New York dispatch. [volume], July 31, 1887, Page 6, Image 6

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

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6
MY LOST LOVE -
BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
•Twas morn beside the summer sea;
My love and I, how blithe were we 1
The salt sea wind sang bold and free
Before the gates of day.
Our pulses throbbed with bliss divin©
To see a rainbow span the brine
With tender tints, as if in sign
Our joy would live for aye.
0 first love, 0 fair love,
Beside the summer sea,
As coos the newly-mated dove,
You sang your love to me I
*Tis night beside the summer sea;
Amid the night’s pale mystery
My fair lost love comes back to mo
As in the olden time.
Her smile is softer than the mist.
By silvery moonbeams shyly kist;
Her voice is clear and low and trial
And sweeter far than rhyme.
O first love, 0 last love.
Beside the summer sea,
As clasps the wave the star above,
So clings my heart to thee I
A MAD DEED.
BY FLORENCE REVERE FENDAR.
It was not often that my friend vouchsafed to
relate any of hie experiences, he being rather a
taciturn man, which was not unnatural, it one
takes into account his profession—that of a de
tective. But on this occasion his tongue seemed
Unusually loosened. Perhaps it was a little
owing to the fact of the unexceptionably good
punch I had brewed, and the night—a stormy
one—being conducive to story-telling. At any
rate, as he stirred with rather an absent air his
lecond glass of liquor, albeit an appreciative
twinkle lurked in his sharp eyes, he remarked
tententiously:
“ Death is a great mercy I” Then, noting my
somewhat expressive stare, he added: “I was
Just following out a little train of thought which
a paragraph in one of to-day’s papers suggest
ed. The business all happened some years
ago, and if you care to hear about it, why, I
don’t know but I feel like relating it.”
Signifying my entire approval, and handing
Ijim an extra fine cigar, which he carefully bit
off at the end, then, after puffing away for a lew
seconds, began with:
‘'lt was some years ago, as I have already
stated, that I was seated in my office, when the
f>oy brought me a card having neatly inscribed
Upon its glazed surface ‘.Latimer 8. Dunstan.’
Bidding the boy show the gentleman up, I at
tentively scanned the card. For, perhaps you
may doubt it, but you can come at something of
a man’s character in the get-up of his name
upon these bits of cardboard. Lymphatic, ser
vile and deep, I mentally summed up Mr. Lat
imer 8. Dunstan. A moment later a stoutish,
full moon-faced man ? closely shaven, and of a
pale, flabby cemplexion, was ushered into my
■ireeenca. His weak blue eyes glanced inquir
, at me as be removed his hat from a fringe
™g-j ‘■air which surrounded his bald pate
sandy »„ ~"<itog blandly, he observed:
like S halo, bm -«lobrated detective, I pre
•• ‘ Mr. Fitts, the v-
eume?” Then, with a
“ ‘ The same, sir,’ I answerer.
preliminary ahem, he continued: me to
“ ‘A very sad case, my dear sir, bring..
seek your services. My poor brother— oxcl.
my feelings getting the better of me,’ and bury
ing his face in a large handkerchief, ho sub
sided for a moment. Disgust at his apparent
hypocrisy getting the better of me, I hinted that
toy time was rather valuable.
»“• Excuse me. Of course, sir,’ he glibly
tourmured as he continued : ‘This morning my
poor brother was found dead in his bed. The
gas being turned on full and every crevice care
fully stuffed up, the natural supposition was
that he had committed suicide. But I, lor one,
did not believe it. My dear brother was inca
pable of taking his own life.’ ,
“Then you suspect foul play?” I questioned.
••‘I am afraid of it, sir. It is a dreadful
thing, though, to suspect anybody,’ he replied,
cautiously, , , .. ,
“You naturally benefit by your brothers
death ?” I asked. ...
“ ‘ Well, no,’ was his answer, with a bland
smile ; ‘ his nephew, whom he adopted as a
child, is his heir. He alone had to gain by my
poor brother’s decease.’
“ What kind of a young man is your nephew ?”
I here propounded.
“• A very proper young fellow, I believe;
although I have heard he was a little given to
gambling and a trifle headstrong. Quick-tem
pered, my brother called him,’ and Mr. Dunstan
rubbed his hands softly together and breathed
to a purring sort of away as I remarked:
Any other inmates of the house ?”
“ Whereupon he informed me that, beside the
housekeeper and scullery maid, there was a
young girl yfcqm feie brother.M4 moil‘
Of Shanty, wEen silo was a child, and brought
up almost as it she had been his daughter. On
the night of his brother’s death, the house
keeper had been absent from the house in at
tendance on a sick sister.
-“Having pumped Mr. Latimer 8. Dunstan as
dry as I required for my purpose then, I, with
him, visited the acene of the old man’s death—a
pretty cottage home, with every evidence of a
woman’s graceful presence pervading it. A
mocking-bird whistled cheerily from his gilded
cage in the porch, his bead-like eyes bent inqui
ringly upon me. As we stepped inside, a slight,
girlish figure crossed the hall, her light hair,
which she wore in ringlets, giving her an extra
childish appearance. Raising her tear-stained
eyes, she glanced interrogatively at me, where
upon Mr. Dunstan vouchsafed:
“ ‘ The undertaker, my dear.’ As we passed
up stairs he observed:
“ ‘lt s best not to tell women folks everything.
They are apt to get hysterical, eh—don’t you
think so t’ blandly appealing to me.
“ Well, I carefully examined every inch of
the room where the dead man met his fate, and
not a particle of evidence did I find to prove
that Mr. Daniel Dunstan had come to his death
by any other means outside of suffocation from
the deadly lumes of gas.
“ ‘I see nothing,’ I remarked, ’to suggest the
idea of a murder. Still, to settle all doubt, you
had best have a post-mortem examination.’
“ ‘By what right do you advance such a pro
position ?’ observed a voice behind me.’
“ Turning, my eyes met the gaze of a hand
some young fellow, of apparently twenty-five
years.
“ ‘I am a detective, and am here at Mr. Dun
ston’s request,’ was my reply.
“ ‘You suspect it was not suicide, but—mur
der !’ ho exclaimed, a horrified look gathering
in his eyes.
“ ‘Calm yourself, my dear Paul,’ here inter
posed Mr. Dunstan, adding: ‘ln my love for
my dear brother, perhaps I have gone a little
too far. But, as Mr. Fitts says, an autopsy
would settle all doubt.’
“ ‘Very well, then,’ replied the young man,
somewhat haughtily; ‘but let it be done as
quickly as possible. I have a horror of disturb
ing the dead when it can possibly be avoided.’
“ ‘Dislikes Latimer 8. Dunstan’s interfer
ence,’ I mentally ejaculated, as I left the house.
“ Then more important business claiming my
attention, I dismissed the whole affair from my
mind. But the next day the papers were teeming
with the murder of Daniel Dunstan. For mur
der it looked likely to turn out to be, the doc
tors having discovered several grains of arsonic
in the dead man’s stomach. J, of course, was
engaged to hunt down the murderer, and a
pretty tough job I found it, lor not a clew did
there appear to be for me to work on. The
scullery maid was an ignorant girl, who could
not have conceived, much less have worked
out, so clever a murder. The housekeeper, as
it was proved, never left her sister’s side that
night, and that the poison had been adminis
tered during the night the doctors had given
iheir sworn testimony. Mr. Latimer 8, Dun
aTEfi cLul<l sllfi. to® to RJ c °ncern in it, I
argued, for only tor mm, a murder weultl Bp ver
have been suspected, the theoryof suicide hav-
Ifig been accepted unquestioned, although no
oaufe c-di;}d be sbown whereforo the old man
-lave taken his life.
* “‘The nephew, I should have thought, was
the most natural one for suspicion to fall on,’
I hero observed. A peculiar smile wreathed the
lips of my friend, as he answered:
“Yes, a most natural conclusion, for he alone
benefittod by the old man’s death, and as I
learned, the young fellow was just then rather
put to it for money to pay some gambling
debts. It was also known that ha had quar
relled with his uncle the very day of the mur
der. Yet despite all this circumstantial ovi
deno, that accummulated against him at the
inquest, I did not hold him guilty. He was
such a frank, pleasant young man when you
learned to know him, that I— well to tell the
truth, hated to think so ill of him. Beside, ;
when you come to silt it down fine, there was
only his need o! money and the quarrel with hie
uncle to stand against him.’’
