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THE MOhAHCH'S MOTTO.
BY I. ED9AB JONES. Onee a mighty potentate J’lacad abovo bis pataca gat© .Golden letters— bright and clear, t* None mar pass or enter hero Who no kindly deed hath wrought, Or some pauper s blessing caught." Warriors fierce—ln blood-stained pride-— Read its words and turned aside; , Princes—rich In power and gold- pelt its message, clear and cold; All turned back, and none returned 'Till its permit they had earned. Soon in all that roomy land ■» Blessings rose on every band; Great men made their kindness sure; Rich men helped the sick and poor; Words and works, in sweetness blent, Clothod the land in glad content. Men who oanao and turned away -Learned what good in kindness lay; Hard hearts cursed its terms, but went finding, in its work, content; So, ere many yeas and days, Jjl the laud was tilled with praise. Then eaoh heart and thankful tongue With the monarch 8 praises rung. •Thankful thought and earnest prayer paid their tributes to his care; Anchored in each subject’s soul, Each, a part and ad, a whois. Rich in years but poor in pride, Hk There at last the monarch died; Wide the pearly portals flew That his soul might enter through, While upon heaven's arches wrought Gleamed the same familiar thought. So, when each his race had run, Came his people, one by one, Greeting w th a welcome smile . Its familiar words and style. Thus the king upon his throne Gave heaven’s password to his own. Still upon the heavenly dome, Jfck. Greeting each who journeys home— While thank-offerings angels bring— And gold harps and anthems ring— Shines the message of the king. MIL’S BWGfll’ PROSPECTS. BY ETTIE ROGERS. o Bain' as yourns tbs nighest bouse, 1 thought I’d jiat speak toyo’ 'bout the poor ereeter I I kinder reckon she’s jiat got money enough for the hire ot the oottage and her .. vittles without paying for doctors and medicine tod nurses. She looks mity sick; and being She's thar all alone, I thought mebbe one of your gals would run over and nuss her up a bit." Ths speaker-a bent, shriveled, benevolent featured, little old man-put a shining pail ot yellow cream on the kitchen table, and glanced With kindly eagerness toward the lady he was addressing. . ~ , , « The person you men tion is a total stranger to US, and we are very busy,” the lady answered so disencouragingly that the kindly little old milkman turned away without venturing to press the subject. \“I might have guessed as Mrs. Malcolm Mould have listened to nothing in the way ot (helping the poor oreeter alone in that ar’ cot tage I ’Pears to me the Malcolm woman hnint tot no more heart than a stone when a neighbor wants a bit ot cheerin’ or the like,” be muttered as he trudged away with Ids shining pails of snowy milk and amber cream. “What was it he was saying, mamma?” queried the musical voice of a pretty girl, who had just entered the kitchen, and who was looking with gentle interest after the bent figure vanishing down the green road toward the little village. “ It was about the person who has just moved I into the Kenyon cottage. She wants charity, or something,” yawned a black-browed, thin lipped, young lady, who was lounging in a cushioned rocker beside an open window framed in climbing roses. “ A hospital is the place for sick people who can’t pay for doctors and nurses; they can’t ex vect strangers to tend them. 1 wonder at the person’s presumption in sending to ns,” said Mrs. Malcolm. “It would be no more than neighborly for one of us to go over,” said the pretty girl by the door. “ Neighborly I—with a pauper tenant of Burt Kenyon's tumble-down hut I Well, it would be just like you after all, Rosalie,” smiled the roung lady rooking under the roses. “I hope it is like me to do an act of simple aharity whether the person who needs it lives in a hut or a palace, whether she is a pauper or a millionaire, Rosalie answered,with a dash of indignation from her dark gray eyes. “ Well, wo have neither time nor means to Waste on people ot that description,” the moth er interposed. “The upper front chamber is to bo put m order at once—your Aunt Buth may be hero any day I And beside Nellie’s ten nis dress is to be finished. You have plenty to do at homo, Rosalie.” “And I am in a hurry about that dress, too,” Miss Nell yawned from her rocker under the pink and crimson roses. “ There are to be no end of tennis parties now Burt Kenyon has real ly settled in the village. The parties are in his honor; he is so fond of the amusement him self.” Burt Kenyon was the great magnate, in pro spective, of the village. Young, personally at tractive, tho possessor of wealth, and the recent purchaser of the finest estate in the county, his settling in the place was regarded as an event to bo commemorated. Already, in imagination, Miss Nell was pic turing herself as ths recipient of bis attentions, >8 the very possible mistress of the grand coun try mansion where tho young bachelor owner bad established himself. “You will need more than a tennis dress, Nell," her mother remarked. “Now Mr. Ken yon has actually arrived, there will be dancing parties and parties of all kinds. If we were not so dreadfully poor, I would get you a couple pl nice silk gowns.” “lamglad we are to have Aunt Ruth for a Visitor. I intend to be particularly agreeable to the old lady," Nell laughed. “She has lots of money; she will he sure to Have it to one of you girls some day,” Mrs. Jlaloolm said. “ I shall take good care she leaves it all to the,” Nell returned, with another lazy, confi dent little laugh. “If I resemble her, that will be a point in my favor. Do I, mamma ?” “My dear child, I hardly remember how your Aunt Buth looks. It is years since I have seen her,” was the answer. “ Isn’t it odd she should want to visit ns now. after neglecting us lor so many years ?” said Nell. “It doesn’t seem odd to me," was the reply. “ Your Aunt Ruth is getting to be an old wo man; she has no children, and very likely she Wants a more intimate acquaintance with rela tives who will be the legal heirs ot her large fortune, if she doesn’t take a notion to will it J way from us.” “She won’t take that notion if I can help it,” Nell declared, with a volume of meaning in the confident smile which flickered over her thin lips. f “ You have bright prospects before you, my love,” the mother commented. ’’ It will cer tainly be your own fault if you do not gain more than ordinary attention from Burt Kenyon: and Jt will surely be your fault if you fail to please your Aunt Buth.” f “Than I shall be faultless,” the voungladv laughed. During this discussion, pretty Rosalie had quietly walked away, and bad been missed by of them. ’ Rosalie felt no absorbing interest in the for tune which Aunt Ruth would sometime leave tor somebody—nor in the riches with which Mr. Kenyon would be able to endow a bride. Just then her mind was engrossed with the possible urgent need of Mr. Kenyon’s tenant. The large, gray eyes were sweetly serious; there was a tender flush of pitying agitation oii her soft cheeks, as she gathered a great bunch of fragrant pinks and glowing dahlias from the old-fashioned garden, and then tripped swiftly toward the tiny cottage. But the occupant, whom she had supposed to be ill, and perhaps suffering for ordinary oom forts, did not seem such a needy invalid after nil. Rosalie beheld a very elderly lady, who was very plainly attired, thin of figure and pale of feature. But the tiny room was neat and cheery, and the lady herself was busy with some trifle Of needle work. “We heard you were ill,” Rosalie began, rather timidly, “ and I ventured to bring yon a few flowers, and to see if I could be of any service.” “My only ailment is loneliness,” the lady an swered, with a smile so patient, so grateful that it captivated the girl’s respect and liking at once. “But that is a chronic affliction—l have been more or less of a solitary all my life. But lam glad you have come; I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Something in the lady’s manner and language surprised and puzzled Rosalie—the new neigh bor, the occupant of the shabby cottage, had evidently been accustomed to refined society, tod to a more elegant mode of living. And then they chatted as women will when each finds the other unaffectedly congenial— such an agreeable condition ot things existing occasionally, notwithstanding all cynical saws to the contrary. And presently, while they chatted, the