New York dispatch. [volume], September 04, 1887, Page 7, Image 7

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

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HOW EASY IT IS.
How e&sy It if to spoil a day I . ... . ,
The thoughtless words ol chensuea frlenaß a
JThe selfish act of a child at play,
The strength ol will that will not bend,
The slight of a comrade, the scorn of a foe,
The smile that is full of bitter things—
They all cau tarnish its golden glow
And take the grace from its airy wings.
How easy it is to spoil a day
By the force of a thought we did not check I
Xiittle by little we mold the clay,
And little flaws may the vessel wreck.
The careless waste of a white-winged hour,
That held the blessing we long had sought.
The sudden loss of wealth or power—
And io I the day is with ill inwrought.
How easy it is to spoil a life—
And many are spoiled ere well begun—
In some life darkened by sin and strife,
Or downward course of a cherished one,
By toil that robs the form of its grace
And undermines till health gives way;
By the peevish temper, the frowning face,
The hopes that go and tho cares that stay.
A day is too long to ba spent in Vain;
Some good should come as the hours go by—
Borne tangled maze may be made more plain,
Some lowered glance may be raised on high,
And life is too short to spoil like this,
If only a prelude it may be sweet;
Let us bind together its thread of bliss
And nourish the flowers around our feet.
“TOLES PINS.”
BY ETTIE ROGERS.
No one would have dreamed of calling Helen
Ives stylish, fascinating or pretty.
Her lorm was perfection, but her garments
Were not designed tor the studied effect of dis
playing and enhancing the faultiessness of its
Contour.
Her face was as pure as the face of a sculp
tured Psyche; but, like that of the nymph in
inarble, it lacked sparkle and coloring.
Her accomplishments were many and con
scientiously attained; but she was much too shy
and proud to exhibit the same, except to them
whom her affection or respect had discrimi
nated.
She was a queen of the home, an angel of the
hearth, but to the distinction of a society belle
She had never aspired.
Sensitive, lofty ot mind and dignified of soul,
she shrank Irom the worldly strategy demanded
of them who enter the lists in the grand tourna
ment lor place and power.
Her tastes were domestic, her paradise was
her home, and her loves and responsibilities
centred there were more to her than all the
World beside.
Handsome Charley Ives prized her as a jewel
Of a wife; but there were times when he deemed
her disinclination or social gayeties as an im
per.ection rather than otherwise.
“ The small talk ol the drawing-room isn’t in
Jny hne at all," she would answer his remon
strances; “ and I shall always like my own fire
side better than any other place in the world,
■Charley.”
"1 don’t see how we can send excuses for
this musical soiree,” he remarked. “ I prom
ised we should be there; and Miss Lynne will
Count on my escorting her home, I suppose.'’
“You would not do that again, Charley, when
you know I do not like it—when you assured
me it should not occur again? Claudia Lynne
is not mj friend, Helen returned with a pained
look.
“I don't remember assuring you of anything
Of the kind. You have foolish notions concern
ing Claudia Lynne. To be disturbed by any
Civilities toward her is unreasonable non
sense,” said Charley, looking displeased.
“Even if my notions are foolish, you would
fnJulge them if you truly loved me,” said the
young wife, speaking in a low voice, suddenly
Altered and strange,
Charley stared. It was the first time since
their wedding day, less than ten years before,
that he had over seen a sign of passion on Hel
en’s placid face, or heard a hint of temper in
ter serene voice.
“Of course I love you. You would be out ol
your head to doubt it. But, all the same, I
don't purpose to be ruled by your jealous
Whims," Charley blustered.
At the charge of jealousy Helen’s lily-white
Cheeks flamed scarlet, her great black-lashed
gray eyes dilated and darkened with feeling.
That jealousy implied a want of faith—that
Without perfect laith and trust sweet love had
perished or had never existed at all—had al
ways been Helen s creed.
It was with something of a shock now that she
realized'sbe had indeed become jealous.
Despite all her olden opinions to the con
trary she knew now that jealousy was but love
Termed with doubts and confused with fears.
She feared that her handsome and gay young
husband had wearied of her homely, domestic
ways; that the brilliant and fascinating Claudia
Lynne was luring his affections from her.
And however agonizing her want of trust
might be, that seemed the only explanation for
his persisting in what he must know disturbed
her peace.
During the season just gone by Claudia
Lynne had been the recipient of his many no
ticeable courtesies.
These frequent little attentions had ultimately
Arous .d invidious comments—comments which
Helen, with wifely dignity, had resented by the
prompt rebuke ot any venturesome gossip, or
by scornful silence, or by ignoring altogether,
as the case might be.
But notwithstanding her seeming indifference
to the unpleasant gossip, the sting bad been
implanted; love was wounded and the perfect
trust shaken.
Miss Lynne she regarded with feelings diffi
cult to define.
“ I don’t wish to be unjust to her, but 1
Should, in her place, have acted differently,”
She would think, as the gay beauty continued
to smile handsome Charley from her side
Wherever the three would chance to meet.
Not until now had she confessed herself
really jealous. She had remonstrated with
Charly, but in so doing, she believed she was
actuated by the desire solely of preventing him
from rendering himself liable to disagreeable
remarks.
“ I do not ask you to be ruled by my whims,
Charley,” she responded at length, to his last
impatient obversation, “ but I do think you
ought to respect my wishes in this matter.
When you set Claudia Lynne's wishes before
mine, I can draw but one conclusion.”
■ “ I can’t help what conclusions you draw,"
Was his irritated reply. “If people choose to
flisunderstaud an ordinary courtesy, let them.
f Miss Lynne expects me to escort her home
after the soiree, 1 shall certainly do so.”
And then, handsome Charley, waxing stub
born at what he deemed Helen’s unwifely
doubts and unreasonable whims, strolled out of
the pretty room, singing carelessly, as he went:
a* But the sugar and cream
They passed, like a dr- am.
alas 1 they could never agree.
.She said : 'Letuspart;
you've broken my heart.'
*1 think it is best,' said he.
Needles and pins, needles and pins—
When a man’s married, his trouble begins."
The unfamiliar color flamed more vividly
upon her cheeks ; the strange light sparkled
more brightly in her eves. All her sweet calm
of manner had vanished.