“Not by any moans enough to convict a fol
low,’’ 1 remarked.
“No, or I am afraid there are a good many
men not hung that ought to be,” laughed
Fitts as be lighted a cigar, continuing:
“Well, there was a good deal of talk at the
inquest, but nothing was proven, and so they
brought in a verdict of murdor against some
person or persons unknown. Suspicion pointed
to Paul Lindsay, not strong enough to convict
him, but just sufficient to cause a sort of stigma
to rest upon his name. I, however, was deter
rpined to still quietly pursue my investigations.
My amour propre was arouse’d. I was bound
to find out the perpretrator of that crime. 1
shadowed Mr. Latimer 8. Dunstan and Paul
Lindsay until I was almost worn to a skeleton
and nothing came of it. I pumped Miss May,
the young girl that the murdered man had
given a home to, until I was almost ashamed of
my hardheartedness in troubling such a young
thing and evoking such pathetic expressions of
love and sorrow for the departed. Her story
was always the same as she had given it at the
inquest. Bhe Lad bidden Mr. Dunstan good
night, just as usual. He was in the habit of re
tiring about nine o’clock and always took a
glass of sugar and water with him to drink
through the night. The glass was feund empty
on the table. The doctors had examined it care
fully, but no trace of the deadly poison adhered
to it. When I had almost given up hope of
ever solving the mystery, my servant one day
brought me a card bearing on its front the name
Mr. -fames Green, and in smaller type below,
Apothecary, No. 251 Dineber street. A few
moments later 1 had gleaned from Mr.
Green, a nervous, depressed man, all he had
to tell, which was that about a week before tho
sad crime, Paul Lindsay had purchased of him
a small quantity of arsenic. Knowing tlje young
man the druggist had not hesitated to supply
the poison. Fear of being censured had kept
the man’s tongue still, but at last conscience
gaining the ascendency, he mustered up suffi
cient courage to seek me out and make a clean
breast of it. With this clew to work upon I
started afresh, and after groping here and there
and filling a bit in at odd places, I at last began
to get an inkling of the truth. It literally floored
me though when I learned beyond doubt who
committed the deed. As soon as I had every
thing in shape, I sent a line respectively to
Latimer 8. Dunstan, Paul Lindsay and Miss
May, asking the favor of their presence at my
office on such a day and hour, in the mean
time keeping the guilty one under strict surveil
lance. The time appointed saw the three assem
bled awaiting my pleasure. I did'not keep them
long in doubt as’ to the nature of my business
with them, but at once taxed Paul Lindsay with
the purchase of the arsenic. With a horrified
exclamation he cried out. ‘My God ! it is true,
I did purchase arsenic. I wanted it to use in
an experiment I was trying, but of any intent
to harm my uncle I am innocent, so help me
God I’ Then turning to me he said: ‘ You,
whose business it is to hunt down such wretches,
surely you do not believe me guilty?’ No, I
answered, I do not, but there ie a person out
side who can give us a little information on the
subject. Opening the door I called out, come
in my girl and don’t be afraid to speak up.
Remember you are on your oath. A surprised
look gathered on their faces as Betty, the
scullery maid advanced into the room. The
poor girl in her fright blurted out, ‘ Oh I if yer
please, I never would have told nothing but he
come with his questions so suddent like that he
had it out of me afore I knowed what he was a
doing of, and he made me swear I’d tell it all
straight whenever he asked it.’ And now my
good girl, I interrupted, lot us hear what you
have to toll. Fixing her eyes upon mo she duti
fully began with: ‘lf you please, sir, it was on
the night poor master was murdered, that I was
took that bad with the toothache that I couldn’t
sleep. I’d hear Miss May say once as she had
something that was good for it, and I thinks
maybe if 1 had some it would get better, and so
I just slips a shawl round me and goes down to
her room, but she wasn’t there. Then, thinks
I, she’s down stairs with master, when I hears a
noise, and I don’t know what made me, but I
slips behind a door as I see Miss May a coming
out of Mr. Paul’s room with a bottle in her
hand. Mr. Paul hadn’t come in for I heard
him afterward. Miss May, sir, she goes straight
to master’s room. I waits a bit, then I thinks to
creep up stairs again, the toothache was all
seared out of me with the look of Miss May’s
face and what I see.’
“Here I interposed with: ‘From where you
stood hidden, you could see through the open
door, could you not, my good girl, old Mr.
Dunstan, as he lay asleep in his bed, and the
little stand on which stood his glass of sugar
and water; and the gas was lit, but turned
down low, was it not ?’
“In an affrighted manner she went on with:
“ ‘ Yes, please, sir ; and I knew the little bot
tle at once when I see Miss May a-putting of
the stuff into poor master’s sugar and water, I
had seen it on Mr. Paul’s table, and he told me
I was not to meddle with it, along of its being
poison. I don’t know, but I suppose I must
have cried out with the fright, for Miss May got
as white as a ghost, and came straight toward
me, and I just drops on my knees and begs,
“Oh, for the love of God, don’t ye, miss ; it’s—
it’s poison I” Than Miss May closes the mas
ter’s door softly, and ses, a-taking me by the
arm, “ You’re dreaming, Betty; you’ve had the
nightmare. Sometimes folks that haves the
nightmare get hung. I’d go to bed and keep
‘ it I was you, Betty.” And, oh I sir, 1
quie., ■'ottong will happen to me for telling
hopes as *'o<»r girl, and don’t mean no
this. I’m a t
harm.’ I here exclaimed,
“ ‘ You don’t mean to -. “'tiled so horrible
‘that such a young girl com...
a crime ?’ 'kingly
“‘You shall hear,’ he replied, prove. ...
taking a few preliminary puffs at hts cigu.
Then smiling at my visible impatience, he pro- ,
ceoded with: • During Betty’s confession 1| ,
watched the faces of my three guests. MT, ■ ;
Paul’s expressed horrified incredulity. Mr. L.
8. Dunstan’s, suppressed eagerness. Miss
May’s, a sort of numbed indifference. As Betty
ceased speaking, Miss May arose abruptly and
confronted Paul Lindsay, her slight figure
drawn to its fullest bight, as she exclaimed, de- '
fiantly: .
“ ‘At your door lies my sin, Paul Lindsay;
for it was for your sake I did it.’ Then, as if
utterly oblivious to aught but hie presence, she
continued : ‘ I have loved you long, Paul, and
I thought in time my love would be returned ;
but day by day I saw you drifting further from
me. I was wild with despair. Then came that
day when you quarreled with your uncle. Per- ■
haps you will not believe it, but he was so
highly incensed against you that he made a will ’
in my favor that very night. He told me what
he had done and the purport of your quarrel. ;
He would have had you wed the girl he took
from the Sfeets, to you absolutely feFfisel,
Afid 116, in bis liliger, swore I should be his
heiress.
“ ‘ I foolishly believed if the money was once
mine, your love would follow, and so the
thought grew in my mind to prevent your uncle
ever having a chance to change his. I knew
well how he loved you, and that when his anger
cooled he would reinstate you in his favor. He
was such an old man, what mattered a few years,
more or less, to him and to me. No price was
too great to pay for your love. I might have
done the deed by suffocation alone, but I wish
ed to make doubly sure. I never dreamed
that any other cause but the evident one could
be suspected. And it would not only for your
meddling,’ added she, turning suddenly upon
Mr. Dunstan, who winced perceptibly, as she
exclaimed:
“ ‘ Bah, you sneaking coward! You thought
to fasten suspicion upon Paul, and thus gain
the property. To a blundering fool I owe my
downfall; but let me tell you, it is deprived of
halt its sting by the knowledge that you have
failed in your great desire.’
“ Then, the scornful ring dying out of her
voice, she addressed Paul with:}
“ ‘ Believe it or not, as you may, Paul, but I
never would have allowed you to suffer for my
crime. I knew of the arsenic you had pur
chased, and stole it to accomplish my desire.
What I did not use I emptied down the bowl in
my room. The bottle and glass I hid until I
had a chance to destroy them. The glass the
doctors examined was another one—that I
placed beside your uncle’s bed early the next
morning. Your uncle, probably, in a fit of re
morse, destroyed tho will in my favor imme
diately after making it; and so I sinned for
naught. Not that I valued the money except as
a means to purchase your love.’