wood en gate latch clicked, a buoyant tread sounded on the grassy walk, there was a light tap upon the open door, and Rosalie turned her pretty head to look straight into the dark eyes of the handsomest young gentleman whom she had ever beheld. The handsome young gentleman was Mr. Burt Kenyon. He had come to inquire after the Comfort ot bis tenant; he was afraid the little cottage was not as habitable as it might be; but he was will ing to make any repairs Mrs. Shelly might sug gest. But Mrs. Shelly was satisfied with the place as it was; it served the purpose for which she bad rented it. “ And I sbail not remain long enough for al terations,” she added, with a little quick color Staining her thin cheeks, and with an odd fleet ing twinkle in her sober eyes. Mr. Kenyon had finished his errand; but he Still discovered topics for conversation, and so be remained until Rosalie arose to depart. “ I think lam going your way—or at least a portion ot it. I will accompany yon, if yon will permit me,” he said, as he too arose and walked beside her down the grassy path, Something in his voice, bis look, eent the blood to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. During that brief walk, what ho said or what she answered, Rosalie could never recollect. She only felt eomething had happened which made the ekies seem brighter and the world iairer than they had ever seemed before. At a curve in the green road they parted. “ I trust we shall meet again, and often, be said, before they went their different ways, be to the fine mansion of the shadowy hillside commanding a view of tho village, and she back to the little briok house in the old-fashioned garden. And they did meet again and often. That visit to Mrs. Shelly’s tiny oottage was but one of many which succeeded. And some how Burt Kenyon, by chance or otherwise, at en had some errand which brought him in_ tbe same direction at the same particular time. Rosalie never mentioned tho visits and the meetings to Mrs. Malcolm and Miss Nell. She shrunk from the lazy, sneering smile of her sister and the possible d sapproval of her mother, while she felt she was doing naught to deserve either. And they had never encouraged her to any girlish confidences; the elder daughter was the pride and idol of tho mother, and Rosalie s young life had not been a path of thornless roses. To be forever chided and rebuked by the one, to be forever the target ot the other’s scorn, and to be the unthanked handmaid of both had been her lot. To have mentioned to them Mrs. Shelly, who she was learning to love most dearly, or Burt Kenyon,whoso tender manliness she was learn ing to revere—would have seemed to her akin to desecration. ', „ „ “ I can’t understand it at all, Miss Nell ex claimed pettishly one evening; “ Mr. Kenyon hasn t been to one of our parties yet.’ “ That goes to show how exclusive he is, my love. It will be all the more of a feather in your cap, when you ones secure your conquest, Mrs. Malcolm responded, with an earnestness which was badly concealed by the coarsely jesting tones. “By the time he has condescended to present himself, I shall not have a gown fit to wear,” grumbled Nell. “I only wfsirthat Aunt Huth would make haste about visiting us.” “lam afraid it will be a dreadful trial hav ing her here,” sighed Mrs. Malcolm. “It isn’t so easy always keeping one’s best side out, and I daresay she will be prying and suspicious and ready to get in a huff nt every thing.” “Of course she will be,” said Nell; “ old peo ple always are abominable! —but we must put up with her until we are sure of her money.” A little embarrassed cough just beyond the pink and crimson roses framing the open win dow, caused the two colloquiets to glance that way. Both started as they beheld Bosalie, accom panied by a lady and gentleman, whom both recognized as tho tenant of the shabby cottage, and Mr. Burt Kenyon. There was no doubt of the entire colloquy having reached the ears of the trio, Mr. Ken yon looked amused ; Mrs. Shelly’s expression was undefinable, and Rosalie’s pretty face was the picture ot an ingenuous distress ! “I rapped several times in as many minutes, but unfortunately we did not succeed in mak ing our presence known,” said Mr. Kenyon, speaking nointedly and gently detaining Rosa lie, who was evidently struggling with an incli nation to run away. As he stepped forward he permitted his ten ant of the cottage to precede him across the threshold. “ I have the honor of escorting your relative —Mrs. Ruth Shelly Malcolm,” he announced. Mrs. Malcolm stared; Nell started baek in dismay. “ You will be spared the dreadful trial ot my visit,” Aunth Buth began with some natural agitation. “It was that I might view my rela tives without their best side exhibited, that I have been near you and unknown to you. Only for sweet Bosalie, I should hav* gone away without revealing myself." “For Bosalie?” both cried in the game breath. “ When I learned she is to be the wife of Mr. Kenyon, I saw it was time to announce myself and my intentions to her, to her lover, and to you. She is to be my heiress; and that you have a sister so worthy of every blessing as is Rosal e, is the real feather in your oap, Miss Nell,” the lady concluded, with a sparkle of drollery in her grave and wise old eves. Nell was speechless. Her bright prospects had vanished like a will-o-tbe-wisp gleam be fore the fierce white light ot dawn. If she had only gone to the oottage that morn ing and offered soma little charitable service to the unknown tenant, everything would have been different, she told herself. As it was, the “feather in her oap” was but borrowed from the glory of another, and tbe emblem of a wretched defeat beside. “But after all it would have been worse if Aunt Ruth’s money went out ot the family alto gether,” Mrs. Malcolm says consolingly. WESLEY WELCH. Remarkable Feats Performed by a Tennessee Genius. (From the Nashville American,) Nature’s own, Wesley Welch, lives five miles from Bon Aqua Springs, but he is a favorite at this place, and passes back and forth two or three times a day. He is a sagacious fellow, and makes more money about tbe place than all the countrymen of tho vicinity, it is his boast that lor tho sixteen years he has been about these springs he has never offended any body. ' He never went to school, but bis associations have given him polish and affability, and his language would hardly betray his lack of educa tion. Wesley was a bound bov, and so unhap pily situated that he ran away at the age of ten. He joined Captain Ed. Baxter's company ot field artillery, and served as driver for about a year. He was afterward with Forrest’s cavalry several months. On Saturday evening, in that terrible battle along the Chickamauga, he was captured by the Fourth Illinois Regiment. Though a native of Dixon County, his parents bad moved to Illinois, and he had a brother in the Fourth Regiment. The two men were soon together. A suit of blue was put on the lad, and he served the Union cause under Kilpat rick to the end of the war. He carries a leaden ball in his breast (the wound indicates that it was a centre shot), and he has the mark of a sabre across hie hand. He returned to Dixon soon after the war and married. His first great sorrow came to him in the death of hie wife last October. The old est oi his five children, a daughter, eighteen years younger than her father, ia hie house keeper. Wesley Welch is an athletic prodigy. He has gone barefooted every Summer of his life. His first shoes he paid lor with quails that he trap ped. He never took medicine ; was never Bick. Hie speed and endurance on foot are wonder ful. A noted fox chase is recalled in which he caught the fox after a run of four hours, when all but two of twenty-five hounds had gave out in the run of from fifteen to twenty miles. He refers to Mr. Goodwin and Major Jones, or Memphis, who saw him catch the fox. About twenty men on horseback started in the chase. He is confident that he can excel in speed and endurance both hound and horse in a long race. He has made a mile in a minute and fitty-eight seconds, and ten miles in eighty minutes. He has walked from hie home to Nashville by three o’clock in the afternoon, a distance of forty miles. His longest and best walk was from Atlanta to Chattanooga, in a day and night, 140 miles. He had two companions on the start, but left them behind. On a hard journey of this kind he wants no food but sweetened cof fee, and