Jealousy — that bitter, senseless passion—
Which Helen had always despised and de
nounced, was warring triumphantly in her own
proud bosom.
“I fear it is too true, that we shall never
figroe,” she sighed. “If, instead of being a
sober home-body, I were some dazzling society
butterfly, he would have cared for me better
and longer. As it is, he is tired of me. He
turns to Claudia Lynne for the charm oi gayety,
Which I lack.”
The musical soiree was a delightful little
afiair; and just at the close ol the entertain
ment, Charley approached his young wile in his
wonted careless and debonair fashion.
He regarded her attentively for a moment,
and with something like wonder in his look.
“What has happened to you, my dear? I
never saw you looking so well in your life I
positively at this minute yon are the most
beautiful woman in the room,” he said in a
somewhat quizzing undertone.
Helen’s lips quivered.
She fancied the compliment was meant as a
sort ot compensation for the pain and uneasiness
he knew he was about to inflict.
But she misjudged him. Something in her
appearance that evening had struck him as
being strangely attractive.
She was dressed in her usual plainly elegant
style—a gown of soft gray silk without lace,
jewels, or trimmings anywhere! Her only
ornaments were her wedding ring, a great
bunch of exquisite pink flowers on her bosom,
and her gleaming crown ol pale gold hair.
It was the storm raging in her soul which had
sent the lovely color to her statuesque face, the
new splendor ot light to her gray eyes, and
lent to her every glance and movement a sing
ular animation which was at once dignified and
bewildering.
'• Did you come all the way from the music
room to flatter me, Charley?” she returned
with a smile which puzzled rather than pleased
him.
“ Well, no, not exactly,” he answered rather
guiltily. “ They have arranged for me to drive
Sliss Lynne home; and I wanted to tell you, of
course. Be ready with your wraps, Helen,
When I come back for you.”
And without waiting tor Helen’s assent or ob
jection, he turned and hurried back to the music
room, and to Claudia Lynne.
Miss Lynne was a brilliant brunette, a crea
ture all sparkle and iascination; her dresses
were marvels ot fashion’s fresh masterpieces
in the small talk of the drawing-room she ex
celled. She was in every respect the exact
Opposite of fair Helen Ivas.
“ it I were more like her I should be dearer
and nearer to Charley’s heart,” Halen thought
as she gazed wistfully after the two, who pres
ently departed together. “ But as I can not be
like her, even if I should owe to try, he must
Bhoose between us.” •’
A half hour later Charley had returned and
presented himself again in the drawing-room
“lour wife has gone; she left directly after
YOU drove Claudia away.” he was informed
**She seemed very sgitated, and we did not
quite catch her explanation,” somebody added
hom'e PrlSed and ansr y> the joung man hastened
But Helen was not there, nor had she been
there.
: “There Is but one thing to suppose,” he non-
Oerod, as the hours passed and bis young wife
igld not come. “In her unreasonable jealousy
■me has left mo—perhaps for good and all. j
couldn’t have believed any woman so sensible
would do anything so silly. But if she thinks I
will ever go after her aud apologize for what I
haven’t done, then she is mistaken—that’s all.”
But his sentiments changed as the hours
elapsed, as the morning broke, as night rolled
round again, and still Helen came not.
His anger was all gone. If he still felt sur
prise, it was not that Helen had shown resent
ment at the last, it was instead that she had so
long and patiently forborne any remonstrance
against his many shortcomings.
It was Helen’s sweet home-tastes which had
captivated his heart. He had prized her all the
dearer for her devotion to her own fireside, and
he felt he should have conformed his gayer in
inclinations and his fondness for social excite
ments to her nobler views of life.
If he could begin life again from the altar
steps with Helen, having the experience of these
miserable night’s and day’s reflections, he felt
he would make himself more worthy of her.
“For mine is the blame,” he admitted to him
self. “ I was wrong to be irritated by her gen
tle remonstrances, to set aside her just and nat
ural wishes, simply to assert my own independ
ence, was unpardonable; to disregard her de
sires and wound her sensitive love, just to
convenience a mischief-making coquette, was
inhuman.”
He looked about the pretty room, where the
dainty charm of the sweet vanished presence
seemed to hallow every object.
There was a soft silken gray scarf, trimly
folded, placed carefully on one secure corner of
her work-table. On a stand before one win
dow was a potted rose, just showing a few
buds of exquisite pink bloom; it was the flower
Helen most loved; it was the plant her' gentle
hands had tended. There in her work-basket
lay some useful trifle in amber and emerald
velvet, which she was embroidering for his toi
let bureau; and there on the open piano stood
her favorite folio of music—the page turned to
a song they had often sung laughingly together:
“ * We never shall meet any more,’ she wept—
* Alone we must live and die !’
Then be opened his arms, and In she crept;
And that’s how they said good-by.
Let the bells ring ! let the bells ring I—
Man without woman is but a poor thing.
Needles and pins 1 needles and pins I
When a man's married his trouble begins.’’
“ I was an unfeeling churl to quote from that
song when her heart pleaded for some tender
assurance of m'y love and truth; 1 do not won
der her sensitive soul was wounded. If ever
she is restored to me, I will register before
Heaven a solemn vow never to do aught
which may vex or pain her again. And she
shall be restored to me; I will search the earth
over until 1 find her; I will own up my faults
like a man, and like a man w n her back again,”
he mentally declared as with sudden energy he
arose from his chair.
And at that moment, the door opened gently
and Helen walked quietly into the room.
“ Helen 1 my darling," Charley gasped in as
tonishment at her calmly questioning manner.
“ Charley !—what has happened?” said He
len, startled at the white agony of his hand
some face, at the perplexing amazement of his
inquiring eyes.
“ What has happened ?” he repeated in an in
describable voice.
“ Why, yes; I feared you might be ill or
something. I knew you were too sensible to
be angry because I went without you,” she an
swered.
“ Went where ?” Charley managed to say.
“ Why, where did yon think I went ?” Helen
queried innocently. “ There was no time for a
note, and I supposed they would tell you mam
ma sent for me. She had one of her dreadful
attacks, and we all feared it would be her last.
I was uneasy because you did not come over,
and I started home the instant she was pro
nounced out of immediate danger.”