“ Then, with a mocking laugh, she curtsied
to me, saying:
“‘I salute your wonderful detective capa
bilities, and await your further orders.’
“ A regular little demon,’ I remarked.
“ Clothed in as fair and childlike a form as
ever I saw, although she was older by some
years than I had imagined,” answered Fitts.
“ I suppose,” queried I, “ that on account of
her sex they made it imprisonment for life?”
“ Yes, for she was proved to be insane,” was
my friend’s reply; whereupon I propounded
the question of how he came to suspect her, of
all people. Smiling complacently, he answered :
“ Well, you see a detective learns to look lor
the evidence of a crime where you would least
suspect. In working up a case I generally
leave the party suspected to the public and
quietly seek the criminal where rumor fails to
reach. A word or two unconsciously let drop
by Miss May first caused me to suspect that she
knew more about the business than she should
have. As to Betty, I questioned and cross
questioned her so concerning “ her voung lady,”
that, scared and bewildered, she ’blurted out
the whole story.”
“Is Miss May still living ?” I asked, feeling a
pitying interest in the young woman’s fate.
“ No; she died two days ago. The para
graph I spoke of related to her demise,” replied
my detective triend, adding sagely, “and there", i
fore 1 say death ie oftentimes a great mercy.”
A DAKOTA WHOPPER.
WHAT KIND OF WHISKY DO THEY
DRINK OUT THERE ?
(From the Estelline, Dakota, Dell.)
I think the strangest snake I have seen is
what I call the fishing snake. I saw one on a
log floating in a little arm of slack water run
ning in from the river. It was long and slen
der, and one or two coils were on the log and
its head raised about a foot. Suddenly I eaw it
make a quick movement, and a small fish
seemed to leap up out of the water, which the
snake caught in its mouth and proceeded to
swallow. I could not imagine how the snake
got the fish, and went further yyfere I could
see it better. I watched it catch two more, and
saw how it was done. It had its tail iu the
water lor the length of about three feet, and
the fish bit the end and was jerked out. I under
stood it still more thoroughly when the snake
left the log and swam to the shore, where I
killed it. On the end of its tail there was a sort
of bone fish hook. It was double and m,uch the
shane of an anchor. It was very sharp tike the
teeth of some fish, and the snake had baited it
with a large grasshopper. It was of a yellow
ish, clayey color, much the same as the water in
which it had been fishing. I think it must be
confined and intended for the Missouri River,
which is always of the same muddy, milky
color. Since killing that one I have seen a
number of others. One day last week I saw
three on one log, and fishing very intently.
While I was watching them one hooked a larger
fish than it could land. It was a catfish which
would weigh as much as six pounds. The
snake coiled around the log and hung on, but
it could have never drawn the fish out had not
the others come to its assistance, reached down
their tails, coiled them around the fish, and
finally landed it. It was too big for tffem to
swallow, and alter unhooking it from the first
one’s tail they let it slide back.
My wife has killed several small snakes about
the dooryard, none of them more than a foot
long, which have ears. Their ears are thin and
round, sonje like a bat’s, and usually lie down,
but when the snake is trying to catoh an insect
or some small animal they are raised and point
ed forward, giving the snake a bright, deter
mined look. They also have a small pocket
underside and a couple of inches from the
mouth, in which they store captured bugs,
grasshoppers, etc.
I have noticed another peculiar snake among
the large trees. It is about five feet long, and
colored somewhat like the rattlesnake. Its way
of catching its prey is this: It will see a bird
or squirrel in a tree, perhaps thirty or forty feet
from the ground. It will get almost directiy
uud«r it, an 4 tbeu shape itself iijje a sofa-
NEW YORK DISPATCH, JULY 31, 1887.
r pressed letter 8. Suddenly it will straighten
t out with the force of a steel spring and leap
) right up into tho air and seize the bird or squir
■ rel in its month, face back and strike tho
i ground in the same position it jumped from,
I bound up in the air once or twice, and then
> settle down and swallow whatever it captured,
i It is a fine sight to watch them,
: PAMELT
FROM THE FRENCH OF W. BUSNACH.
1 Madame Launoy was just putting on her hat,
preparatory to going out to attend a display of
Fall goods, advertised extensively by a fashion
able dry goods store.
Just at this moment she heard the front door
1 bell ring loudly.
Madame Launoy looked at the clock.
“ Why, it is not two yet,” she said to herself.
“ Who oan it be coming so early ? It isn’t my
reception day, any how ; and, beside, I am not
expecting anybody.”
The door was opened hastily. An elderly
lady, with a figure which was still slender, and
sparkling eyes, entered without being an
nounced.
“ Maman I” exclaimed Madame Launov, “ I
was just going to stop at your house on return
ing from the Bon Marche. I haven’t seen you
for three days. Will you go shopping with me ?
the papers advertise a fine silk at six francs
forty. It is a great bargain, it seems.”
“It is a fine time to be talking about silks,”
exclaimed Madame Marteliier, in a voice that
seemed full of coming events. “Daughter, I
wish to speak to you about a very serious mat
ter.”
“Oh ! my gracious I I had not noticed; your
face is not the same as usual. What has hap
pened to you ?”
“To me, nothing—that is to say—nothing
personally I But as everything relating to
you.”
“To me; why, what has happened to me?
Speak quickly. “You frighten me.”
“ Well, poor child—you see ”
Madame Marteliier stopped for a second, then
changing her tone, she said :
•‘ By-tbe-by, I have a hack at the door. Let’s
go down; we can talk just as well while rid
ing.”
“But, mother, I would like you to tell me.”
“Let’s go down first.”
A carriage was standing before the residence
of Madame Launoy. The two women got into
it after Madame Marteliier called out to the
driver:
“ 38 Princess street.”
As soon as the carriage started Madame Mar
tellier took her daughter’s hands in hers with a
look of compassion, saying:
“ Poor darling 1 I foresaw it all a year ago,
when you were so anxious to marry that Mr.
Achille Launoy. I thought the time would
come when you would regret having done so.”
“My hueband I It is about my husband you
speak. That tranquiiizes me a little. I know
you don’t fancy my poor Achille, although he is
always as kind as can be to you.”
“He kind to me 1 In what, pray ?”
“ Why, when we got married, did he not at
your request give up certain habits that dis
pleased you, although it made no difference to
me ? Anyhow, maman, I warn you that if you
have anything to say about my husband, I wHI
not believe you without proofs.”
“As you like. After ail, lam too kind to be
worrying about your affaire. I shall order the
driver to go to Sevres street. Go and buy your
silk and let matters rest as if I had said noth
ing.”
“ No, no I Forgive me—l was wrong. But
tell me, to whose house are we going on Prin
cess street ?”
“ You will soon learn. And as you find I
iKvo never been very enthusiastic over Mr.
Launoy, you will be compelled to acknowledge
that I k ad good cause for my prejudice. Do you
remembe?' Valentine, what I often told you
When you u»’ t 0 mB out your endless
rß ?’t tions abu nt the gentleman, that he was
not the SM of m*? 1 wished to Bee JOU wedded
10 >1 remember. But still,
186,1 Achille been doing
maman, what F
wrong?” -■> Why nothing at
“ What has he been doing . —« been Rig
all, except that, although you hu, - •
wife barely a year, he has been deceiving j...
during the last two months.”
“Achille? deceiving me 1” exclaimed Valen
tino.
And forgetting the respect due her mother,
she added laughingly.
“ Don’t talk noneense, mother ! I will an
swer for his virtue as readily as—l would for
your own 1”
“ Neither myself nor my virtue are called in
question,” replied Madame Marteliier. “My
duty as a mother compels me to show you the
infamy of the man whose name you bear. That
duty I will fulfill, cost what it mav
“ rsut to what Infamy do yoii refer 5 1
“ You will see when we get to Princess
street.”
“ Where is that street?”
“ But a few steps frpm the Odeon and Saint
Sulpice ! We shall soon be there I”
“ And what shall I see on Princess street?”
“Nothing, perhaps !—to-day, at least 1 but
you will find proofs there, just as I did .”
“ Proofs that Achille is deceiving me?”
“ Proofs that Achille—that Mr. Launoy is de
ceiving you.”
“ Well, really, I am curious to see those
proofs. And, perhaps, on seeing, I will put no
faith in them! Because it is not possible.