he will retrain from eating the day or so beforehand. He says we all eat too much. He prefers wild game and then mntton and beef, to bog meat, and regards chicken as the worst of meats. Ho has experimented with the poison of snakes and tho odor of pole-cats. Snake poison will dry up when bottled for a long time, but the substance that gives that ter rific odor from tbe polo-cat, will remain undi minished for years. He regards it as the best fumigator in existence, and believes it will pre vent cholera and yellow fever. Moreover, that it will prevent seasickness. He is surprised that so many people are afraid of snakes, and regards the ouly danger ous ones as the copperhead and the cotton mouth. Even the Indian, when bitten by one of these, will go and wrap himself in bis conch to die. There are antidotes to the poisons of other reptiles. Be qan rub a certain herb be tween his bands and make the rattlesnake do cile, and stop up a polecat for several days, de priving it of a certain herbage, catanine, and the odor will leave it entirely. In the use of a gun he challenges competi tion, and telle of having driven the centre nine teen times in twenty shots, ten paces, ofi-hand. He would not hunt with a man who shoots birds on the ground or sets traps for them. As a fisherman he is a noted expert. He “ won’t monkey with a hook.” In an emergen cy he will take a sledge-hammer and pound on the rocks under which they hide in clear streams, and the fish will soon float from under and on the surface dead. He illustrated for Dr. Safford some time ago the power of dynamite. He went to a very deep hole in Turnbull, dis turbed the water so as to have the fish go down to the deep part, and threw in the dynamite tied to a roflk, and says it not only killed every thing, but split the base rock in twain. The wa ter is so clear that the rent may be seen easily. | Hie usual method is to dive after fish, feeling l for them under rocks. Tbe greatest fight of his life occurred on such .an occasion. He had dived, and was messing a 1 fine cat which got in a hole or crevice of the rocks, when by a turn oi the hand he found he was fastened. The idea of losing his life so foolishly mortified him, and he made a desper ate pull, leaving part of the flesh in the crevice. He determined to pull loose, even if he should have to pull the arm eft, if possible. He did another perilous thing in exploring the Murrel) Cave. Dr. Vance and Frank Scaff, of Meifiphis, went in with him; they all went to where the oil would not burn in their lamps, and then he went out, got a torch, and went further in, he thinks further than anybody else ever went. He arrived at a lake and could go no further. Murrell’s name is in the cave. He had an interesting experiment with fish in Winter. He managed to drive a fine lot under ice to the end of a slough. He out a trench in the ice, dropped a plank in and then caught them with his hand, throwing them on the ice. They froze rapidly, some of them adhering to the ice. Ou taking them homo he said he did not like to clean them frozen, and a friend who was present suggested that he put them in the spring and let them thaw. He di.l’ut them in NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 17, 1887. the spring, and he was amazed to see them go to swimming. Welch’s wife stayed at home and took care of the children, proud of her husband, but was less happy while he was away in Arkansas and Missouri hunting, and again in the mountains of East Tennessee or searching battle-fields. Their children take alter the mother, and, though he has lands and money, his only ambi tion is to educate them. He believes if he will ‘‘fill their heads” they will do enough beside. MYliWfsm, BY LADY DUNBOYNE. Certainly we Trevelyans are an eminently good-looking family. I say so with the less fear of laying myselt under an imputation of vanity, because long ago it became a settled point that I, sixth member thereof, am the onlv one who can possibly be called plain, and that, as brother Max con solingly observes, would not be tho case in any less favored circle. But Ella, our youngest, is the very ideal ot a lovely girl ot eighteen, and Gertrude and Kath leen were recognized London beauties before they were snapped up at the close of their re spective seasons. Then where would you find handsomer young fellows than Max. our Guardsman, or Lawrence, just entered at Christ Church ? And Janet—dear old Janet, the mainstay and guardian of us all —she must have been pretty, long ago—in the same style as tho rest, dark haired and bright-oomplexioned—before her brown eyes began to show crows’-feet at the corners, and her cheeks to grow thin, with the color in fixed red I nes, instead of that lovely bright flush which comes and goes. But my musings on tbe merits ot my family are inter rupted by Ella’s gay voice. “Gracie, Gracie I you incorrigible dawdle; do you intend to go to Wichnor this morning or not?” I jump up in a hurry. The pony-cart is at the door, and Janet, as usual, on the watch. “Children, are you ever coming? Don’t for get my list ot commissions, and especially to be sure to bring the ice. Cook is almost in despair, and the weather grows hotter every day.” Five minutes more, and we are bowling merrily along tho three miles between our homo, Brookfield Manor, and the cathedral town of Wiohnor. It is Saturday and market-day, and wa are engaged to lunch with some of our friends, and expect to obtain a cursory view of a good many others, either in the cathedral or the close. Wherefore I have exposed my new frock to tbe perils ot a dusty drive, and Ells has donned her Paris hat, well knowing that it makes her laughing brown eyes and delicately tinted face more irresistible than ever. But Janet's commissions prove more trouble some than wa have anticipated, and we have barely finished them in time for luncheon. This, at Canon Lightwood’s hospitable board, is always a lengthy performance, and we have to hurry off almost as soon as it is over, or we shall lose our usual seats. Ella is hot, flurried and a little cross, and I reluctantly suggest giving up the service. But one of her favorite anthems is to bo sung, and she will not hear of staying away. So we rush through the cool, dark cloister, and the old verger bows and smiles us into the stalls; and then we find that, after all, there are a few minutes to spare, and Ella smoothes her ruffled features, and becomes interested in watching the incoming congregation. Just belore the choir and the Dean make their appearance, there enters a solitary gentleman tall, thin, middle-aged—whom the verger pro ceeds to induct to one of the vacant seats im mediately opposite ours. Ella looks up and gives my arm a little monitory pinch. She has had a Thackeray lever upon ner just lately— Ella is the reader par excellence of our family— and I am not surprised when she whispers ex citedly: “Colonel Newcome in flesh and blood ! Isn’t it wonderful ?” But as I look again, I hardly give my little sister credit for her usual discernment. The stranger is too young, ami too distinctly a sol dier of modern times, to be identified with the dear old Anglo-Indian colonel. He may be forty-five, but scarcely looks so much, though bis long mustache and close-crop ped hair are abundantly grizzled; and his face, thin, aquiline and regular-featured, is brown with exposure to fiercer suns than are ever felt on European shores. But the service begins, and I try to give my whole attention to my devo tions, and steadily resist the temptation to study my opposite neighbor until my thumb and Ella's are touching each other under the anthem-book. Then I look across once more, and am startled to meet tbe steady gaze ot a pair o. keen, clear gray eyes fixed on my sister. Ellas color depens under the scrutiny oi whioli she speedily becomes aware. Then she suddenly looks across full at tho stranger, a bright ray of inspiration illumines her lovely lace, and as we sit down she whispers eagerly: “ The man whose photo is on papa’s mantel piece I I knew I had seen him somewhere.” Twenty m nutes later, we are standing in the cloister, talking to our newly-found acquaint ance as if we had only parted yesterday; lor Sir Francis Ferrars is one of our father’s dearest friends, and though we have not met for ten years, even Ella, as soon as she hears his voice, has some shadowy recollection of tho good-na tured soldier who used to patronize her in the old days of