the • th, 10th or 14th?”
“ Well, I declare I don’t know; but I think it
was—yes, I know uow that it was.”
THESE LATeIaD DAYS. !
A DISCOURAGED SHORT-HAND
REPORTER.
(From the Boston Transcript.)
Short-hand reporters are common enough
now, and it is a far cry to the time when the
veteran, but still active, alert Yerrington was
the only name that suggested i:seli when the
odd-sounding word “stenographer” fell on
Boston hearing. As the number of short-hand
writers has increased, the charges have come
down, and every little job is competed lor. Not
long ago one oi the State House force was ap
proached by a rural statesman who wanted to
place himself on record for the satisfaction of
the Prohibitionists among his constituents.
“What’ll yer ask?’’ said Hon. Wilkins Hay
seed.
“Twenty-five cents a hundred words and ten
cents a folio for writing out,” was tho prompt
reply.
“ Well,’t won’t take more’n thousand words
to tell my folks where I be on this question.
When you see me get up this afternoon, you
just catch on an’ go ahead, and I’ll pay the bill
an’ put the speech in our locbl paper.”
The time came ; Hon. Mr. Hayseed rose ; the
reporter opened his trusty notebook and set his
pencil at work.
Mr. Hayseed—“ Mr. President, if all the sobs
of anguish, if all tho tears of despair were to be
agglomerated and distilled into one deadly
draught ”
Here an envious Senator rose to a point of
order that there was no sub ect before the Sen
ate. The President ruled that the point was
well taken ; Mr. Hayseed subsided, and the re
porter remarked the short hand business was
not keeping him in pencils this season.
They have in Dakot»
A PECULIAR WAY OF BOOMING RAILROADS.
•‘Two new railroads coming here, I understand,”
said a Dakota man to anotuer resident of the same
place.
“ Yes, and there came mighty near being three.”
“ How’s that?”
“Why, five of us organized a new company yes
terday with the intention of running tracxs out ot
this town like spokes out of the hub of a bicyclo
wheel, but we tried all day and couldn't raise the
$3 necessary to get incorporated. We hope to make
it up this afternoon. Look out for three columns
in to-morrow morning's paper."
Old “ Cul Dundar ” visited his friend, ths
sergeant ot police, the other day and told him
of
A GAME OF THREE-CARD MONTE.
“What! you here !” exclaimed Sergeant Bendal
the other day, as he looked up and found Carl Duu
der standing by the desk.
“Vhell, 1 polief it vhas my duty to come down
und report on some case. Maype I vhas swindled
again. *
“1 presume so. Most anybody can swindle you.
It’s a wonder you have a dollar loft.’*
“ I vhas awful green, eh ?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Und I vhas innocent, like a shild?”
“About as innocent as a boy three years old.
What's the matter now ?”
“ Sergeant, maype you haf seen a feller take three
cards und throw 'em all around on a table like
lightning ?'
“ I have.**
“Und he likes you to bet dot you can pick oudt
dot ace ot hearts ?”
“ ies. That’s called three-card monte. How
much did they get out of you ?”
“A man comes in nay place yesterday und says
vhas I Carl Dunder. I vhas. All right, Mr. Duu
der, but I like to show you a trick to play on der
poys. It vhas called parlor magic, und eaferypody
vhas wildt oafer her.’*
“ I see ! And ho got SSO out of you, I presume ?”
“ Vhell. he take a seat at der table und pulls oudt
three cards und does so—und so—und so, und he
laughs all der time und says it vhas a good shoke
on der poys. Py und py ha like mo to pick out dot
aco of hearts.”
“ And you bet you could ?’*
“Of course.”
“Mr. Dunder, you are a bigger fool than I
thought for!”
“Sergeant, oxcuse me. If I vhas a fool I can’t
help him. 1 bet dot man S2O I pick oudt dot card.
Shako, comes oafer and holdts der money, und I
pick oudt a card.”
“And it wasn’t the aco. of course ?”
“ Oh, but he vbas ! 1 pick her right oudt ash
slick as grease, und I put dot money in my west
pocket. Der feller sbumps oop and says dare vhas
a pig mistake, and he vhants me to try oafer again,
but I vhas not on some try.”
•• You don’t say ?**
“ Und bo gets madt und says he put some heads
on me if I doan' gif oop dot twenty. Vhell, I vhas
a greenhorn und a fool, you know ?’*
“And you gave it up ?”