“ Thank heaven I it isn’t what I thought,”
cried Charley, catching her in his arms and
kissing her as he had not kissed her since she
was the bride of his happy honeymoon.
“But whatever in the world did you think,
Charley? I don’t understand,” persisted his
little wife, who, in that moment, had forgotten
the very existence of Claudia Lynne.
“Needles and Bins,” Charley whispered with
a laugh which held a strange tremor.
But his reflections had been too serious to
permit his equivocating in that blessed moment
of relief.
And as Helen listened to his unreserved and
contrite explanation, all her momentary doubts
and jealousies vanished like mists before the
dawn.
Though their tastes might, perchance, differ,
still bis love would remain, always and ever,
her own.
“ We will each defer to the tastes of the other,
dear, and then we shall have tio more misun
derstandings,” Helen said very soberly alter
ward.
BEYOND BELIEF.
Surprising Recovery of a Man Shot
Clear Through the Brain.
(Special Correspondence of the Globe-Democrat.)
Springfield, 111., Aug. 29th.
On the evening of July 29th, at the end of an
oppressively hot day, W. S. Weemee, a well-to
do widower of fifty-seven years, was sitting in
his house in the north-east part of the city,
where he has lived alone for several years. He
had labored bard all day, and, being fatigued,
he fell into a doze, with hie head resting upon
his arms on the sill of an open window. How
long he lay in that position he does not know ;
but dusk had settled down into darkness, when
he was suddenly awakened by the report of a
gun or pistol near him. This he heard dis
tinctly, but he immediately fell to the floor, in
an unconscious condition, and from that time
he has no knowledge of what occurred until he
oime to himself, about noon the next day, in
St. John’s Hospital, whither he had been con
veyed about midnight, in the city patrol wagon.
A couple of policemen passing his house,
about eleven o’clock, heard moans within, and,
upon examination, found the old man lying on
the floor with a pool of blood about his head.
The hospital surgeon was called, and found
that Weemes had been shot above the left tem
ple. The ball had made a fearful hole, and evi
dently passed diagonally across the head, tend
ing somewhat downward. Its track had been
so near the socket ot the right eye, as to force
that organ forward almost out of the head. It
was regarded as useless to attempt to do any
thing for him, and he merely received such
minor attentions as natural human sympathy
suggested.
When, however, he began to recover con
sciousness, the surgeon carefully dressed the
wound. He found the hole in the skull was so
large that he could insert the forefinger its
whole length directly into the brain, and from a
depth as great as this fragments ot the skull
were picked out. Still the surgeon had no hope
ot recovery. Other surgeons were called in
and they reached similar conclusions. They
thought the patient’s extraordinary vitality
might produce temporarily encouraging symp
toms, but they really expected death within a
week at least. The pulse sank into the iorties
and remained there for days. Still be gained
perceptibly in vivacity and courage, and scout
ed the idea that his condition was dangerous.
To the doctor on the sixth day he said:
“ Why, doctor, I am suffering very little pain.
Ot course I’ll get well; why shouldn’t I?”
About this time distinct signs of healing were
visible about the edges of the wound, the pa
tient’s appearance began to improve, and with
this the force and trequency of the pulse in
creased, A slow but steady subsidence of the
fever then set in and continued, till at the end
of the twelfth day the physician said:
“ I am forced to believe that Weemes will re
cover. When I first saw him alter he was shot
1 would not have given a nickel for hie chances.
He was shot clear through the brain, from side
to side, and apparently not living by anything
that you could call vital circulation, but merely
by the unsuspended action ot the muscular
forces. It shows that no injury to the bram is
so bad as to be utterly hopeless if there is life,
and that none is so trifling as not to justify se
rious attention.”
it is now nearly five weeks since Weemes was
shot, and he is up and around daily, sleeps reg
ularly and well, does not seem mentally in
jured, and, what is almost equally strange, has
the sight of both eyes unimpaired. He will
leave the hospital in a lew days.
The shooting remains a profound mystery.
It seems scarcely possible that it could have
occurred accidentally. Weemes has led a most
inoffensive li'e, and says ho cannot think there
is a human being alive who would have even
wished him ill, much less attempted to take
bis life. On all hands the case is a very curi
ous one.
NO GRATITUDE?
HOW RICH MEN TREAT THEIR
PHYSICIANS.
There is, uniortunately, too much truth in
the following remarks by the editor of Medical
Classics, an excellent monthly issued by the
Medical Classics Publishing Coinnany, from No.
38 Murray street:
As a rule, medical men are exceedingly lib
eral, and it is also as a rule that the rich pa
tients ths most frequently abuse this liberality
and display the least gratitude.
The conscientious and painstaking family
physician devotes an amount ot care, study and
anxiety of which neither the patient nor the
family can have an adequate conception. Not
only his skill, but his sympathies are keenly
enlisted. No mere money payment would
really recompense him for his pains and, while
the man is sick, his feelings toward his physi
cian are those of the liveliest and most grateful
description. But by-and-by the man gets well,
and then the bitter old adage is exemplified:
“The devil was ill, the devil a monk would be;
The devil got well, the devil a monk was he."
His gratitude cools at the exact point when
convalescence should cause it to culminate. He
forgets all the love and zeal shown him, and
the medical treatment becomes simply a com
mercial transaction. The bill is paid, perhaps
grudingly and lingeringly, and perhaps with
incredibly bad taste the patient objects to the
charge. All this embitters, and if, as the re
sult, the physician begins to think that he
might just as well think ot his own interests
and charge all that he can get-can he bo
blamed? The conscientious physician tells
his patients the truth; he makes as few visits as
possible; he has no percentages, and he tries to
save the money of his clients by hints of one
kind or another. But docs he get credit for it ?
We reply, no- emphatically, no. The instances
where honest service is appreciated at its true
value by patients are rare, very rare.
On the other hand, we have seen physicians
who sever missed an opportunity to work the
NEW YORK DISPATCH, SEPTEMBER 4, 1887.
tricks of tho trade for all they’re worth, who
made as many visits as they could “ cram” in,
who pronounced the case aa one of diphtheria
or some other dire disease, when in truth it
was some trifling temporary disturbance only—
we have seen such men grow rapidly in reputa
tion and prosperity.