childhood. He has only just arrived in England after ten years of absence, nine ot which have been spent in India. For the last few monthis his name has been prominent among our heroes ot the Soudan, and as I look into his face I see that it wears the worn look of suffering--nay, of bitter disappointment—that I have seen on the faces of many who risked their lives—alas ' in vain— to save that ot England’s last and greatest mar tyr. Sir Francis grasped my hand with friendly warmth and asserts that he well remembers his little friend Gracie, but he looks long and searchingly into Ella’s dark eyes, as it in them he found again some treasure unseen for many a long year. The color mantles in her sweet face, as at last he turns away, murmuring: “ How like—how very like you are to your sister! I could fancy it was the same face—only .” “ Which ?” demands Ella, in her pretty peremptory fashion. “ Like Wordsworth’s famous family, ‘we are seven,’ and I don’t know to which of my four sisters you may be alluding.” “ Tbe eldest—Miss Trevelyan—Janet. When I left England she was the exact image of what you are now.” “Janet!” The bare notion that our staid, prim, somewhat severe elder sister could ever have possessed Ella’s cherub-like beauty is in comprehensible to us both. Involuntarily we exchange glances of amaze ment. Sir Francis perceives his mistake, and moves hastily. “ Well, I must go-my things are st the Knight’s Shield. I could not help running down the first fine day alter we landed, for your father is my oldest and dearest friend, and ten years of exile have not cooled our friendship— on my side, at least. “ Nor on his,” I answer, eagerly. “But don’t go to the hotel: come home straight with us. The pony-cart holds four. “ Mease do. Papa will be so over-joyed.” Sir Francis hesitates, meets Ella’s pleading eyes and consents, though it is no easy matter to curl up hie lone legs in the small back seat which he insists on sharing with Thomas, our groom. In less than hall an hour we were at our own door. My father comes out hurriedly to see who our fourth passenger may be, and then there are joyful exclamations of: “Frank ! dear old boy, this is too delightful to be true !” “ Trevelyan, it does my heart good io see your face once more !” And in the hail, shaded and cool after the sunny glare, Janet meets us, and 1 see Sir Francis bend his stately head as he takes her outstretched hand, but I cannot hear the words oi greeting. A moment later, Janet is at her usual post, by the tea table, and I, stealing a glance at her, observe that she is deeply flushed, and that tbe hands with which she moves the cups are trembling visibly. It would seem that the arrival of his friend had awakened a new spring of life in my father. During the years that have elapsed since our mother’s death, cares have sat heavily upon him, and the bringing up of seven bairns has been no small source of anxiety. Now he seems to have cast all troubles to the winds lor tbe nonce, and.to be once more the genial, light hearted squire of former days. “You must take a shooting-box and settle near us, Frank,” be cries, rubbing his hands. ‘■There’s Woodlands to be had—it is quite time your fighting days were over.” Sir Francis smiles, but avoids a direct an swer, and soon that little witch, Ella, has de coyed him to her side again and is carrying him off to be initiated into tbe mysteries of tennis. Our young neighbor, Edgar Holt, has drop ped in (no infrequent occurrence) and 1 am called to make np'the set. As I pass through the open window, I cast a glance back at Janet, sitting alone by her empty tea-cups. A pang seizes me as I notice how thin and worn—yes, there is no disguising it—how old our sister looks. The days go by, and still Sir Francis Ferrara lingers at Brookfield. Papa has from the first insisted on sending lor his luggage; his future plans seem vague, and he stays on, basking in the beauty of the summer days and spending much of his time in sharing our girlish amuse ments, to the no email displeasure of Edgar Holt. “What does an old buffer like that want with playing tennis ?” he one day grumbles, but Ella flashes round upon him indignantly. “Old! Sir Francis is only forty-two, and men who have served their country have some right to show traces of wear and tear.” And Edgar subsides, snubbed, and is su premely wretched for the rest of the day. Meanwhile, I am growing very uneasy, for I have discovered, or fancied that I have discov ered, that our guest’s presence is far from be ing a source of unmixed happiness to my eldest sister. She is irritable, depressed, yet nervously anxious to make his visit a pleasant one. Nay, strange to say, it is she, and not my father, who suggests that we should do our share in enter aining the neighborhood generally, and ex hibiting our lion to the best advantage. At last there comes a morning, hotter than all its predecessors, when even Mia lias no energy fo. play tenuis, ride, or go on the river, and she and I agree to spend our time quietly in a ham mock wo have privately slung tor ourselves m the branches ot tbe largest oak tree, in a remote quarter el the grounds. We have been there about an hour, when wo are roused by the sound of voices almost im mediately below our nest. He who hesitates is lost, and, while we are looking at each other in doubt as to the means of escape, the opportunity is gone, and we are compelled to become unwilling eavos-droppers or to descend with startling abruptness almost on tho very heads of our oldest sister and Sir Francis Ferrars. As Janet stands there, with tho chequered sun-rays falling on her face and casting golden light on her hair, I, for the first time, realise that there may be some likeuese to Ella. It seems as if I had never observed before how delicately beautiful is the outline ot Janet’s face, it the expression were less harassed and sad. Involuntarily I glance at Ella. She has raised her head and is gazing fixedly down. As I make some slight movement, she catches my hand. “We can’t," she whispers almost fierce ly; “they don’t see us-tho yew tree is between. We must see it out now.” “Janet I” Sir Francis’s deep tones are speak ing, and I get a glimpse of hie face, and road in it a strange mixture ot tenderness and resolu tion : “ Yon cannot think that after ten years of patience lamto be put oft like this. I accepted your decree of banishment then. You had a right to love your father better than me, and perhaps you could not, as you said, leave him and the six children so recently motherless. But now all is changed. Your task is amply, nobly fulfilled. Those very children have grown up to take your place.” “God help me! They have, indeed.” Ills the sob of a broken heart that interrupts him, and ere ho can speak again, the torrent of pent suffering breaks forth. “Do you take me for a fool ? Do you think I am ignorant that I have grown old, and cross, and haggard in these ten long years of wear and tear ? You have kept your youth amid the stir ring life you have led. A man is often young up to fifty. But at thirty-two, what am I but a soured, worn-out drudge ? Ask the children, or”—with a bitter laugh—" look at Ella and me side by side. I was like her once—in the old days when you were here.” “ I know it.” There is a deep, tender power in his voice, which seems at once to soothe and master her. “ I know it, and it is this that has made the child's sweet face and ways so at tractive to me.” Involuntarily I glance at Ella ; there are tears in her pretty eyes, but she makes a brave effort to keep them back. “ But for me there is but one woman in the world, and that is the Janet Trevelyan to whom ten years ago, under this very tree, my love was plighted. lam changed, too, sweetheart; the years have not dealt with me so gently as you think—as these gray hairs testify—but my heart has never wavered in its truth to you.” She has turned from him, and is leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree. “ Frank, Frank, do not tempt me,” she cries in stifled accents; “ you will repent when it is too late.” But for all answer, he draws her to him with his gentle, irresistible force, and for an instant we catch sight of a face so radiant, so trans formed, that we look at each other in wonder ment. “ Was it only happiness that was wanting ?” Ella murmurs, as arm-in-arm, every obstacle now swept away, the lovers pass from under our tree. “ Poor Janet; how selfish we have been to have ever