New York dispatch. [volume], July 17, 1887, Page 7, Image 7

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

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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
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STINGS OF INSECTS, PILES, SORE .
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For Bums. Scalds. Wounds, Bruises
and Sprains, it is 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 Hemorrhage*
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For Ulcers, Old Sores, or Opeft
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Cantion.— POND'S EXTPA CT has been
toted. The Genuine hue the wends “ POND'S
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trade-nun k on surrounding tmff wrapper,
(dher is genuine. Always insist on having
POND'SEXTRACT. no other prepara
tion. It it never sold in bulkror bg measure.
Prices, 50c., sl, $1.75. Sold everywhere.
CTOvr New Pamphlet with History or ontt
Preparations Sunt FREE on application to
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Orange Wine
Cooling, Refreshing, anti-bilious. A delicious Summed
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Cures dyspepsia. Gives nat. ral action to the boweK,
Guaranteed pure.
Mathey-Caylus’
CAPSULES.
This wonderful discovery has been used for SO
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York, with great success. These Capsules are supe
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recent or of longptandlng. They are the cheapest'
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fc/idi by DrugMsts everywhere. A»k for “C bl eh ear
ter’s Engilen” Pennyroyal Pills. Take no other.
DR. YOUNG'S ELECTRIC )
■ if BELTS, as they are worn round the
a sure cure for Nervous Debility, WealrA
nessof Body and Mind, Youthful Errorfi
fill /Pa -k 088 Oi Manhood, Weak Back, Kidneyn
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ky ' n ~’»5O Hudson street, near Canal.
Naw York City. Ofiice hours from 10 A. M. tilt 7 I*. Ml
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7