Why! Achille adores me.”
“Oh, pshaw I You are foolishly blind. When
I tell you .”
“First say what do you tell me.”
“ That’s so. I haven’t divulged the secret to
you as yet. Well, here are the facts: First, you
must know that Annette, you remember An
nette, don’t you ?”
“ One of your former chambermaids ?”
“ Exactly 1 Well, Annette wrote to me three
days ago that she had lost her place, and that
she was seriously ill. She gave me her address,
No. 37 Princess street. Wiehing to assure my
self of the truth of the statement, I went yester
day to the given address, and found that An
nette’s condition was just as she had said.”
“ W’hat next, madame—what next ?”
“ I am getting to it, Valentine,” continued
Madame Marteliier, looking out through the
carriage window.
“ We shall soon reach Princess street, be
cause we are now crossing the Boulevard St.
Germain. Well, just as 1 was leaving An
nette’s, 1 saw, entering the house opposite—
No. 38—a gentleman who, from behind, resem
bled your husband very closely.”
“ Probably he went into that house on busi
ness?”
“ Wait a while ! Of course there would be
nothing strange in Mr. Launoy’s knowing some
body in that house. But, Valentine, you must
know that a mother’s heart always has misgiv
ings, and something seemed to tell me that I
was on the trail of a mystery, and when your
husband—for it was really he—disappeared in
the stairway, I could not help crossing over and
entering the house.”
“ And then ?”
“The doorkeeper’s box is on the lefthand
aide, going in. A woman was in it. ‘ Excuse
me, madame,’ said I, ‘but will you tell me if
you know the gentleman who has just passed
in ? I would like to find out whether lam mis
taken,’ and I carelessly took a five-franc coin
from my purse. On seeing this, the concierge
beamed her most gracious smiles upon me.
“ ‘Of course I know him,’ said she. ‘lt is
Mr. Achille, one of our tenauts.’
“ ‘Mr. Achille—who ?’
“ ‘I only know him by his given name, mad
ame. He inhabits a room on the first floor,
which he rents from Madame Marin, the seam
stress, who leases the whole floor. He doesn’t
sleep there; he only comes daily at five o’clock,
and remains a few minutes. But, without be
ing too inquisitive, madame, may I ask why you
inquire about Mr. Achille ?’
“Tsthis question I gave an evasive answer,
and not wishing to_ inquire further for fear Of
arousing iho suspicions of the concierge, I gave
her the fivs francs and withdrew. Now, will
you still accuse me of slandering your hus
band!”
Overwljqlnjed with grief, Valentine, after a
tootoent of silence, replied:
“ Yes, indeed, you must be right.”
And then she added, as if against her will:
“And yet, if in all this there was something
else instead of treachery? Why did you not
ask that woman what kind of people my hus
band received in that room?”
“ Why, I have just told you that I did not
want to arouse her suspicions, so as to make
her talk all the more to-day.”
“ Yes, that’s so—you did right! Is that in
fernal street still far
Just then the hack came to a stop.
“ HSXO W? are before the house,” said Mad
ame Marteliier.
“Very well. Let mo get out alone. It is best
that the concierge should not see you at first.
By the bye, what time is it?”
Madame Marteliier looked at her watch.
“Three o’clo-k !”
“ Oh, then, there is no danger of meeting my
hu-band.”
Valentine opened the hack door, got down
and boldly entered the gate.
Madame Marteliier remained alone about ten
minutes, when Valentine returned, pale and
nervously agitated. In entering the hack she
called out to the hackman :
“Driver, take us to the Luxembourg Gar
dens.”
The haokman whipped up his horse and they
started off at a rapjd pace.
“Well, darling?”inquired Madame Martel
lier.
“ You were quite right in your conjectures,
mother. lam almost sure that he is deceiving
me. He, Achille ! No, I must be dreaming.”
“Now you see !” exOlaimed Mme. Marteliier,
triumphantly. “ But why do you say almost
sure ? Have you feund no positive prbo's ?”
“No. And yet it amounts to nearly the same
thing. To induce that woman to speak, I gave
her all the money I had on see—five louis -
which I had taken to buy a dress. Oh ! 1 never
thought I would have used that money to bribe
a portress. Well, the fast is that, as you already
know, my husband spends twenty or thirty
minutes daily in the room which he rents'from
Mme. Marin.”
“Yes; but with whom does he spend the
time? That is the question.”
“ AU alone!”
“ Eh ! did you say ?”
“Just what you have heard—all alone I Tho
portress says that ha never goes to the house
with anybody; that no one has ever inquired
about him except a wicked-looking old lady who
went there yesterday and questioned her about
Mr. Achille. By thatjady, I suppose she must
have gieaut you, madams.”
i “But if he goes without company, and if no
i body ever asks for him, what in the world can
■ your husband go to that house for ? One may
i suppose all kinds of things.”
“Wait a minute. About a week ago, as the
concierge was standing at the door, Achille came
up with a friend who left him, saying, in a
roguish manner:
“ ‘ Good-by, old fellow; I leave you to Fa
mela.’
“Ah! there, now; that’s the secret I” ejacu
lated Mme. Marteliier, “ Pamela I Some
wretch living in the house, I suppose, who, not
daring to receive him in her apartments, comes
down to the famous first-floor room.”
“That is just what I thought too.”
“What a Machiavelli I have for a son-in-law !”
“Here we are at the Luxembourg. Settle
with the driver, madame. I haven’t a sou left.
Let us walk about now for an hour, no, not
quite an hour, only forty-five minutes.”
“ And in forty-five minutes ?’’
“ Then we shall return to Princess street. I
am anxious to know the full facts of the case.”
After sending away the hack, Valentine and
her mother started down one of the paths run
ning along the side of the palace and leading to
the main alley. There they resumed their con
versation.
“Pamela!” repeated Mademoiselle Launoy;
“ Pamela ! what a horrid name I Nowadays no
woman with any self-respect would call herself
Pamela.”
“ Formerly I knew several persons bearing
that name,” said Madame Marteliier. “ Even
one day at Longchamps I wore a hat known as
tho Pamela, and it created quite a sensation.
Bullet’s return to our subject—that is, to your
husband. Do you really intend to return to
Princess street by-and-by ?”
“Of course 1 Madame Baudru—ah I I had
forgotten to tell you that the name of the con
cierge at No. 38 is Madame Baudru—has prom
ised to conceal us both in a small cabinet with
a glass door adjoining Mr. Launoy’s secret
bower I In there, we shall both hear and see
all that goes on.”
“ Yes, but suppose ”
“Ishall go alone, if you prefer it.”
“No, indeed,” replied Madame Marteliier,
epiritedly, “ 1 could not think of abandoning
you to the anger of that monster, who, on see
ing that you have found out what orgies he
was reveling in, might be capable of injuring
you.”
“ A monster ! Achille a monster. Mother,
believe me, I can’t realize it I ’
Madame Baudru’s little Swiss clock was just
striking the quarter to five when she conducted
the mother and daughter to Achille’s secret
bower, as Valentine had called it. The worthy
concierge had an extra key, by means of which
she entered in the morning to air the room.
A few seconds before five M. Launoy ap
peared.
With a happy countenance he took off his hat
and overcoat. Then going to a cupboard he
took from it a superb pipe, splendidly colored,
a pack of caporal and a box of matches. After
filling the pipe with care, he lighted it and sat
down in an arm-chair. Half closing his eyes he
puffed away with a look of satisfaction that could
hardly be described by words.
Through the door, purposely left ajar, Valen
tine heard her husband murmur in a sort of
ecstasy.
“ How good it is, Lord, how good it is ! When
I think that eld she-goat Madame Marteliier
made me promise to give up smoking. 8o as
not to set Valentine and her mother at odds—l
kept my word—as long as I could—Ten long
months I Then, when 1 could stand it no longer,
I took you back, my little Pamela, good old
pipe that I was so fond of in my student’s days.”
A cry sounded from the cabinet, the door of
whieh was opened abruptly.
“ Valentine ! Madame Marteliier I” exclaimed
Mr. Launoy wildly.
And he tried to hide the forbidden pipe.
“No! darling,” said Valentine; “don’t hide
it! Bring it with you. You may smoke it at
the house as much as you please. Pamela and
I will get on well together.”