thought her cross or cold I” And somehow tho words comfort me, for I begin to perceive that the wound in my little sister’s heart is only skin-deep, and I can, with no unkindness to her, give my full sympathy where soon it is so warmly claimed. For many things that have been mysteries to onr childish minds are now made clear, and we are ready with open arms to meet the brother in-law elect who seems to us as romantic as one of Arthur’s knights in his unswerving constancy. “WALLACE. THE HEftO OfJCOTLAND. [From the Glasgow Mail we copy the speech of the Marquis of Bute when unvailing the statue of Sir William Wallace, not only the hero ot Scotland, but the hero of all who appreciate and admire bravery, devotion and sell-sacri fice.] The Marquis of Bute unvailed tbe statue to Wallace on the Abbey Graig, Stirling, on Satur day, June 25. The Marquis of Bute, after un vailing the statue, said: It is the morrow of another anniversary of Bannockburn. lam in sight ot that field and of Stirling Bridge, and I have to speak ot Wil liam Wallace. His name is probably the one of all the names in our history around which tho affections most gather, perhaps because of the singular and the unswerving purity of intention with which he sought our happiness and which he dedicated to the work, perhaps most of all because he crowned his toil by giving his life for us. Such a subject rouses the highest feel ings with which we contemplate anything be yond the sphere of experiment, short of the feelings which we raised toward Him who created him, and the emotions are necessarily enlisted. I cannot regret that it is so. In the face of such tacts my feeling toward the blind poet in whose words the Wallace episode has now for four centuries been so widely known Is one of gratitude for what is at once such an expression of and such an incitement to natural feeling rather than a desire to criticise inaccuracies ot chronology and detail. The correction of these is a task which should be undertaken if only that the pure grain may be winnowed from tho husks of false legend and added to the store house of actual history concerning the man with whom we have to do. But here is not the time nor place to do so. 1 will leave all such contentious matter aside and speak of nothing but the undisputed iaets. The life ot William Wallace naturally divides itself into four periods. Of these the earlier, which may be called tbe private life of the young gentleman of Ellerslie, is rather a sub ject for historical study, and I shall pass it with the single remark suggested by his origin, that while some of the greatest enemies whom Scotland has ever had were members of her own landed aristocracy, some of the most faith ful and devoted of her children have sprung from the same source. He was a younger eon of Wallace, of Ellerslie, a family hereditarily connected with tbe race of the Stuarts. His earliest remembrances must have been of the great epoch of the third Alexander. He must have witnessed the series of events which fol lowed that monarch’s death, the intrigues of Edward 1., the elevation, the repentance, and the fall ot John Balliol, and what seemed for a while tbe final prostration of Scotland, with nothing before her but to be another Ireland. In the midst of the national uight he was given to us. The time which remains, and which forms his public life, occupied little over eight years, from the beginning of May, 1297, when the kill ing oi his wife roused him to the outbreak, which took form in the burning of Lanark, till August 23, 1305, when he died at the Elms, in Smithfield. The first of tbe three divisions in to which this period naturally falls is, that of about two years, Irom the burning of Lanark, till Wallace went abroad in August, 1290. Tho first of these two years, if not in the truest souse the greatest,is the most brilliant,of his life. After Lanark, we have the expulsion oi Bishop Bek from Glasgow, and in July the noble with drawal from the capitulation of Irvine, fol lowed by hie election as Guardian of Scotland in the church at Selkirk. For one year he reigned styling himself the representstive ot Balliol. In September we have the election under his auspices of Lam berton to tbe see ot St Andrews, and or the 11th the great battle of Stirling Bridge, in which be crushed the power of England. In the next month and in the following spring come the invasions of England. But in the be ginning of July Edward I. entered Scotland with another army, and the 22d was the day of Falkirk. Of the behavior of some of the Soots toward tho guardian before the battle began I had rather be silent in view of tbe deaths of some upon the field. He himself was able to take part in it only when the eight of tbe mis fortunes of his country became more than he could bear in stillness. A few days later he crossed Scotland and burned Ayr before tho advance of the English. But he now resigned the guardianship, and although the invasion of 1293 was a failure as regards its consequences, and he himself did not go abrood for a year, be no longer ruled, but the national government, which owed its existence to him, continued. Following this is the period ot about throe years, which comprises the residence of Wil liam Wallace abroad. Within this journey lam .aware of only one certain fact. The King of France at Pierrefonds gave him a letter of in troduction to his agents at home on November 1, 1300. But ! cannot persuade myself that ac curate research into the. historical records of other countries will not result in a greater knowledge of his actions during this period. Bnt this at least we know—without the . eaionsy which in a little mind would have sought to un dermine and enfeeble the rival party which had opposed and supplanted him, be toiled to strengthen them and his country by influence in tbe general world of Europe. He was not in Scotland dnring Edward’s in vasion of Galloway in 1300, but we find that he was again among those who stimulated the re sistance to the new invasion by Seagrave, in the Winter of 1802-3. With this begins the last pe riod of his public career. In the middle of May, Edward I. re-entered the country and re mained there until the end of August, 1304. The national spirit, like the national force, seemed again to be entirely crushed. This is the period of William Wallace’s life which seems to me the most truly great. “ The man,” says Lord Hailes, “ who had vanquished the English at Stirling, who had expelled them from Scot land, and who had once set his country free, having lived a free man, resolved so to die.” In this resolution he and Simon Fraser then seemed to stand almost alone. In their persist ent refusal to submit themselves to tbe for eigner, they had no refuge but concealment. Edward would seem to have felt a soft of per sonal rancor while they existed. They were hunted like wild beasts, but for a time in vain. But we know that the means which wore taken for his seizure were at last successful. On the night of the 3d of August, 1305, William Wallace was betrayed at Robroyston, and carried first to Dumbarton and then to London. Ido not think the words of his sentence justify a belief in all the details with which the closing scene has been popularly surrounded. I trust that some statements that are a shame to human nature may be erroneous. I hope that ■ he was dead belore the heart which had been quickened by the excitement of victory at Stirl ing, and which had contracted with anguish at Falkirk, the heart whose self-sacrificing love, embracing all the unknown Scotland ot the future, looked to us and to our children, was cut out of his breast by the London hangman. He passed into the presence of the Divine Liberator, but to Scotland he has never died. To the world In general, indeed, he will pro bably never die while history endures, but to Scotland in especial he has always lived, and in living to her he lives in her. This is not, I think, only because ot the nobleness and great ness which are admired by foreigners as well as by ourselves, nor simply because of the grati tude which all generations in this country since his day have owed him, nor the love reflected upon him from the love ot our country, for which he devoted himself. It is also because his history is the pointed declaration ot the demonstration of an abiding truth. He lives for ever in Scotland, because his work is a recognition and an expression of a fact which is scientifically, even