“ I have been an idiot,” said an honest and
painstaking colleague recently. “ A'ter twenty
years of practice, doing my duty by day and by
night, in heat and cold, in sunshine and in
storm, devoting hours to my patients where the
‘business’ doctor devotes minutes, I have but
little to show for it, while the other fellow
drives his span, takes his European trip, and
has his snug balance in the bank.”
THE DEVIL S SCRAUGH.
BY AN ARTILLERY OFFICER.
(Irom Chambers’s Journal.)
In ths year 187- I was quartered at Athlone,
in the county Westmeath, Ireland. It is not a
bad military station —ior an Irish one—especial
ly for a man who cares for outdoor sports.
There are good fishing and boating on Lough
Hee, and, by the kindness of the landowners of
the neighborhood, many a day's good shooting
of a miscellaneous kind may be had over the
interminable bogs that lie all around. I enjoyed
mveelf greatly, having a taste for solitary shoot
ing excursions, and liking that uncertainty as
to what bird or quadruped would next rise from
the heather, which is chiefly to be found in Irish
sport.
Generally I started on such exhibitions alone,
save for the company of a smart young gossoon
of tho town, Peter Farrell by name, who, having
been born with the national love ot shooting
and fishing, was only too glad to accompany
me for a nominal consideration, and make him
self useful in pointing out the “mearnes”
which divided the properties of different own
ers, sometimes consisting in a narrow trench
running for miles through a bog, and sometimes
ot an imaginary line, which I had to accept in
faith, not being able to see a trace of it for my
self. Ho also carried my game-bag, and would
think nothing ot a twelve-mile tramp over
spongy bog land with a couple of hares over his
shoulder and a full bag at hie side.
One November afternoon we had gone farther
abroad than usual, and reached a bog on which
I had never been before. Peter declared he
knew it well, but I rather doubted the state
ment. We had had a very fair day s sport, and
it was getting time to think of returning home,
as the short Winter daylight was drawing to a
close. I had an idea that a short cut might be
made to reach the high road by holding a due
northwest course; but Peter inclined to a south
westerly one. The argument ran high, when at
length we discerned a cottage with a thatched
roof at the bottom of a hollow where the high
bog land sloped downward to the hanks of a
stream.
I sent Peter down to the cottage to inquire the
way, and meanwhile directed my steps toward
a little pool of water, some hundred yards in
diameter, which I perceived at a few furlongs
off, and on which I hoped to surprise a stray
teal or wild duok. Sure enough, there was a
flock of the former birds feeding in fancied se
curity near the edge. I selected a stunted
thorn-bush growing on the margin as a good
shelter behind which to approach them unpor
ceived, and began stealthily advancing under
its cover. The pond was surrounded by a large
patch of light-green moss, and as soon as I
stepped upon it, 1 became aware that it was
what is called, in Irish parlance, a “ shaking
scraugh;” that is to say, the water was here
covered only by a floating mass of weeds and
peat-moss, closely interlaced, and forming a
curious combination, that was neither bog nor
yet terra firms. As you walk upon such a
place, it sinks beneath you, and you see a wave
running along before you just as when you
shake a carpet. However, there is generally
little danger ot breaking through, so closely
matted together are tho fibres, and I advanced
with caution, bent on having my shot. Sud
denly, without the least warning, my foot went
through, and in an instant I was up to my neck
in the black, peaty water beneath, just keeping
my head above the surface by the"bearing my
outspread arms on the moss. It was a terrible
situation ! If once I had sank, no power on earth
could save me—it would be like drowning un
der ice, only that, ice being transparent, there
would be some hope of being out out in that
case ; and hero, under the mossy blanket, abso
lutely none. I shouted at the top of my voice
lor help, but with the painful conviction that
if it did not come within three minutes, it
would be too late, as I felt myself slowly sink
ing.
Suddenly I felt something thrust through the
collar of my coat from behind, and heard a
mans voice eying coolly:
“ 1 have a good hold on ye with the graip now,
your honor ; if you make a good offer at it, you
can scramble out.”
Most comforting were the words, in my des
perate case. I made a violent struggle, vigor
ously assisted by my unknown friend with his
‘graip’ (a sort of throe-pronged drag, which
he had inserted under my collar). The cloth
held, and I scrambled on to my knees, and in
that ignominious position, with my clothes
streaming with the black water, reached the
comparatively firm ground of the bog.
“ Musha, then, your honor is badly off for
sport, when you must look for it in the Devil’s
Scraugh I” said my preserver, as I turned to
look him in the face.
He was a strong, burly, Irish peasant, olad in
the costume that is now rapidly becoming ex
tinct—a chimney-pot hat, a frieze coat, knee
breeches, and gray worsted stockinge. His fea
tures were striking, I thought-bushy black
eyebrows meeting each other over the nose;
gray, keen eyes ; a mouth that seemed like a
straight line drawn across the face, so tightly
were the lips compressed; and a square chin,
w th a week’s growth of bristly black beard
upon it. Altogether, not the sort of man you
would care to have for an enemy.
“ I am really very grateful to you,” said I.
“ If you had not pulled me out when you did, I
could not possibly have kept my head above
water five minutes longer. It seems like a
special providence that you should have been
there with your graip.”
My preserver scowled, and his face became
less inviting than ever.
“I saw your gossoon going down the hill to
the cottage beyont,” he said. “I suppose it
was to ask the way. There’s no one lives there
but myself, so he won’t get much by his walk.
If you want to get back to Athlone, just cross
over the bog there where you see the tree grow
ing its lone, and you’ll strike the road. No !”—
as he saw me drawing my purse from my satur
ated pocket—“Turlough O’Brien wants money
from ’no man; God forbid 1 When you see a
shaking scraugh again, maybe you won’t be so
ready to venture on it.”
Whereat he gave a ghastly sort of chuckle and
walked off, with his graip over his shoulder,
just as I’eter came up. The action surprised
me, as tho Irish have their lull share of curi
osity, and rarely resist the opportunity of ask
ing questions when they get a chance. Peter’s
face of dismay when he saw my wot clothes, the
lake, and my new acquaintance, was a study. I
wanted to look lor my gun, which I had lost in
my immersion, but he drew me away in great
hsste.