And she joyously kissed Achille, who gazed
upon her with a bewildered look, while Madame
Marteliier, with a dark scowl on her counte
nance, growled at the entrance to the cabinet:
“Old she-goat! To think that I gave flve
francs to Madame Baudru and three-ten to too
hack-driver, just to hear myself called an old
she-goat I”— Neus Orleans 'Dimes-Democrat.
A JEREMYmbpLER.
RICHARD BRIxT? SHERIDAN
IN THAT hv l 4|l‘
“It is often,” writes Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, in
his “Lives of the SheridanS, ! ‘aaSSfkt to ex
tenuate Sheridan’S failings by “ im
with Fox and Other extravagant men of pleasure
of his time. Those who suffered by Sheridan’s
faults were usually the humble class of trades
men, persons who supplied families, who had
overtrusted him, and who could ill afford to
lose.”
Here are one or two examples of the great
wife practices whieh Mr. Fitzgerald records:
He sent for Chalier on the day of a dinner
party, Kelly tells us, and told him that luckily he
was just in sash, and desired fo settle his ac
count. Chalier Was much pleased, but said, as
he had not it about him, he would return home
and bring it with him. Sheridan added:
“ Oh, Chalier, by-the-by, you must stop and
dine with me to-day ! I have a party to whom
I will introduce you—some leading members of
bothiHquses/'
Chalier, who was fond of great company, was
Obliged to Sheridan for the offer, and promised,
to be with him at the hour of dinner. Upon his
return home, he informed the clerk of his cel
lars that he was going to dine with Mr. Sheri
dan, and would probably not be home till it was
late.
Sheridan had fixed the hour at six to Chalier,
but desired him to come before that time, as he
had much to say to him in private. At about
five o’clock Chalier came to his appointment,
and he was no sooner in the house than Sheri
dan sent off a servant with a note to the clerk,
desiring him, as Mr. Chalier was favoring him
with his company, to send, as soon as possible,
three dozen of burgundy, two dozen of claret,
and two dozen of port, with a dozen of old hock.
The clerk, knowing that bis master was really
at Sheridan's, and thinking that the order came
with his concurrence, immediately obeyed it.
After dinner everybody praised the fine quali
ties of Sheridan’s wines, and all were desirous
of knowing who was his wine-merchant. Sheri
dan, turning toward Mr. Chalier, said :
“I am indebted to my friend here for all the
wine you have tasted, and am always proud to
recommend him.”
Next morning Chalier discovered the trick.
The following is another instance of the same
kind: An innkeeper at Richmond had some ex
cellent burgundy, of which Sheridan ordered
two dozen, at eight pounds a dozen. The inn
keeper sent him this quantity, and Sheridan,
shortly after, assured him that he liked the
wine so much that he would purchase the re
mainder. The other had no objection to sell
tho wine, but he insisted on being paid for the
first parcel before he sent out a second. This
Sheridan promised to do if he would call on a
particular day at his house in Bruton street.
He was punctual, and, as soon as Sheridan had
him in the house, he ordered his carriage and
set bif at full speed for Richmond. On his ar
rival there tho wife of the innkeeper cried out:
“Oh, Mr. Sheridan, how unlucky ! My hus
band has just gone to town in search of you,
and you have missed each other.”
“Ob, no,” said Sheridan ; “ I have seen your
husband, my good woman, and we have ar
ranged everything ; so you have only to get me
the rest of the burgundy, and have it packed up
immediately, that I may take it to town with
me, for I have some friends to dine with me,
and can’t wait.”
She packed up the wine and had it put into
Sheridan’s carriage, who returned to town
about the same time that the innkeeper re
turned to Richmond.
INGERSOLL ON JOCLLLISM.
It is the Worst Possible Form of Slav
very and Should Fail.
(,From the North American Deview.)
Some of the best and purest of our race have
advocated what is known as socialism. They
have not only taught, but, what is more to the
purpose, have believed that a ualion should be
a family; that the government should take care
of all its children; that it should provide work
and food and clothes and education for all, and
that it should divide the results of all labor
equitably with all.
Seeing the inequalities among men, knowing
ot the desutut on and crime, these men were
willing to sacrifice not only their own liberties,
but tho liberties ot all.
Socialism seems to be one of the worst possi
ble forms ol slavery. Nothing, in my judg
ment, would so utterly paralyze all the forces,
all ths splendid ambitions and aspirations that
now tend to tho civilization of man. In ordi
nary systems of slavery there are some mas
ters, a few are supposed to be free; but in a so
cialistic state all would be slaves.
Ifthe government is to provide work it must
decide for the worker what he must do. It
must say who shall chisel statues, who shall
paint pictures, who shall compose music, and
who shall practice the professions. Is any gov
ernment, or can any government, be capable ol
intelligently performing these countless duties ?
It must not only control work, it must not only
decide what each shall do, but it must control
expenses, because expenses bear a direst re
lation to products. There'ore the government
must decide what the worker shall eat, and
wherewithal he shall bo clothed; the kind ot
house in which he shall live; the manner in
which it shall be furnished, and, ii the govern
ment furnishes the work, it must decide on the
days or hours of leisure. More than this, it
must fix values, it must decide not only who
shall sell, but who shall buy, and the price that
must be paid—and it must fix this value, not
simnly upon the labor, but upon everything
that can be produced, that eaa be exchanged or
soli.
Is it possible to conceive of a despotism be
yond this? The present oonditien of the world
is bad enough, with its poverty and ignorance,
but it is far better than it could by any possi
bility be under any government like the one de
scribed. There would be less hunger of the
body, but not of the mind. Each man would
simply be a citizen of a large penitentiary, and,
as in every well-regulated prison, somebody
would decide what each should do. The in
mates of a prison retire early; they rise with the
sun; they have something to eat; they are not
dissipated; they have clothes; they attend divine
service; they have but little to say about their
neighbors; they do not suffer from colds; their
habits are excellent; and yet, up one enyiee
their condition. Socialism destroys the family.
The children belong to the state. Certain offi
cers take the place of parents. Individuality is
lost.
The human race cannot afford to exchange its
liberty for any possible comfort. You remem
ber the old fable of the fat dog that met the lean
wolf in the forest. The wolf, astonished to see
so prosperous an animal, inquired of the dog
where he got his food, and the dog told him
that there was a man who took care of him, gave
him his breakfast, his dinner and his supper,
with the utmost regularity, and that he had all
that he could eat and very little to do. The
wolf said : “Do you think this man would treat
me as he does you ?” The dog replied : “ Yes;
come along with me.” So they jogged on to
gether toward the dog’s home. On the way the
wolf happened to notice that some hair was
worn off the dog’s neck, and he said : “ How did
the hair become worn?” “That is,” said the
dog, “ the mark of my collar ; my master ties
me at night.” “Oh!” said the wolf, “are you
chained— are you deprived of your liberty ? I
believe 1 will go back; I prefer hunger.”
hoesTTalk.
BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM AT THE
RACES.
{Clara Selle in N. 0. Times-Democrat.)
Everybody knows how horse talk invades the
dining-room and parlor at home. The men
bring it in from the club and take it with them
to the office. But sometimes a portion of it
stays behind and is eagerly rolled over the
tongues of the girls of the family. A young
bride was calling with a friend, and at more
than one house found other friends who had
been to the races. Entrancing were the stories
they told of backing the winners. Now our
bride, Louisa, had never been to the races in
her life, and that very night she asked her hus
band if he would not take her.
“ Now, who has been putting that into your
head ?” asked John brusquely.
“Why, X don’t know, John, dear,” said Louisa,
“ but everybody seems to go and I want to. 1
want to back the winners.”
The next scene is at Sheepshead Bay. Three
races have been run, and Louisa is intensely
interested, not only in events, but in the scenes
around her. She has kept her eyes open, and
has noticed that ladies near her send money
away in the hands of boys in uniform, and that
the boys return with tickets, which the ladies
put in their bags. She has pleaded with her
husband to let her bet just once on a race, but
he has forbidden it so sternly that she dares not
speak of it again. But John has left his seat
after each race, and not returned until the next
one is about to be run. In her innocent little
head has crept the idea that John is betting on
the races, and she longs to know what his for
tune has been. By the time the third race has
been run she has grown into a fever of excite
ment over a project which she feared to execute.