physiologically, true, and wo neither are now nor can be Englishmen. They have excellent qualities which wo may not, perhaps, possess. We have qualities which they admire in us. We may be, and I hope we always shall be, excellent friends with them. But they cannot be wo, nor can we be they. We can, indeed, produce an attempt to ape them, and it is one which they have too much sense when they have enough knowledge, thoroughly to despise. The distinction is made by nature, and the attempt to beat it down by the artificial means of legislation is like the experiment popu larly attributed to Canute upon the waves of the sea, but which he at least is said to have performed only in order to demonstrate its folly. The natural development is necessarily the only healthy one. We have our own his tory, and from this it comes that the sentiment of patriotism with us is profoundly associated with a regard for the civil order which is based upon our history and with the constitutional monarchy which has been its offspring. I think the sentiment of our patriotism was well ex pressed by our countrymen when they crowned Charles 11. at Scone, in face of the English in vading army which was occupying so large a part of the country. The majesty which to our eyes surrounds the throne surrounds the sovereign as the succes sor, not of William the Conqueror, but of Fer gus and Aidan and Kenneth and Robert. Then William Wallace himself, when Dictator of Scot land. rather than grasp at power through a revolution, voluntarily governed in the name of an unworthy king, because John was the heredi tary King of Scots. To William Wallace in great part we owe it that our patriotism is able to have its distinctive mark of attachment to our law and to our monarchy. BROUGHT HIM BACK. AN INSTANCE OF THE FOLLY OF PRACTICAL_JOKING. (From the Arkansaw Traveller.} Th. conversation had turned upon th. psr niciouaneßa ot praotioal joking, when a well known bueinees man said : “Don’t speak ot praotioal joking—don’t make the merest reference to anything of the kind, for it makes me shudder. You all know Beas ley, the commeroial traveler. He is an erceed ingly good-natured and prankish fellow, so much given to mild joking that on one occasion, onlv a few weeks ago, a party of us decided to play a joke on him that he would not be likely to forget. We didn’t know exactly how to pro ceed, and wore tangled up in those perplexing intricacies whioh come of numerous sugges tions, when a plan suddenly presented itself. Beasley, having remained in Chicago several days, decided to go to St. Louis, where his wife and little boy lived, stopping a day at Bloom ington to attend to eev.ral customers whom hs had at that place. My plans were laid as soon as he made known his intentions, but I pre tended that I did not want him to go. “• I must,’ said he, ' I wrote to my wife sev eral days ago, toiling Li." £ n, “ at Bloomington, jand beside, I have business there that must be attended to at ones.’ “ That night we went to the railway station with him, and when the train had gone we hur ried up town and set our plans in working or der, whioh were—diabolical, I admit—to have Beasley arrested in Bloomington and brought back on the morning train. How w« chuckled when the officer assured us that the arrest should be made, and how we gloated over ths fact that we would at last get even with our friend ! “ ‘He won’t know what in the world to think ot it,’ said Sam Mayfield. ‘l’d like to see his expression of countsnance when the officers nab him, and hear his indignant protestations.’ “ ‘He’ll howl like a wounded animal,’ re marked Joe Shimmers. “ ‘And do considerable squealing, too,’ I re plied. “ Early the next morning we hurried to the station. Soortly after the train rushed iu, May field exclaimed: “ ‘They’ve got him I See, yonder they come !’ "When the officers came up with the prisoner, we rushed forward and roared with laughter, explaining that it was all a joke. I should have mentioned before that we had brought along a man authorized to release Beasley. Our friend, even after finding that it was all a joke, did not smile, or in the least seem to be relieved. In deed, his face was deathly pale, and bore such traces of intense suffering that I was deeply stricken with remorse. He sat down with a de spairing drop and covered his face with his bands. “ ‘Beasley,’ said I, approaching him, 'you must forgive us, old fellow, fiemomber that you have played many a joke on us. “ ‘Not such an awful joke as this,’ he replied. ‘Just as the officers arrested me this telegram from my wife was handed me.’ “He gave me the telegram, and with a feel ing of horror creeping over me, I turned to the boys and read as follows: ■' ‘Our little boy fl dead. Hurry home. “ ‘Marx.’ "No,” continued the narrator, “you must never ask me to go into a practical joke.” PULL OFF*YOUR BOOTS. BY SAM. H. BRASHEAR. The narratives of the recent train robberies in Texas remind me of an occurrence.of the sort that happened in the year 1881, and in whioh I was one ot the victims. i We were traveling from San Antonio to El Paso—an old and wealthy friend and myself. To save ourselves, in a measure, the usual tediousness of the journey, we engaged in a social game of cards, and to highten tbs inter est had staked some small sums of money. In drawing some small change from his pocket, my friend dropped a roll of greenbacks into the aisle. A neatly dressed young man, on an op posite seat, picked it up and handed it to its owner with the remark: “ Rather a nice little wad to have out if the train robbers should happen around 1” He had been a very sociable companion during the earlier partof the trip, and we had taken a liking to him. His only drawback seemed to be a want ot knowledge concerning life in Western Texas. “ Yes,” returned the old man, “ but I hardly expect any more train robberies in Texas. Why, it’s been eight months since we’ve had one. Well, if they do get this little pile I’m safe, any how. I’ve got twenty times that much more, and they wouldn’t know where I had it. I’m just a little too cute tor ’em. They never think of making a man pull off his boots.” The young man smiled. During the remainder of the afternoon ho stood on the gallery of the coach, “taking a good look at the country; it was so different from Missouri, where he came from.” Suddenly about dark the train stopped. Some one exclaimed, “Don’t shoot!” Our young acquaintance stepped from the gallery into the car. “ What’s the matter 1 What’s the matter ?” queried my elder companion “ Oh, not much, not much,” was the slow reply; “ only I guess, old fellow ” (here he levelled a revolver at him), “ I guess it’s about time for you to pull off your boots." The car filled with armed men. The usual programme was successfully carried out When the train was permitted to travel on I flung myself into the seat left vacant by the in nocent young Missourian, put my hands in my empty pockets and meditated until we reached our destination. My old friend lighted a cigar, propped his boots (those treasurefess boots) on a seat in front of him, and said be’d be hanged if he’d say a word till he reached El i’aso. He thought he bad said enough for one day. A MEAN MAN’S TREAT. THEY BAD ACCOMPLISHED A MIRACLE. (From the Boston Transcript.) Once upon a time there was a large house in a leading line of trade which had among its cus tomers a man who all the clerks and the mem bers of the firm agreed was the meanest man in the United States. It pained them very much to admit it, but he was a large purchaser and a prompt payer when convinced that the firm and employees had not entered into a conspiracy io defraud him. He used to please the book keeper very much by bringing up an itemized account of his own, which he insisted on com paring, item by item, with the chargee on the book. Alter one of these examinations, when a set tlement had been reached and a cheok given in payment by tbe firm for goods whioh they in turn had purchased of the mean man, it was found that he had cheated himself out of ten dollars. He had left the store, and it was only by the aid of’ a special messenger that he was captured and brought back. The bead book keeper said a slight error had been detected in the account. The mean man’s face lengthened. He thought he was called upon to pay back. “Oh, the error’s in your favor I” remarked the bookkeeper; '• an’ if you’ll treat the boys in the counting room with