“ See now, sir—never mind the gun. It’s gone
for ever and ever, and it’s well you’re not gone
with it. Murther’n Irish 1 did ever any one
see the like I And sorra a bit of me knows if
we’ll get home to night at all at all, after this.”
“I’ve just found out where the road is,” said
I. “It is exactly where I told you—over the
bog there.”
“The road, is it?” said Peter. “An, then,
if that were all, sorra much matter it would be.
But we must only make the best of it, now we’re
hero, and may the Holy Virgin have a care of us
and be betune us and evil 1”
And, devoutly crossing himself, he drew me
away.
Needless to say that, on the way home, I de
demanded an explanation of him ; and, after a
great deal of cross-examination, drew from him
as curious a story as 1 had ever heard, and
which I here give, divested of the many digres
sions from the point, and the rich vocabulary
of Irish phrases with which it was told me.
John O’Brien, the original owner of the cot
tage we had seen, had two sons, Patrick and
Turlough. No one knew whence he himself
had come, or on what terms he had purchased
the land on which he built his modest dwelling;
but he appears to have been shunned by the
people of the neighborhood, chiefly on account
of bis living in such close proximity to the
Devil’s Scraugh, a place of which many wild
legends had been told, and which was the
favorite spot chosen by the priests wherein to
confine, “between the froth and the water,”
evil spirits exorcised by them. Probably, with
the exception of John O’Brien and his sons,
there was not a man in the county who would
have ventured near Lough Galliagh, as the pool
was called, alter dusk ; and the temerity ol the
owners ot the farm was universally ascribed to
familiarity and friendship with the powers of
evil.
To add to the had reputation of the locality, a
young girl, betrayed and deserted by her lover,
had drowned herself in the Lough some years
before the time ot which I write ; and the lover
himself, having, with tardy repentance, joined
eagerly in the efforts made for the recovery of
tho body, was himself drowned also in the same
spot, and in the presence of many of his neigh
bors, who were unable to rescue him, and who
only succeeded in recovering the two corpses
several days afterward. There was a “ wise
woman ” living in a little cabin on the outskirts
of Athlone who, when she heard of the occur
rence, mumbled something in Irish, and then
informed her awe-struck listeners that she had
had a revelation, and had learned that the pool
was under a spell, and would infallibly cause
the death of the enemy of any one who had the
courage to drown himself Therein, repeating
the name of the man he would doom as the
black water silenced his lips forever.
O’Brien and his sons were more shunned than
ever after the event just related; but when the
old man died and it was found that be bad left
the whole of his small possessions to his eldest
son Patrick, and that Turlough was quite un
provided for, popular opinion veered round,
and set in strongly in favor of the younger bro
ther, all the dislike due to him being added to
the share of Patrick. From what Peter told me
of the latter man, I do not think he deserved
the opprobrium which fell upon him; he seems
to have been kind enough to Turlough, giving
him a share ot bis house and of the proceeds
of the land, though declining, perhaps wisely
enough, to make them over to him by legal doc
ument. Turlough said little, lived in apparent
friendship with his brother, and hided his time.
It came earlier than he expected
Patrick, like most of the Westmeath men at
that date, was a thorough Fenian at heart, and
managed to get greatly involved in the plots
which led to that most abortive attempt at a re
bellion, in which file government appears to
have known quite as much as the conspirators
themselves of the secret councils of the latter.
As a natural consequence Patrick was “wanted,”
and equally, as a matter of course, he was not
to be found by the police who invaded his dom
icile. No one was there but Turlough, who was
politeness itself, gave them a glass oi whisky all
round, aud showed them with some pride a
deed of gift from Patrick, which, in due legal
form, made over to his brother Turlough the
former's interest in the farm. Clearly nothing
was to be done, and the disappointed police had
nothing for it hut return to the barracks.
In what part of Ireland Patrick lay hidden
during the years that followed Peter could not
tell me; but it was on a Spring day in 1870 that
he came again, attended by certain friends of
his as witnesses, to claim back the deed of gift
from his brother.
The seven days’ wonder had now passed,
Ireland was quieter than usual, and there was
no more talk of prosecuting ex-Fenians. The
farm had only been made over to Turlough that
lie might manage it till better times came, and
that there might be no danger of confiscation.
W hat could be simpler than that the rightful
owner should now reclaim possession ? But he
had reckoned without his brother. Turlough
sat unmoved by the storm of passionate invec
tive that was poured upon him, and stolidly re
iterated his assertion that he had given Patriot
full value for the farm, and had no intention
whatever of giving it up.
Words ran high, and doubtless blows would
have followed, had not Turlough at last pro
duced an American revolver from his pocket
and threatened to shoot every man in the
house— his house, if they did not at onoe leave
it. Against such a practical argument there
was nothing to be urged, and the men left the
hut; carrying with them the frantic Patrick,
mad with rage and fired with a true Irish thirst
for revenge.
Their road home lay by Lough Galliagh. As
they neared it, Patrick broke away from his
friends, rushed across the quaking Devil’s
Scraugh, and plunged into the peaty water with
a scream of his brother’s name mingled with a
ban I The party he had leit stood still a mo
ment in horror, and then hurried cautiously to
ward tue margin ot the pool. But the desper
ate man never rose again. Some thought that
he must actually have swam under water till he
was beneath the scraugh, so as to render res
cue impossible and make sure oi the anath
ema 1
From that time forth no living man, could he
avoid it, would approach Lough Galliagh or
speak a word to Turlough G’Brien. The latter
was out oft from all human companionship,
and driven to subsist on the potatoes he grew
on his farm and the milk of a cow which he
kept there. Whether his terrible penance did
him good or not, Peter could not say, but I
hoped it had done so. A man whose heart was
wholly bad would have left me to perish in the
scraugh.
No one had dared to attempt the finding ot
the corpse of Patrick O’Brien; but, almost daily
for years past, Turlough had been seen work
ing with his graip here and there along the
margin ot the Lough and in the Devil’s Scraugh
itself, so the probability was that he was en
deavoring to find his brother’s body—whether
with a bop® of avoiding the ban pronounced on
the pool, or with the better object of giving
Christian burial to the remains ot his victim,
no one could say, though, of course, the peas
antry inclined to the former belief. No doubt
I had met with my accident in one of the holes
he had dug in the scraugh, which had had time
to cover itself with a treacherous layer of weed.