She would take advantage of his absence and
bet for herself secretly. John looked very dark
at the conclusion of the third race and ground
his teeth as he answered to his wife's innocent
question that he had rather hoped such a horse
would win, for he knew the jockey. “He’s tell
ing a white lie,” thought bright Louisa, “ and I
will get even with him.” But it seemed as if
John would never get up and disappear as he
had before. In fact, John was wondering whether
he would take a final plunge with what he had
left. He decided that he would go out to the
betting pavilion at all events and see how the
odds were running. Audit was unnecessary to
say that he plunged. As soon as he was gone
Louisa was thrown into a rage of excitement and
doubt. The color mounted hot to her cheeks
and her heart thumped like a type-writer, as
with a supremo impulse oho bocKviiod w a buy,
It was the last chance.
“Here,” she exelaimed, producing some bills
from her purse. “Take this and bet it for
mo.”
“Who on?” asked the boy, stolidly receiving
the money and counting it. There were thirty
dollars.
“ Oh, dear 1” whispered Louisa. “ I don't
know anything about horses. You know, don’t
you?”
“ Well,’’ said the boy, scratching his head,
“ they a?e givin' tffo to one on Ichi Ban and six
to one on Pocomoko, but I thinjs it’? a ya?? for a
shorf horse myself,” J 25 ~ *'* i -*’
“But can a short hbrae run as fast as a long
Ona ? asked Louisa, in surprise.
“ Well,” said the boy, “ that depends; but I
am backing Ovid, and you can get fifteen to one
on him.”
“ Well, well, hurry along and do what you
think best, only put it somewhere and don’t let
anybody know.”
-nu. hov disappeared, and presently John
came back. She looauS a t hifilJSWfiiyely to see
if he suspected anything, but John’s ilCfi Was
like that of a Sphinx. The boy returned, too,
and slipped a piece of paper into Louisa's hand
without attracting attention. She hastily
thrust it into her purse, feeling wofully guilty.
The race was run, and it would be hard to Say
which was the more excited. When it was over
John said, awkwardly;
“Louisa, you brought Some money on the
track with you, didn’t you ?”
“ Yes, dear,” she replied, faintly, feeling that
now the storm was coming.
“ 1 guess you better let me have it,” he said.
“To tell the truth, I have got rid of mine. A
friend told me that a race was coming a cer
tain way; he wanted me to back it—and—l did
so, and it’s gone wrong, you know; such things
Will Sometimes,” and his courage returned as
he got the confession out of his mouth.
Louisa trembled.
“I haven’t got the money, John,” she falter
ed. “ I—l spent it”
“ The devil you did 1” exclaimed John, un
gallantly. “Humph ! I’d like to know how we
are going to get home, to Bay nothing of having
anything to eat,” and he relapsed into silence.
Louisa felt all the sorrow and anguish of a
penitent. It took more nerve than it had to bet
her money to put her hand in her bag, produce
her ticket, and pass it to John, saying faintly:
“Perhaps this is worth something. They
might give you back the money if you told them
about it.”
John did not hear the last part of her sen
tence. He was staring hard at the bit of paste
board, and ail he could say was, “flow in thun
der did you come to play that horse ?” Then,
before Louisa could say a word, he turned
upon her, held the card before her face and ex
claimed:
“ Have you the slightest idea how much this
is worth ?”
“ No,” she answered, repressing a sob. “ I
didn’t mean to, and I won’t do it again—l
won’t, truly—and I don’t want to come to the
races again.”
“Well,” he assented, “I don’t think you’d
better, for this play is about the most absurd
that could be made, but it just happens that
this particular ticket is worth five hundred and
forty dollars.”
They had a pretty good dinner.
CHANGE
IT IS FOUND EVERYWHERE.
“ Change is written on the tide,
On the forest’s leafy pride,
On the streamlet glancing bright;
On the jewel’ed crown of night;
All, where’er the eye can rest.
Show it legibly imprest.”
Like many another which the eye may behold,
the ear hearken to, or the mind conceive, this
subject has ever been debatable. Some persons
dislike the thought of any change, no matter of
whatsoever description. They have become
rooted to the soil whereon they were born, and
would prefer to live and die there, regarding
with a species of horror the self-chosen rovers
of the laud and sea, who, in their turn, look
down upon the poor stay-at-homes with a pity
akin to contempt—believing that “ changeless
ness is synonymous with death, and change is
life.”
Truly says Cowper:
•• Tbo earth was made so various that the mind
Of desultory man, studious of change
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.”
These are the mutations ot .place and scene;
but there are, too, those of customs and ideas,
necessary and unavoidable, unless we would
stand still and let the world pass by us. Upon
this we may quote Carlyle, who has well said:
“To-day - is not yesterday; we ourselves
change. How can our works and thoughts, if
they are always to be the fittest, continue al
ways the same. Change is ever needful.”
Tq Goethe, this breaking from his old asso
ciations must have been fraught with pain, or
fie would not have thus bo sadly written:
“ On the same stream we never float again,
and I long so in my innermost soul for the con
tinuance of all that I have liked or loved, that I
dread to see again scenes where I h ive been
very happy, and which my memory invests
with an ideal light, or people whom I thought
especially lovely, and from whom I have long
been separated, lest 1 should be painfully im
pressed with the constant change in ail things.”
With more wisdom, if, even, with a touch of
worldhness, is Hawthorne’s inference:
“No Summer ever came back, and no two
Summers were ever alike. Times change and
people change; and if ear own hearts do not
change as readily, so much the worse for us.”
is itßeason ?
A RAT’S REMARKABLE INSTINCT.
(From the American Fatura’iKt.)
On a very warm day in early Summer I hap
pened to be standing near a chicken coop in a
back yard, when I noticed the head of a very
gray and grizzled rat, thrust from a neighbor
ing rathole, and concluded to watch the move
ments of the veteran. After a careful survey
of the surroundings, our old rodent seemed to
be satisiied that all was right, and made a cau
tious exitfrem the home retreat. Afresh pan
of water had been recently placed before the
chicken coep, and the water looked a friendly
invitation to the thirsty old rat, winch imme
diately started toward it.
The rat had not reached the pan before five
half-grown young ones rushed ahead and tried
tb be the first at the water. The old rat there
upon immediately made a leap like a kangaroo
and was at the edge of the dish in advance ef
the foremost ot her litter. Thon ensued a most
remarkable occurrence.
The mother rat raised herself on her haunches
and bit and scratched at her offspring so severe
ly, whenever they attempted to reach the water,
that they all finally scudded away, evidently
very much astonished and frightened at the
strange and unaccountable behavior of their
mother. When the little ones were at a safe
distance, the reasons for her extraordinary be-
havior began to be revealed at once in the intel
ligent action of the old mother rat.
She first wetted her whiskers in the water,
looked suspiciously about her, then very cau
tiously and carefully took a dainty little sip of
the liquid. She tasted it as tentatively and
critically as a professional tea-taster, and when
she was satisfied that it contained no poisonous
or other deleterious matter, she gave a couple
of squeaks, which quickly brought her young
and thirsty brood to her side, and all fearlessly
drank their fill. Now, this old mother rat was
experienced, and had evidently learned her les
son in that school thoroughly, and so she would
not allow her young and untaught litter to taste
water which might have contained rat poison or
what not, until she had satisfied herself that the
liquid was harmless. Does not this look very
like reason?
A Pointer for Cremationists. — The
Cremation Society of Zurich, Switzerland, one
of the beat organized associations in the world,
has adopted the Bourry system, which is de
scribed as follows: Like Siemens, Mr. Bourry
only allows heated air to be communicated with
the body. In both systems the corpse burns
directly, no flame is to be seen singeing the
body; but it burns itself by the abundance of
hot oxygen which surrounds it. Bourry uses
carbonic acid gas, prepared in a coke regenera
tor, for heating the crematorium. During the
process of cremation ho uses mainly chimney
gases for heating the air before it touches the
corpse, which allows a more economical use of
the heat. It ia of great advantage that the
chimney needs to be thirty-five feet high from the
base of the cellar, so that it is fully covered up
by the building. The ashes fall, without being
touched, by an almost automatically working
apparatus, into the urn. The dissolution of the
body does not take place in the dark, unseen
and uncontrolled, but the whois action is clear
and open. Bourry and Venini place the cre
matorium, which has the shape of a sarcopha
gus, and which can be approached from all
sides, in the midst of the hall in which the ser
vice is to take place. There is a little window on
the back of the sarcophagus through which one
may see the process of cremation, which is com
pleted within one to one and one half hours,
without smell or smoke. The process is sol
emn and beautiful, and avoids every unasthetic
manipulation.