me, I’ll see that you get your money all rigflt. Nobody knows how much it is, or anything about it, but me, and if you won’t treat, I sha’n’t say any more to you, and let you lose it if you will.” The mean man was in great distress. He went to the members of the firm, but they knew what was up, and professed inability to see justice done, except upon the terms laid down'by the bookkeeper. “ You’ll want a lot of money spent on your treat,’’said the mean man. "I’ll agree you Blia’n't be called upon to put up mors than one dollar.” The party then sallied out, and at the mean man’s expense got outside ol several sherry cobblers. Then the mean man paid the bar keeper fl, and the bookkeeper told the unwil ling entertainer that the error was $lO in his favor, and passed him over a crisp X. A shade of sadness, mingled with a flash of anger on the moan man’s countenance. “ Ten per cent, for accommodation I oali pret ty high,” he remarked. But the others didn’t care. They felt that they had accomplished a miracle. The romances of youth not infrequently turn out as did this of the young man who found her DAINTY BUT DANGEROUS. flor enchanting little boot From beneath her jaunty suit Ventured out. That she knew its witching charm, Without moaning any harm. Who could doubt ? Just a single little glance Filled my life with wild romance— I was caught I Sparkling eyes and soft, brown hair Hera was just tho beauty rare I had sought. So I wooed the charming maid. First enchanted, as I said. By her boot. Now, alas I I’m well aware Boots and tempers seldom are Built to suit. For our friendship ripened fast. And, before a year was past, We were wed. Now both boots and other things Recklessly she often slings At my head 1 From forty dollars to a twonty-fire-cent din ner is a terrible come-down tor an aspiring poet; but this is THE WAY IN WHIOH AN EDITOR CHEAPENED A POEM. The editor knew that he was a poet the moment he opened tho door. He was pale and tall and thin, with tangled hair and wild eyes. Proof positive of his affliction was given when he drew a roll of man uscript from his pocket and said: “I have—ahem—a little poem here dashed off in an idle hour. lam a contributor to the Bingfiold Battle-Ax, tre ’’ “ What Is your poem about?*’ asked the editor. There was a vacant quarter column in his “make up" that day. and he was strangely short of “slush.’’ “Oh, it’s on ’The Seasons,’" said tbe poet, amazed at tho editor’s unheard-of civility. “ How much do you want for it?” «• Well, I—l—about forty dollars," “ Forty fiddlesticks! Go to ’’ “Oh, well; I beg your pardon, I didn’t just know what you generally paid. How would twenty-five suit you ?’’ “ Twenty-five I Bah! I ’* “Well, say twenty, then?” •‘Why, man alive, I can get poems by the bushel, the cord, the carload, for ” “ Weil, well, it’s surely worth ten. The Bingfleld Battle-Ax editor says ” “I don*t care what he says. He’s an editor and an irresponsible person.” “But, my dear sir, surely you wouldn’t think ot offering me a paltry $5 for the poem ?” “I guess not; I’d like to see myself offering you two and a half for it.” “ Why, sir, I—l—But then in consideration of your immense circulation and the advantages like ly to ensue from my name appearing in your paper, I might consider your offer of ’’ “I haven’t made any offer yet, my friend; thia paper ain’t got any dollar and a quarter to throw away on poetry at this time of the year.” “ A dollar and a quarter? Why, you said just now that you ’’ “ No, I didn’t. But we don’t ask our contributors to work for nothing. Now, here’s a ticket good for a regular, straight twenty-five cent dinner at Slop’s restaurant. If you want to take that in exchange for jour forty dollar piece of rot you can have it." “ wuy, man, x— “ Take it, or leave it I Quick !*’ “Well, owing to the high standing of your paper I don’t know but I ll—l’ll ’’ “ Oh, you’ll take the meal ticket ? I thought you would." He took it and left in its stead twenty-nine pages of foolscap on “The Seasons,” the coldest and sad dest day of them all having dawned for him at that moment. Husbands should not insist on answers to their conundrums from their wives, as THEY ARE LIABLE TO TELL THE TRUTH. “Darling,” he said, as he fondly stroked her hair, while a look ot unutterable love shone from his eyes, “ darling," he whispered, “ who of all on earth would you miss most by the cold and re morseless hand of death ?” “Why, how could you ask it, Charles?” she said, turning her yearning, soulful eyes upon him. “ But, I must know," he replied, earnestly. "Oh, Charles ’—it is ’’ “ Who ?” he asked with bated breath. “It is—it is—my dressmaker." Charley swoons. Thia is the way in whioh “ Carl Dunder ” JUMPED ON THE WRONG MAN. “Sergeant, vhas some warrant oudt to arrest me?” softly inquired Carl Dunder, as he tip-toed into the Woodbridge street station-house yester day. “ Not that I know of—why ?" replied Sergeant Bendal. “Vhell, two or three days ago a strange man comes in my place. Vhas I Carl Dunder? I vhas. All right. Mr. Dunder I vhas of the Board of Health, und 1 like to look in your cellar for dead rats und cholera. Dot seems all right to me. und so I light der candle und he goes doun. He vhas gone a long time, und vhen he comes oop he says dot cellar vhas all right. He vhas in New York, Chicago, To ledo und odder places, und he neafer see sooch a clean place. " “Some swindler, of course." “Vhell, in der afternoons anodder mans vbalks in on me. Vhas I Carl Dunder? I vhas. All right. Mr. Dunder, vhas dot sewer in your cellar all right ? If ho vhasn’t, dot sewer-gas fills der whois place und you vhas taken to der bone-yard. Dot seems all right, und I let him go down. He vhas gone a good while, und vhen he comes oop he says be vhas in Buffalo, Cincinnati, Syracuse und Baltimore, und he neafer see sooch a sewer pefore. “ He was another swindler." “ Vhell, dis morning the third man comes in. Vhas I Carl Dunder ? I vhas. All right. Mr. Dunder, I vhas der Fire Commission. Maype your cellar vhas all right if you vhas cut off by fire, und maype she needs some fire-escapes. Please light dot candle und I shall see. He vhas gone twenty minutes, und vhen he comes oop he wipes off his shin mit his elbow. Dot put some ideas in my headt, but he says he vhas in Kansas City, Omaha, Milwaukee and St. Paul und he neafer saw a cellar fixed oop like mine. In case of fire he could chump out like a rabbit.” “ What a greenhorn you are ’• Vhell, maype I vhas. I go down cellar pooty quick to look aroundt, uud I find dot dose fellers | drink three bottles of my wine und shteal some more. Dot vhas a game on me, Sergeant?’’ “ Of course it was. ’’ “Vhell, I made oop my mind dot der next feller paye for all. Sbuet after dinner he comes in. He vhas sweet and ehmiling. Vhas I Carl Dunder ? I vhas. All right. Mr. Dunder, I like to go down cellar to see your ” “What •" “Shust aboudt dot time I eh u nip for.him, und in two minutes he was pulverized. I make a mop of him, und I smash two tables mit his heels. He crawls out doors after a while, und vhen be vhas gone half an hour my telephone rings. Hello 1 Vhas dis Carl Dunder ? He vhae. Vhell, Mr. Dun der, you haf almost killed der mans we sent to read your gas meter, und she vhill cost you fife hoonered dollar to settle. " “No ! And you pounded tbe wrong man ?’’ “Vhell, how can I help it? One day a false ex pressman brings me a shtone in a package und col lects eighty cents. Der next day anodder man brings me a package, und after I lick him I find she vhas a bundle from der shtore. One man comes in und collects money to build a starch. He vbas a shwindler, und 1 look oudt I gif der next man some awful kicks, und he proofs dot he vhas a preacher. You see, it vhae all pecanse nobody yhas like himself two time*. Sergeant -Well." “ I vhas going home und go to bedt. I vhas seek all oaier. If ten hoonered men come to sb windie me it vhas all right und I doau’ say a word. Il you ring oop my telephone to-night und I vhas hanged by der neck in der woodshed you can say dot I died because of sooch a queer country." Tid-Bits publishes this romance, which is up to ths times. It is entitled LOVE’S TRIUMPH. CHAPTER I. It was the first time they had ever met—Pietro Maguire and Claudius Murphy—and lor some mo ments they stood silently sizing each other up, if we may be permitted the expression, Maguire was a professional millionaire of some sixty Bummers. He wore expensive custom-made clothes and a haughty mien, which was chronic with him. Murphy was a youth ol spiritueHe ap pearance, and wa« tastefully though plainly capari soned. The only article of jewelry he wore was the watch that came with his suit. Beside them stood a young girl of rare beauty. We would be glad to describe her, but as the intelli* gent reader will readily see, we can scarcely be ex pected to do so in a publication which is sold at a popular price, and is returnable. For three months Claudius Murphy had loved Portia Maguire with a passion such as only an heir ens ean inspire. He had visited her seven evenings each week, but as he invariably left at 12:30, and as the old man Maguire never returned home until 2 A. M.» be had not until now met her father. But at last they stood lace to face, for the youth had called on purpose to talk business with the millionaire. “And so you love my daughter ?” said old Mr. Maguire at last. “ Well, that’s about the size of It,” replied the im petuous lover, with easy grace. “And you would win her for your very own ?” “Now you’re shouting—you are.” “Pietro Maguire grasped the young man’s hand. “I see,’’ he remarked, not without emotion, * that you are a gentleman of culture, and that, in my eyes, is inueh. But how about your income?" “Income 1” said Murphy with fine scorn. “Great Scot! Do you not know that lam a professional humorist ?’’ “I assure you, my dear sir, that I was not aware of the fact,’’ returned tbe old man, with a low obe isance. “Of course, then, my daughter’s future is assured. By tbe way, you have no other occupa tion, I presume?” “None, although I dabble a little in amateur photography.” “ Amateur photography !” shrieked (Pietro Ma guire, his whole manner changing. “ Why, you don’t mean to say that it was you who perpetrated that picture oi my residence in which it appears as a disreputable-looking four-story tenement house, with my wife, in the disguise of an elderly Degress, at the front window “ Really, Mr. Maguire, I think you are too severe. I ’’ “And was it you that took that portrait of my daughter, which represents her as an unprepossess ing woman of advanced years, with a mole on her forehead and a hand about.the size of a Cincinnati ham ?” “I must Acknowledge. Mr. Magu’re " “That si u.s it. No amateur photographer mar- > ties my daughter—not while I’m able to be around* Skip!" Without a word, tbe young man skup. N, B.—With a low moan the girl sank fainting at her father’s feet. CHAPTER IL Three months have passed, Again Pietro Ma ?nire and Claudius Murphy stand face to face—this ime in old man Maguire’s office on Wall street. “Whyaro you hero?'' inquired tiio millionaire.. “ What havo you and I in common ?” “ A good deal," replies the youth, with a cheerful smile. “Since our last meeting I havo been very busy with my detective camera, and havo succeeded in taking a number of highly interesting and artislia views. Just glance at a few of them. Hero is one of yourselt as you appeared while lingering near tho stage door of the Acme Theatre, after the matinee, last Saturday. This on© represents you driving in the Park with Mile. Blondine, the gifted young bur lesque actress. Hero, as you will observe, I have taken you by electric light, in the act of returning from your club at 1:30 A. M. Hera ’ ’ “ Say, young man," gasped the millionaire, “ what do you want for these works of art ?" “ Your daughter s hand,” replied Murphy, pleas antly. ” Take it," cried the old man, with a burst of omo» tlon. “All is forgiven and forgotten." SCINTILLATIONS. Whan a man is too busy to laugh lio needs a vacation. A hen is a very superior creature, but she never could lay a cornor-stona. It is believed that the millenium will surely come when everybody strikes for no hours a day. From the records of recent college graduates it is believed the letters A. indicate Boss Athlete. Jim Jammes (waking with a terrific headache)—" Great Scott 1 I must have had a lot ot fun yesterday.” The difference between a poor base bail player and black measles is that one strikes out and tho other strikes in, In a recent breach of promise suit it appeared that the plaintiff had what she called an “iceoroam young man,” A Chicago man who supports tinea elderly female relatives is wont to refer to them aa his aunty poverty society. There is one method of transportation not affected by tho Inter-State law—theKearso, The deadhead travels there as usual. A Chicago Socialist, who was recently drowned in tbe lake, has been, washed ashore. It was his first wash in fifteen years. There is not much difference in tlia sound of boom and bum, aud some politicians who are on the boom now will be on the bum next year* The only change in the stylo of fish ing tackle this year is the heavy willow padding on the base of the jug and the long corncob stop per. Don’t call a very large, strong, sinewy man a prevaricator. If you are sure ho is a pre varicator hire another man to break tbe news to him. A Butler Club has been organized ia Massachusetts. Its paper is stamped with two spoons, crossed, and the legend. “It might have Ben." “ Why do not women get bald ?” asks an exchange. It seems to us that any one ought te be able to answer that. It’s because they don’t have wives. A Philadelphia artist who paints his torical pictures baa an annt,whooaedayexclaimed: "Anybody can paint a picture, but tho trouble i» to find a fool to buy it." “ Previous engagements ” are one of the resources of civilization. They are a beneficial invention to enable public men to avoid getting into troublesome places. Domestic life has no finer picture of confiding lova than that of tbe husband wearing a smoking jacket of his wife’s making, and trying to make believe that it fits him uicoly. Doctor—'■ Yes, madam, I think you are overworked." Fatiant—"But do look at my tongue, doctor, and tell me why it looks so badly." Doctor—“Oh, that is also the result of overwork." I shot an arrow into the air— It fell to earth—l knew not where; But shortly after a man came round, And—l bought a dead dog at a dollar a pound. We trust the report that Tennyson will project, an ode at Buffalo Bill’s cowboys, now sojourning in London, will prove to bo iucorreot. This poet lariat business is manifestly being over done. u I wonder why Sniffles grieved so at Bilkins’s funeral yesterday?" • Why, you soo, ha was engaged to Mrs. Bilkins before her marriage, and he is now afraid she can hold him to the con tract.’’ Young man to messenger boy—" What did the young lady say when you gave her the flowers?' Boy—“ She asked the young feller who was sittin' on the porch with her if he didn’t want some fora button-hole bouquet.” The soulful business of studying Browning’s poems to see if they can by any stretoit of ingenuity be made to mean something, is still going on in Boston and vicinity. And yot we won der at tho steady increase of insanity ! Fogg has said the meanest things any man was ever capable of saying. When Mrs. F, left him alone in the house the other evening, she re marked, “You won’t be lonely, dear?" “No,” ha replied, “I shan’t miss you at all. The parrot, you know, ia here." “ I am afraid, madam,” said a gentle* man, who was looking for country board, “that tba house is too near the station to be pleasant." “ Ifc is a little noisy,” assented the landlady; “but from the front veranda one has such a fine view of peo ple who miss the trains." <f Give the new boarder whatever ha wants." says an experienced country shark, “and you will get his money. He will eat cucumbers and milk and green apples and honey and pickles, and then he will send for a doctor, and go without eating for a week, while all the time his board bilf is going on.” " Yes,” said Miss Breezy, of Chicago, “it is a pleasure to dine at the Wabashes. Mr# Wabash is naturally hospitable, and, aside from tha general excellence, everything is served in a way* that is positively delightful to a person of culturedr tastes. And his soups are delicious. Why, do you know," went on the young lady, “ that last even ing I was served to soup three times, and could have gone one more." INVALUABLE FOB BU RNS, SVNBUIWS, DIIRRHCEA, CHAFINGS> STINGS OF INSECTS, PILES, SORE . EYES, SORE FEET. / THE WONDER OF HEALINGI For Piles. (Use with Pond’s Extract Ointment,) rt is the greatest known remedy. For Bums. Scalds. Wounds, Bruises and Sprains, it is unequaled—stopping pain and healing in a marvelous manner. 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