The popular opinion was that Turlough him
self would some day be drowned in such a
hole, and thus fulfill the weird ot ths “wise
woman.”
We reached Athlone that evening long after
dark, but in safety, to Peter’s great surprise
and self-congratulation. He had been thor
oughly frightened by finding himself in proxim
ity to the dreaded spot, and for some time after
ward boasted less than usual of his knowledge
of “every hole and corner in the bogs from
Moate to Athlone.”
CHAPTER 11.
I am an Irishman by birth and education, and
have heard many weird stories in my native
land, but seldom one which impressed me so
much as that which Peter had told me. It kept
my mind busy and my body wakeful that night
till far into the small hours. I did not know
which to pity the most—the desperate man
hurrying into the presence of his Maker with
anathemas on his lips and a purpose of ven
geance in his heart, or the iiviug one who
“dreed his weird,” solitary among his fellows,
unhelped and unpitied by them.
Ere’morning 1 had resolved that so far as I
was concerned the matter should not rest there,
but that 1 would at once pay Turlough O’Brien
a visit, expre s my grat tude to him better than
I had been able to do it in tho hurry of the mo
ment, and try to help him at least by sympathy
it in no other way. He had refused to accept
money, but he could scarcely decline a few arti
cles ot use to a man in his circumstances, if
brought to him as a present and not as a re
ward, and these might be my excuse for intrud
ing upon him. Truth to tell, I was rather doubt
ful as to the reception 1 might meet with at the
farm.
“ Man proposes and God disposes.” It is a
trite saying, but a practical one. When 1 rose
in the morning I saw the sky covered from
zenith to horizon by a leaden pall of cloud,
whence descended an unbroken torrent of rain,
turning the streets to rivers of mud and splash
ing on the pavement from every gutter as if the
deluge had come again. Bog-trotting was in
such weather out o! the question, and I re
signed myselt to the inevitable, though reluc
tantly, as I knew well that when steady rain be
gins in the County Westmeath in November
with a falling barometer no man can say when
it will stop. But 1 was scarcely prepared tor
the rainfall of that November. Ten whole days
did it continue without a symptom of cessation;
then came a break o sunshine late one after
noon, a line night, and again rain in the morn
ing. When, on the fourteenth day, the mercury
in the barometer that hung in the anteroom
showed signs of rising steadily, in place of
jumping up and down every few hours, and the
clouds thinned away and let a watery glimpse
ot sun come through, we were all thoroughly
tired ot inaction and indoor confinement, and
half the country was under water.
Next morning was a glorious one, with a
cloudless sky : and I started on my expedition
—aloue this time, as I did not think it fair to
ask Peter to accompany me, knowing his feel
ings on the subject of my destination. I found
locomotion very difficult, as the bogs were
aukle-deep in water in some places, and ouce I
thought seriously of turning back; but my good
iutentions were too strong ior me and I strug
gled on.
About noon I passed the “lone tree” and
came in sight of Lough Galliagh. It bad be
come a respectable sheet of water by this time.
The Devil’s Scraugh was quite covered, and
evidently my friend Turlougb’s engineering
operations must have been suspended for some
time past by the laws ot nature. The cottage
still stood where 1 last saw it, and a ttiin wreath
of smoke rose from the chimney, proving that
the owner was at home. The stream below it
had become a swollen river, moving sluggishly
onward close to the walls of the hut, having
evidently flooded the potato-garden and fields
adjoining. I was pleased to think that I had
brought a few luxuries with me -a pound or so
of tobacco and so on; for evidently the outcast
had need of something to keep bls spirits up,
in view of the desolation around him.
Having thus reflected, I looked again toward
the gloomy pool where I had so nearly lost my
life. Curiously enough it seemed larger than
when I had viewed it a few minutes before. As
I tried to account in my own mind for this phe
nomenon, I felt a trembling ot the ground be
neath my feet; and with a dull, sullen roar the
whole bog, from Lough Galliagh downward,
split away, opening a vast chasm filled with
black foaming water, and slid away bodily to
ward the stream below. A few yards it thus
moved unbroken and then split in every direc
tion into a maze of islands, all borne downward
by a resistless rush of water that had accumu
lated twenty leet beneath the bog upon the im
pervious marl subsoil, and now bore away its
load triumphantly in a roaring torrent directed
straight upon the cottage by the stream.
At the first dull roar I had seen—l seemed to
see everything at once—the door oi the but
open and a man standing on the threshold look
ing toward Lough Galliagh. Thon the flood
broke, and cottage and man vanished like a
dream in the stream beyond, followed by the
great m isses of peat, which choked up the bed
ot the channel and piled themselves on the fur
ther bank like chaos come again. I am not
ashamed to say that I turned and ran for my
lite. There was no saying whether my nart ol
the bog would not follow the other. However,
the release of the water had saved the remain
der of the peat; and I was able, by making a
long detour, to avoid that chasm where once
was Lough Galliagh, and to strike the bed ol
the stream about a mile further down, where
already a crowd of country people had collect
ed and were gazing in bewildered astonishment
at the devastation around them. One or two of
the most practical—or perhaps most apathetic
—among them were groping in the rapidly di
minishing waters ot the stream and fishing out
relics of the furniture of the cottage, which had
been struck by the Srst force of the released
waters and carried down the stream in frag
ments before the mass of peat had dammed the
channel.
“ Hurroo, Johneen!” shouted one stalwart
fellow, holding on to a long pole with a salmon
gaff at the end of it. “I have a hoult of some
thing weighty this time. Lend me a hand and
we’ll have it out.”
I knew instinctively what was coming, and
shrank from the sight. The women screamed
and the men crossed themselves as the body of
Turlough O’Brien was raised from the water
and drawn toward the bank. His stern face
with its black hair looked set and ghastly in
death, and it had a great gash across the fore
head, caused no doubt by some timber of the
hut striking it in the water. There seemed
some difficulty in getting the corpse out of the
water, and it soon appeared that the right hand
held a death-grip of something which looked
like a bit of smoke-browned rafter. The salmon
gaff was again used, and the men raised the
body and its prize together.