“ Ob, no ! I take dot feller by der neck und make
his heels preak two tables und fife peer glasses, und
his coat und west vhas all in shmall pieces, und he
cries oudt dot he gif*, me ten dollar more if I let
oop ou him. Dot vhas wory reasonable, und I let
him go.”
“ And you
“ You see for yourself. It vhas a twenty und a
ten, und In dis package vhas his boot heels und
west.buckle und coat buttons. I like you to put ou
a ticket of ‘ Lost Property ' und take sharge of ’em.
Sergeant, good day.”
“But, say, I want to talk with you some
“ Sergeant, 1 vhas a greenhorn und a fool, und I
can’t shtop any louger !’’
“ But, here !’’
“ Dot vhas all right. Mebbe I vhas some oldt
Dutchmans from a pack county, und eaferypody
can shwindle me, und maype I vhas oop to some
sbnuff. Good-pye, Sergeant. It vhas going to be a
hot day, und Shako vhas all alone in der saloon 1”
The man from Arizona discovered that
HE HAD BEEN JOKING.
The man was on his w»y East. He had come
from Hogyawp, in Southern Arizona. His hands
were soiled, and the alkaii dust around the gol’d
cord on his sombrero was deep enough to tunnel.
“Hear of the shake we had in Arizone? Did, eh?
Waal, did you know, stranger, that I wouldn’t go
back to that territory agin for all the beef this side
of the Grande? Arizone has been catchin’ it in the
neck ever since the Almighty made l.ttle apples. If
it wusn t Injuns then that wus no rain, an’ if thar
wus no rain then it was snakes, an’ Mexicans, an*
cyclones, an’ locusts, an’ caterpillers, an’ boss
thieves. I went through this sort o’ thing mid
dlin’ well, but when the ground got to shakin' an*
crackin’ an’ the mountains pukin’ fire an’
smoke an* cinders, then I thought it wus’bout t.mo
to let down the bars an’ git out.”
“ It was a bad earthquake, was it not?” inquired
a jaundice-looking man who was eating a spongy
banana.
“Should think it was,” said the man from Ari
zona. “It shook the whisky in Calabasas so hard
that the stuff went off like giant powder, an’ out in
the Indigo creek district they had to build bridges
over the cracks in the ground in order to git to
meetin* on Sunday.”
“ I heard that great deposits of gold and silver
were laid bare by tho shake,” said the man
who had eaten the bauana.
” In Arizone?”
“Yes.”
“ Whar ’bouts, stranger ?”
“In tho Sierra Mad re mountains, I believe.”
“ You don’t say so !*'
“ 1 read about it in the newspapers.’'
“ How long ago ?”
“Last week.”
“Tel! the truth, stranger,” continued the man
with the sombrero, “Arizone ain’t such a bad
kin try, after all. I was just jokin’'bout not goin’
back thar agin. I’m goin’ on the next train.”
A lady writes to the New Orleans Picayune
tho following clever description of
“THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.”
Just at this time of' tho year a girl whom I know
very well is about to begin her voyage of life, as she
terms it in her valedictory. She is the sweet girl
graduate. She has sent off to all the John Thomases
of her acquaintance scented little notes of invitation
to attend the commencement exercises at tho insti
tute. She is very pretty, if somewhat crude, and
wears banged hair and many white ribbons. Her
gown is white, with a sweeping trail. It is to her
like a foretaste ot bridal finery. She is in a flutter,
and supposes that this is the great trying ordeal of
her life. Sho carries her diploma as a young queen
might carry her wand of office. Her valedictory is
tied with blue ribbons, and there is a good deal of
sentiment and poetry in it. She talks about the
stormy sea of life; about hope, the light that was
never on land or sea, and she is smothered in flowers
when she makes her pretty bow of retirement.
She has already gone through the inevitable cere
monial of vow-taking with her school chum. They
are to write to each other every other day. They
are to keep each a diary, and exchange them at the
end of the year. They are to have no secrets irom
each other. They swear never to marry, but alter a
time, when they have been out ia society long
enough, they will meet somewhere, rent a house
or a flat together, and live inseparable for the rest
of their mortal lives—the one devoting herself to
china paint ng, the other to Kensington embroid
ery or wood carving. Wo have all heard her rave
over her bosom tr.end, Alice Maud, the animated
repository of her secrets.
Six months go by. We meet Agnes or Ethel, as
the case may be, and inquire after the bosom
friend. She draws up her slender body, and her
eyes look daggers that John Thomas wishes were
buried in his heart, so sweet if yet so sharp are
they.