Beaver .Colonies.—Two beaver col
onies have just been discovered at Amlid, near
Christiansand, Norway. On the bank of the
river the beavers have made lodges ef branches
of trees, which are held together with clayey
mud, the whole resting on logs of wood. The
entrance, a hole, faces the river, but is below
the surface of the water. Round the entrance
there are numbers of aspen and birch trees,
the bark of which has served as food for the
animals. The beaver gnaws the tree about
two feet from the root, and if it finds the bark
to its taste, cuts the tree up in pieces from two
to three feet in length, which the animal then
drags or carries down to its house—proceed
ings which are fully demonstrated by the many
“log runs” in the wood along the river bank.
Observers have also noticed another remarkable
habit of this interesting animal, viz., that on
arriving by the water side with such a log of
wood it will poise the piece on the back of its
neck and swim with it right into the lodge,
where the bark is gnawed off and stored away
for winter use. This accomplished, it will
shoot the log into the river. The largest trees
the animals have dealt with in this manner are
eleven inches in diameter. The colonies are
situated far from human dwellings, where peo
ple only come in winter, during the timber
felling season.
An Unanswered Prayer.—A peculiar
custom, says the Overland Monthly t yrhich ob*
tains among the Moravians may not be gene
rally known. At their headquarters in Ger
many a list is kept of ladies who are ready to
become missionaries’ wives at a moment’s
notice ; one of the elect writes home for
a wife, and out the first on the list is sent, with
out regard to age or appearance, as the mem-
JJIS $ to signify
their wishes in this respect. A JSrT QUS instance
and effect of this custom came before a friend
of mine who was on his way out to Calicut,
on the Malabar coast of India. On board the
same steamer was a lady who had been dis
patched in this way to become the wife of a mis
sionary there, who, it was said, had lost six al
ready—but possibly this was a mistake. When
they arrived in port ho came on board in a state
of great excitement to see h's new wife, and
hurriedly dived down into the cabin, but pres
ently afterward emerged from it with a very
long face, and rushed to the taffrail, where he
was heard to give vent to this rather irreverent
remonstrance: “ O Lord ! O Lord ! for these
many months past I have been praying thee not
Jq send me red hair, and here it is again I”
Four Little Kings.—Says a cable let
ter: The King of Greece is very tall and slim,
with a dull, heavy face, sleepy blue eyes, thick,
straight nose and a drooping, brown mustache.
The King of Denmark is tall,with a broad, com-
Eact figure. He has the face of a sea captain;
is complexion is very red, his face has not
much expression and his features are irreg”’ r
He wears a mustache and side-w ,- r araj which
are of an iron-gray c" <or> shaven chin is
square and lines. The King of
Belgiuig jg Lu, straight, with a full chest and
broad shoulders. His hair is a dark brown
mack, parted exactly in the middle. His eyes
are dark, set deeply under very straight eye
brows. His nose is straight, lull, sweeping
brown mustache, and very full brown beard.
The King of Saxony is a very ordinary-looking
man. He has th- appearance of a retired mer
chant with a small income, who lives a peaceful,
narrow life. He is of medium bight, with slop
ing, round shoulders. His hair is gray; his
complexion sallow; his eyes cold gray-blue; his
nose large and straight; a snowy-white mus
tache and side-whiskers conceal in a measure
the weak character of the lower part of his lace.
An Agreeable Climate.—About two
weeks since, says the San Diego (Cal.) Union, a
gentleman arrived with his fam ly, and intend
ing to make his home here, rented a domicile
and began housekeeping. Among the articles
exhumed from the packing boxes was a ther
mometer, which the good housewife hung be
neath the sheltering roof of a porch on the
west side of the building. Three times each
day she, as was her custom, carefully noted the
mercury. Much to her surprise the quicksilver
seemed to remain stationary. Finally, after
four days’ time, she called her husband’s atten
tion to the matter. “ There must be something
wrong with that thermometer, my dear. It has
been seventy degrees ever since I hung it, up
four days ago. I think it must have been in
jured in the box with the other things.” The
question was referred to a neighbor, who had
come to San Diego in the early days of the boom
and had a little more extended' acquaintance
with the local weather. “Oh, the thermometer
is all right,” he replied. “This is an equable
climate, you know. It will not vary verv much
from that figure if you leave it there till next
Christmas.”
A Welsh Trick.—The following in
cident was reported recently with respeet to the
tithe war in North Wales: A formidable band
of bailiffs visited recently one of the largest
farms in the disturbed district. On nresenting
themselves at the door of the house the bailiffs
inquired of the servant if her master was at
home. “No, he is not,” answered the servant.
“Is your mistress in?” “Yes, she is; do you
want to see her Upon this the mistress of
the house, a smart, sprightly woman, made her
appearance. “Is the master in?’ again in
quired the bailiffs. “Oh, yes, sure,” was the
ready reply; “ would you like me to send him
to you?” “If you please, missus,” answered
the bailiffs. “Well, you go into the yard, and
he will bo with you directly.” The farmer’s
wife then closed the front door, passed tnrough
the back to the farm baildings and unloosed
the bull, which came roaring into the yard
where the bailiffs were awaiting the master.
“There, that is the master here.” called out the
dame as the representatives o( the ecclesiasti
cal commissioners beat a hasty retreat, mount
ing th? gate and fence with the greatest
alacrity.
The Carnage in the Franco-German
Wab.—The Speclateur HUitaire, quoting from a
report made by the international Committee of
the Red Cross Society, states that out of 33,101
officers and 1.118,2.54'rank-and-file of the Ger
man army who entered France in 1870 ’7l, as
many as 98,231 were killed and wounded. Of
these, 050 were disabled by bayonet-thrusts,
1,146 by the lance and sabre, and Jo,-137 by fire
arms. ’Of this latter category, 1 1 per cent, fell
by gunshot-wounds, and only per cent, in con
sequence of artillery fire. The carnage was
least at the following battles: Sedan, where
3.08 per cent. O'! combatant strength fell; Le
Mane, 2.4 per cent.; Amiens, 2.7 per cent. The
most sanguinary engagement of the war was at
Mars la Tour, whore 16.8 per cent, succumbed.
Comparing these losses with those incurred in
times when troops came to closer quarters, we
find that the Prussians had 40 per cent, hors de
combat at Kolin (1758), and the Austrians lost
30 per cent, at Aspern (1809). At Leipzig the
corps of De York was, in the course of three,
hours, weakened by one quarter ot its strength;
that of Kleist by 30 per cent, in only two.
Why Chinese Junks Have Eyes.—
Chinese junks and boats have eyes carved or
painted on the bows, which are usually sup
posed to be a mere fanciful form of ornamenta
tion. But they have a real meaning, as Mr.
Fortune found. In going up one of the rivers
from Ningpo he was startled one d y by seeing
a boatman seize his broad hat and clap it over
one of the eyes of the boat, while other boats
on the stream were similarly blinded, Looking
about for an explanation he saw a dead bedy
floating past, and he was told by the boatman
that it the boat had been allowed to “ see ” it
some disaster would surely have happened,
either to passengers or crew, before the voyage
ended.
Insombustible Scenery. — Experi
ments have been made at the Theatre Royal de
la Monnaie, Brussels, which have d.naoustated
the ineombustibility of certain scenery eoated
two years ago with a composition consisting of
powdered alum and asbestos. This is the in
vention of M. V. Wybauw, the engineer of the
town, and the process is likely to be generally
adopted in Brussels, especially as the flexibility
of the canvas and the brightness ot tbo colors
are not affected by its application.
Making a Sea.—During many years
spent in Tunis, Col. Boudaire surveyed foug
great depressions, or “shotts,” extending bar
low sea-level, in such position that they may b®-
filled with water, by means of a canal. Thesa
depressions—named Tedjed, Djerid, Rhars®.
and Meirir—could thus bo changed into a laka
more than seventy-five feet deep, and having ail
area oi 3,164 square miles. Tho creation of thia
lake and the consequent improvement of much!
surrounding country formed the favorite project
ot Col. Boudaire, and now seems likely to be ac
complished in spite of its author’s death. Ths
artesian wells tried in the district, and froia
which a revenue in aid of the canal was ex
pected, are proving successful. The first well,
sunk in 1885 to a depth of 295 feet, commence®
yielding water at tbo rate of 1,760 gallons pen
minute, and has now increased its flow to 19,8(13
gallons per minute. According to Sir F. do
Lesseps, the banks of the river Melab, which
fifteen months ago were deserts, are now popu
lated; and very shortly the canal will be com
menced.