" God be betune us and all evill” shrieked an
old woman. “Sure, iPs his own brother he has
a hoult of! Throw him In again, boys, or bad
luck will follow yez I”
“ Nonsense,” said I hastily, seeing an evident
disposition on the part ol the men to comply
with the injunction, “Surely that thing can’t
be a body ?”
It tons one, however, shriveled and dried up
like a mummy, but nevertheless preserved by
the strange antiseptic power of the peat, so that
the features were perfectly recognizable. A man
in the crowd identified it at once as what re
mained of Patrick O’Brien. Clearly, it had
been carried out of its resting-place by the de
scending water.
As a suicide, the priest refused to bury Pat
rick O'Brien in consecrated ground, and the
public opinion against Tnrlough was so strong
that they did not dare to lay him in the grave
yard. After the inquest the bodies were
claimed by some man in the neighborhood,
who declared himself—falsely, I believe—to be
a relative of the deceased. No one cared to
dispute his claim or ask what he did with
them; but I have reason to think that the coun
try people buried them somewhere near the
old site of Lough Galliagh, by advice of the
“wise woman,’’who declared that such was
the only way to remove the ban that hung over
the place.
LOVE AND RMmWE.
BY JACK MORAND.
(From the French, in N. 0. Times-Democrat.)
It was at Saint-Valery-en-Caux, during the
bathing season, that Mme. Alioe Vivien first met
Boger de Beaumont.
Boger was finding the hours quite tedious at
that domestic resort.
He had noticed Mme. Vivien, who was, by far,
the prettiest of all the fair bathers at the place,
and he thought that courting her would be a
very pleasant way of varying the monotonous
life he was leading.
Mme. Vivien dwelt in a very pretty cottage by
the seaside. Her husband, detained in Paris
by his business, could only manage to come
down once a week and remain with her from
Saturday to Monday.
At the age of seventeen Alice had been mar
ried to Mr. Vivien, a gentleman thirty-five years
of age, whose devotion to her was a blending of
love with fatherly tenderness.
She was an honest, upright woman, who
would have repulsed Roger ,de Beaumont had
he begun by making love to her.
But the young man was too shrewd to pro
ceed in this way. He understood the young
woman’s ingenuous heart, and he endeavored
to gain her confidence by slow degrees.
He was the ideal of her most secret thoughts;
in a month’s time he had gained her love, even
before she herself was aware of it.
Roger, himself, was beginning to take an in
terest in the game ho was playing. He even
felt a growing passion for that adorable and
artless young woman, and, one evening, while
with her at the pierhead, where they bad gone
to en oy the breeze, he exclaimed in a voice full
of emotion:
“ I love you I”
She tried to make him hush, to show that she
was offended; but he, whose ardor and bold
ness seemed hightened by the charm and poe
try of the delightful evening, continued in a
passionate tone:
“I have loved you since the first day I saw
you 1 And you love me, too 1 I know it, I feel
it! Only let me worship you. Don’t avoid me,
don’t repulse me I”
“ Hush I for heaven’s sake, hush 1”
“Oh I do not answer me in that way, me,
who adores you ; let mo hope that you will say
that you love me 1”
As he looked at her she seemed ready to
faint; shining tear-drops were welling in her
eyes, and her little hand quivered like a cap
tive bird.
“Let me go,’’said she, in a voice scarcely
audible.
He escorted her to her gate, and, bowing low,
he said:
“ I shall expect an answer; it will boa sen
tence of death or a command to live.”
An avowal would perhaps have escaped from
Alice’s lips had not the noise of footsteps and
the sound of voices fallen on her ear.
Dreading to be seen, and already as timorous
as a guilty person, the young woman withdrew
and hastily entered the house.
“ I love him, too ! I love him !” murmured
she, and remembering how anxiously the young
man had wished for an avowal of her love, feel
ing her heart overflowing, she hastily wrote
with a feverish hand:
“Roger, I love you, and shall impatiently
wait for to-morrow. Alice.”
She smiled while thinking of the gladness
that would fill Roger’s heart when he read her
letter, and, notwithstanding the lateness of the
hour, she hastened out to drop it in the letter
box.
She had barely returned to the house when a
vague feeling of dread began to oppress her.
The intoxicating charm that had possessed her
was dissipated, and, to her mind, came the pic
ture of her husband, so confiding and loving.
The next day, from the moment she awoke,
she had but one thought—to get back her
letter.
About lour o’clock in the afternoon she went
to the casino, where she was sure to find Roger,
who, as soon as he saw her, advanced with out
stretched hands, his eyes beaming with tri
umphal joy.
“ Sir,” said she, “ yesterday I had a moment
of folly—forget it, please. Ido not love you, I
swear it. I have never loved you. And I shall
never love you—no, never 1"
Roger, disappointed, looked at her, a wicked
smile playing about his lips.
“ You are an adorable, capricious woman,”
said he, somewhat insolently, to conceal his
vexation.
“ Oh, sir, do not be unkind. Please give me
back the letter 1 so foolishly sent you.”
“ But 1 appreciate your letter very much. It
is charming.”
“ Sir, I am a faithful wife, and I love my hus
band.”
The young man smiled again, and, leaning
toward Alice, ho looked straight into her eyes,
as he said :
“ I haven't your letter with me. I carefully
locked it up at home.”
The young woman stopped back instinctively.
“Bo generous, for Heaven’s sake! Do what
I ask. Ido not wish to see you again. Send
mo back my letter, I beseech you. Return it to
me through the post-office.”
She begged him with clasped hands, her face
pale with anguish.
“ Perhaps !” replied the young man, deliber
ately, bowing gracefully as he started off.
She felt like following him, to tell him how
angry she was, but, some of her friends coming
up, she was obliged to stop and talk to them
about indifferent and frivolous matters while
her very soul was tortured by impatience and
feelings of shame.
It was Thursday, and she thought of leaving
the next day, as soon as she got her letter back,
picturing to herself the happiness she would
feel in rejoining her husband.
She slept very badly, at times certain that
Roger would return her letter, and, at others,
dreading that bo would not do so, especially
when she remembered his insolent, ironical
look.
About seven in the morning, Just as the fatigue
brought on by her emotion was setting her
asleep, she was awakened with a start by the
sound of hurried footsteps.
borne one rapped at the door.