“If you mean Miss Smith,” says sho, “I know
nothing of her. I decline to know anything about
her. She came to my house and flirted so shame
fully with Mr. Brown that he has never been back
since. J shall cut her the next time I see her, the
hateful old thing.”
The children of Chicago, if this is a fair spec
imen of them, do aeem to have
LITTLE THEOLOGICAL TRAINING.
This conversation between Charlie, a Southside
boy, and his bachelor uncle, occurred as they
walked along the street in Chicago :
Charlie—“Do you know what Tommie Mason
says the best place to go to is ?"
Uncle—•• No.”
Charlie—“ He says the best place to go to Is the
Bad Man's place. That isn’t the best place to go
to, is it ? Heaven’s tho best place, isn’t it ?”
Uncle—“ Yes, heaven is the best place.”
Charlie—“ Tommie Mason says you more to
eat at the Bad Man’s place, and that s why it's ber-t.
Don’t step on the cracks, 'cause if you do, you’ll
marry a nigger.”
SCINTILLATIONS.
Making extremes meet — curing a
headache with a cocktail
If you want to see a wild-cat, simply
hold up the domestic article by the tail.
“ Alljsigns fail in a dry time, but did
you over tiy winking at the drux clerk 1
A North of England ferryman has the
following motto: “No crown no cross!”
Note for Fishermen—You can gene
rally find a big black bass in the colored church
choir.
The Romans seemed to realize how
obstinate women could be when they called her
mulier.
“ I know Washington was a great In
jun fighter,” said little Tommy, “because he cut
down hie father’s Cherokee.”
Think twice before you speak, and
then you may be able to say something more aggra
vating than if you spoke right out at oaco.
A printer up in Canada is said to bo
103 years old. He has made so typographical
errors during his career that he is afraid to die.
A lady advertises for sale a baboon,
three tabby cats and a parrot. She states that, be
ing now married, she has no further use for thorn.
A woman woke her husband during
the storm the other night, and said: “1 do wish
you would stop snoring for I want to hear it
thunder.”
A Baltimore man who has buried hia
thirteenth wile says he shall never marry again;
but has he stopped to think that thirteen is an un
lucky number ?
A little boy recently astonished hia
mother on his return from Sunday-school by ren
dering the hymn, “The consecrated Cross I’d bear,**
“The consecrated cross-eyed bear.”
They sat within the parlor dim;
I passed and heard her say to him:
“I wish, dear George, that you'd behave:
If not, I wish that you would shave.”
As the seashore bathing season ist
about here, it seems as it there ia a big opening for
the genius who invents a male bathing dress that
will not give away the fact that tho wearer is bow
legged.
“How is your son doing, Mr. Smith,
who went to New York a few years ago “Ho has
made a name for himself,” said Mr. Smith. “In
deed? In what way?” “I undowtand ho calls
himself Smythe.”
Getting rid of a man is a very easy
process if you are really in earnest about it. Some
girls marry and feed their victims with bread they
have made themselves. This is a way
pf getting rid of a Wan,
Little Tommy—“ Can I eat another
piece of pie?” Mamma (who is something of a pu
ri.B,V~ BU PP OBe you can.” Tommy—“ Well, ma>/
I?” Mamma—-No, dear, you may not. t, Tommy
—“Darn grammar, anyway.”
Ihe Widows.—Speaking of the dear
departed, one of them remarked with emotion: “I
shall never, never forget the date of his death, such
a terrible blow it was to me!” “ liow long ago did
he die ?” “ Two or three years I”
“ you find a good sale for your
verses, now. De Wiggs?” “Yes, iadued, De Liggs.
I’ve struck a bonanza.” “Ah, what is it?” “Thera
is a great demand for posthumous poems by Edgar
A. Poe, and I’m engaged in supplying it.”
First Tramp—“ Now, we’ve got to
divide fair, like.” Second Tramp—“ Cert., par«l. I
ain’t had nothin’ to eat etnee Friday, an you ain’t
bad no sleep tor four nights. I’ll take the pullet*
an’ you can take the feathers ati’ go over in that aip
barn a enjoy yourself.”
“ You know, of course,” said the
man to the young man. •' that my daughter hae
SIOO,OOO in h>-r own right?” “Yes, air,” ••And
you are not worth a cent.” “ I’m poor, sir; but,
great Scott! $100,01)0 is enough for two. Why, I'm
economical to meanness.”
A breezy joke.
And a friendly poke
In the ribs, 'mid laugher mellow.
Is never bad.
But a mm is mad
If it’s not on the other fellow.