How the Sultan Lives.—The Sultan,’
Abdul Hamid, is thirty eight years old, abouS
the medium bight, with dark hair and eyes,
swarthy complexion, prominent nose and slen
der figure. The lower part of his face is cov
ered by a full, black beard. He is an inveterate
smoker, and shows his European taste by smok
ing cigarettes instead of Turkish pipes. Hi®
palace surpasses, in beauty and magnificence
the rich descriptions in the “ Arabian Nights.’*
The “hall of jewels” contains a dazzling col
lection of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, em
eralds, and other precious stones, heaped in
large bains. The immense army of cooks, at
tendants and others required to keep up the Sul
tan’s large household is a [constant drain upon
the people. Abdul Hamid’s personal expense®
are £0,000,000 francs ($10,000,600) a year. Hia
favorite attendant, Kishlar Aga, the black
eunneh, receives 240.000 francs as his salary,
with many rich perquisites. He bears tho high
soundig title of Guardian of the Gate of De
lights.
Strategy of the Vienna Milliners’
—Vienna has long been notoriously one of tha
dearest cities in Europe to live in ; and the mil
liners ot the Donaustadt have made up theifi
minds that they, at least, will do nothing likely
to make it cheaper. The cheap Manila hats that
are to be bought in London shops for a few
pence are very popular just now among tha
Viennese ladies—largely, no doubt, because
they require but little trimming, and are indee®
most “killing” when most modestly adorned.
Naturally, the milliners are annoyed at thia
singular preference for the cheap and becom
ing ; and they hao had a meeting to consider
what ought to be done. It was decided to trv
to bring the “penny hats” into contempt; an®
a day or two later a large number ot scaven
gers and crossing sweepers made their appear
ance wearing the detested Manilas. Vienna baa
had a good laugh at the eleverness of the mil
liners, but whether their strategy will have th®
desired effect remains to be seen.
It is Hot in China, Too.—“We find
living in China far more pleasant than we ha®
anticipated,” writes a missionary physician ta
the Des Moines Register. “Foreign supplies oj
all kinds ean be had at a little advance oveE
what they cost at home. In addition to thesm
there are many Chinese products which we use;
V> o have fresh fish constantly at from three ta
eight cents a pound. The variety of fruits iat
almost endless. In this latitude the climate :a
very nice. The winters are about six weeks
long, with the thermometer never below zero.
The very hot weather is in the latter part oi
July and during the month of August. Tha
thermometer never reaches much above ninety
degrees, but the nights are almost as hot as th®
days. This makes it quite oppressive and de
bilitating. From the first of September to tha
first of January, and from the middle of Febru
ary to tho middle of July, the weather is excel
lent, Quy healths I’ftve been as good, if qqJ
better, than in America'.' -» „, •
f V
How to Sleep Hot Nights.—lf you
are troubled with insomnia these sultry nights,
just turn the faucet of cold water in your bath
room tor a minute or two upon your feet, and!
then thoroughly dry them. Haul taut voui
mosquito-bar, let your head lie low, and, lika
?P untr y blacksmith in his pew at
churon, moSv your eyes and think of nothing,.
The cold water drives beads
and produces a soporific effect. OnC big-
Portuguese onions, sliced and nicely season???
and eaten with thin bread in the form of sand
wiches, would be good. An ordinary Unite®
States onion will do if the big fellows are out of
the market. Onions are full of opium. Lof
business and all mental labor go out of youg
head. Keep the thoughts of maturing notes,
interest upon mortgages, the good-looking ohan
who was attentive to your best girl, and all suefl
enemies to repose on the outside oi your mos
quito-netting. \
He was One of the Nephew? _ jv
was trying to raise money to - j
church. It was greatly need' -
gregation was made up of '
circumstances, so he
wealthy brethren making appeal *<F
nrised ’’ he ra largs 01ties - 1 am - Bur "
of the'-' - said, “at the lukewarmness'
. nch men and women 1 have talked with
... the subject. Here is an opportunity to ad-
ViluDe the interests of our denomination, an®
they are so absorbed in worldly affairs that they
hardly give it thought.” “When you go t®
B-—,” replied his friend, “you had better call
on Mr. Blank. He is rich and childless and han
a reputation for great liberality.” “ Oh, I don’t
think he will give anything; I won’t mention
the matter to him. He has been giving awaj
money all his life, and I think he ought to save
what he has left for his nephews and nieces,”
The speaker was one of the nephews.
How Fatigue Operates.—After a
study of some years, Professer Moseo, of Turin,
finds that when fatigue is carried beyond th®'
moderate stage, at which it is decidedly bene
ficial, it subjects the blood to a decomposing
process, through the infillration into it'of sub
stances which act as poisons, and which, when,
injected into the circulation of healthy animals,
induces uneasiness and all the signs of excesi
sive exhaustion. When within the resisting
power of the subject, fatigue has its ploasurea
and even joys, these being the expression of th®-
organic consciousness that bodily loss of tissua
is being balanced by reconstruction. Mosso’d
experiments were performed on Italian sol<f
diers, and they proved, among the other re
sults, that the stature and power of the modern
warrior are fully equal to those of the ancient
Roman.
A Healthy Patriarch.—Janies Pres
ton, and active miner, at Shenondoah, Ps„ fq
ninety-two years old. His present wife is his
third. He is the lather ol thirty-six children—
eighteen by his second wife, eleven by his first,
and seven by his last. Thirty-three of them ara
boys, each wife giving birth to one daughtea
only. Preston came to this country when h®
was twenty years old, and went to work as a
miner, in which occupation ho has been engage®
ever since. He enjoys good health and hie
senses are unimpaired.
Mistook an Earthquake for Burg4<
labs.—A woman in Chico, Cal., awakened by
tho jarring of an earthquake recently thought
the noise was made by a burglar, and, seizing
her revolver, she rushed to an open window,
from which she fired a volley in the directions
of the supposed robber. The shaking ceased,
and she again retired, and was considerably
surprised to hear a lew hours later that sb®
had been shooting at an earthquake.
Is This True ? - A writer in a medical
journal says that he has had great success in
the cure of over three hundred cases of acute
and cbrpnic catarrh, or cold in the head, by th®
use of ice-cold water. The legs, from the knee®
downward, are washed with it in the morning
and at night, and rubbed vigorously with s
coarse towel. It is necessary to do this for two
days only: and many patients are said to hav®
been cured in one day.
Omaha Reporter—“ Had a big drought
down in Texas, I hear.” Texas Man—*' Worst kind*
Why, at one time it got so bad that our local papeij
actually printed a regular church prayer for rain, inr
th? editorial page.” '‘Did it rain?” "Well, wc
hid a sort of a shower a week or so ago.” " Yes;
nothing line advertising.”
Want of Sleep
Is sending thousands annually to tho
insane asylum ; and the doctors say this
trouble is alarmingly on the increase.
The usual remedies, while they may
give temporary relief, are likely to do
more harm than good. What is needed
is an Alterative and Blood-purifier.
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla is incomparably
the best. It corrects those disturbances
in the circulation which cause sleepless
ness, gives increased vitality, and r&
stores the nervous system to a healthful
condition.
Eev. T. G. A. OoW, agent of the Mass.
Home Missionary Society, writes that
his stomach was out of sleep
very often disturbed, and some im
purity of the blood manifest; but that
a perfect cure was obtained by the nsa
of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, d
Frederick W. Pratt, 424 Washington
street, Boston, writes: “My daughter
was prostrated with nervous debility.
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla restored her t®
health.” 1
William F. Bowker, Erie, Pa., was
cured of nervousness and sleeplessness
by taking Ayer’s Sarsaparilla for about
two months, during which time big
weight increased over twenty pounds. ,
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla,
PREPARED BY <
Dr. J. C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mas®.
Bold by all Druggists. Prke $1; eU bottler •