The near-sighted man who imitated
the Uncle Toby act by taking what be thought was
a fly, tenderly to the window and saying, as he let
it go, “There is room enough in the world for thee
and me,” will not imitate the Uncle Toby act again.
His fly was a wasp.— Somerville Journal.
“Ah, Miss Porker,” observed young
Gusher to a Chicago young woman visiting friendg
in tins city, “ what a charming writer Browning
is ! I suppose ho is admired in Chicago?" “Well.’*
replied Miss Porker, “I can t say tor the whole
town, but lean tell you that I’m just dead stuck on
him myself.”
“Ob, ma,” said a little girl, “make
Bobby behave himself. He’s pulling all the pinn
out of my dress.” “Quit, Bobby,” said hia
mother. “You shouldn’t tease your sister in that
way. It’s very naughty.” “ I wasn’t teasin’ Em,"
replied Bobby. •• We was just playin’, we was, p*
and the governess.”
On© of the most interesting machine®
used in the lanndries at Troy, is called a “whitzer.**
It dries clothes by making 1,000 revolutions a min
ute. One of these days tho whlzzor will be intro
duced into the e iitorial room, and the bora who
persists in talking while the editor is busy up to
bis ears, will be invited to get into tho wbizzer
dry up.
INVALUABLE TOR
BURNS, SUNBURNS, DIARRHCEA. CHAFINGS.
STINGS OF INSECTS, PILES, SORE
EYES, SORE FEET.
THE WONDER OF HEALING!
For Piles, (Use with Pond’s Extract
Ointment,) it ia the greatest known remedy.
For Bums, Scalds, Wouiufs, Bruise*
and Sprains, it ia unequaled—stopping pain
and healing in a marvelous manner.
For Inflamed and Sore Eyes.—lts effect
upon these delicate organs is simply marvelous.
.All Inflammations and Hemorrhages
yield to its wondrous power.
For Ulcers, Old Sores, or Open
Wounds, Toothache, Faccache, Bitea
of Insects, Sore Feet, its action upon thee©
is most remarkable.
Cantion. CT has been imU
tated. The aenulne has the words “ POND’S
blown in the glass, andmir-picture
trade-mark on surrounding buff wrapper. None
is genuine. Always insist on havina
POND'S EXTRA CT. Take no other prepara*
tion. It Is never sold in bulk'or by measure.
Prices, 50c., sl, $1,75. Sold everywhere,
New Pamphlet with History or ouit'
Preparations Sent FREE on Application to'
POND’S EXTRACT CO., 76 sthAve., N.Y.
~ ZXEBZCr CO.’S ~
OrangeWme
Cool'.ng, Refreshing, anti-bilious. A delicious Summer
beverage. No fuss. No bother. Always ready. Health
ier than lemonade.
Cures dyspepsia. Gives natural action to the bowell
Guaranteed pure.
Mathey-Oaylus’
OAPSULES.
This wonderful discovery has l>een used for 30
years by the Physicians of Paris, London and New
York, with great success. These Capsules are supe
rior to all remedies for the prompt cure of all cases,
recent or of long standing. They are the cheapest
in the market, costing but 75 cents per bottle of 64
Capsules. CLIN CJLE., Paris,
Sold everywhere. '
PBOTBOTMJILLf
“CHICHESTER’S ENGLISH.”
The Original and Only Genuine.
Safe and always Reliable. Beware of worthless Imitations.*
Indispensable to LADIES. Ask your Druggist for
•‘Chichester’s Enj-llsh” and take dq other, or inclose io.
(stamps) to as for particulars in letter by return malL
NAME PAPER. Chichester Chemical Co.,
S3lB Madison Square, Philada., Pa.
Bold by Druggists everywhere. Ask for •‘Chlches*
ter’a Engliau” Pennyroyal Pills. Take no other.
&DK. YOUNG’S ELEOTitIC
BELTS, as they are worn round the body''
a sure cure tor Nervous Debility, Weak'
Dess of Body and Mind, Youthful Errorsi
Loss of Manhood, Weak Back, Kidney
\ and Sninat Diseases, Rheumatism. Therf
|is nothing like Dr. Young’s Electric Beit
’jand Suspensory eombined in the worl<
• 'for restoring lost manhood and impart
ling renewed energy and vitality to ths
J most shattered constitution. Bands tot
7 Female Weakness. Write for book os
1 Manly Vtgor, free. DR. W. YOUNG,
' 260 Hudson street, near Canal
New York City. Office hours from 10 A. M. till 7 P. M.
and by appointment. Cail and examine before Duroha*
ing ebsewhere.
7