“ Alice, it is I,” called out M. Vivien’s joyful
voice.
She hastened to let him in, exclaiming with
transport: “ Why 1 is it you, already ? I was
not expecting you for two days yet 1”
“ 1 wished to surprise you. 1 was able to
finish all my business a little ahead of time, bnt
I did not dare send you word, as 1 was afraid
that at the last moment something might have
sprung up to detain me in Paris.”
The young woman’s heart was overflowing
with happiness in being again with her hus
bannd, who loved her so tenderly, while at the
same time it was oppressed with feelings of
shame and remorse.
All of a sudden she gave a start; the clock was
striking eight; the postman would soon arrive
with newspapers and letters, and among them
would be that cursed letter of hers.
She would have been glad to find some ex
cuse to send her husband off, but ideas flitted
so rapidly through her mind that she could
grasp no single one. With her eyes fixed on
the clock, she could only repeat to herself:
“ The postman is coming with my letter I”
“lam hungry,” said Mr. Vivien; “suppose
we go down,to breakfast. I have been travel
ing since midnight.”
And both went down together.
As luck would have it, the postman was be
hind time that morning. To Alice, the voice of
her husband sounded as it would have done in
a distant dream, as she pictured to herself the
row that was going to take place.
She looked at him eating so heartily, his eyes
beaming with tenderness and confidence, and
she thought how soon all that quiet happiness
would vanish, and all through her fault.
At last she heard the lootman’s footstep, and,
soon alter, the servant laid the mail on the
table.
Mr. Vivien looked mechanically at the en
velopes. There were three letters.
Alice, overcome with terror, felt the blood
coursing about her temples and buzzing through
her ears as she closed her eyes, almost ready
to faint away.
“ Who writes to you in this place ?” asked her
husband, handing her a small, scented envelope
addressed in a strange handwriting.
“I don’t know,” stammered she.
“ Look and see.”
But Alioe held her letter without daring to
open it.
“ Well, why don’t you read that letter ?” in
sisted Mr. Vivien.
Then, with a movement of despair, she
abruptly handed him the letter, saying :
“ Read it yourself 1” and she awaited, ex
pecting to see everything fall to pieces about
her.
She heard the noise of tearing paper, and
then, after a few seconds of mortal agony, her
busband said:
“The letter is signed Roger de Beaumont.
He is the secretary of a benevolent committee
and requests your aid in raising funds for the
orphans.”
A few days later, Mr. Vivien took Alice back
to Paris. The young woman had not seen any
thing of Roger, and she was terribly worried by
the thought that her letter had remained in the
young man’s possession.
The remembrance of that letter became the
torture of her life.
At times she would have a crazy notion of
throwing herself at her husband’s feet and ac
knowleding her moment of folly, but she was
terrified at the thought that it might destroy
their quiet happiness. Another fear also op-
pressed her and choked down the avowal that
her ovei burdened heart wished to make.
“Will my busband really believe that man
obtained only those few lines of love from me ?”
She would occasionally see Roger at the play,
at the races, or on the promenade; in looking
at her, he would always* smile in such a mock
ing way that she would tremble from shame
and anguish.
Ten years went by in this way. At last, they
met by chance one evening at a grand ball. Ro
fer came forward to engage Alice for a dance.
t was only by a superhuman effort that she
did not faint, but, on reflecting that she would
perhaps never again have an opportunity of
speaking to the man who held her honor, nay,
even her life, in his hands, she accepted his in
vitation.
“ Sir,” said she in a low voice, “ for Heaven’s
sake have pity on me. Give me back my peace
of mind. During the past ten years ot my life I
have been tortured almost to death. For pity’s
sake, return the letter which I so foolishly
wrote to you.”
Roger burst out in a loud, careless laugh,
while the woman stood panting with impatience
and anger.
At last he answered frankly, his voice still
seeming full of fun:
“ Why, do you think that I have been keeping
all the love-letters that I received during my
lite ? On my honor, I swear it, I lighted my ci
gar with yours the day you left the seaside,
when I saw all hope was lost.”
LIKED TO RE W ALOUD.
THE DRUMMER GOT A DOSE FOR
ONCE.
A traveling man boarded a passenger train at
Bismarck at SP. M. At 6P.M. he was occu
pying a double seat with a plump brunette and
a slim blonde, the latter of whom remarked
that she was “ married, but Hattie was not.”
The bonded blonde was perusing a novel, one
of the kind sold at two prices by the insinuating
“peanut.” The drummer wanted to be agree
able and pleasant, so he asked her if she would
not read a chapter or two to him.
“ Oh, certainly; I like to read out loud.”
So she gave a synopsis of the chapters she
had read. There was a false marriage, a hid
den will, a divorce, a baby, an elopement, a for
tune, a false heir, and several other nice fea
tures in the synopsis. The fair reader had a
voice—one of the sharp, piercing kind that
could insinuate itself into the deaf side of a
post.
At 7 P. M. she had finished the synopsis and
commenced on the remainder of the story. At
9 P. M. she had not slipped a cog in her tongue
working machinery, and the false heir had the
upper hand. At 11 P. M. there had been no in
termission except for a sip of alkali water, which
cleared her throat. Everybody else wanted to
go to sleep, but nobody could. At lA. M. the
story was still being poured into the satiated
ears of the unfortunate drummer. There was
now a chance for the truly good to get their re
ward—in the story—while the false heir and the
drummer were getting the worst of it. At 1:20
Fargo was reached. Everybody who could, got
off—and the last thing that met their eyes was a
paralyzed drummer, while the sibilant tones of
a woman’s voice were wafted out on the still
night air.
“God pity that woman’s husband,” growled
an old bachelor in the rear seat, while a maiden
of uncertain age whispered, “ Serves the odious
drummer right for flirting so shamefully.”
This young lady was entirely, in our opinion,
TOO SARCASTIC ON THE DUDE.
“And you—aw—say that you cannot bo mine,”
said Mr, Fitzpoodle, as he withdrew the knob of his
cane from hie mouth and examined it attentively to
see whether he had removed any of the varnish in
his efforts to amuse himself.
“No, I can never be yours,” the fair maiden an
swered. “You suit very well for an ornamental
appendage at parties, hops and so forth, but I am
afraid you would not wear well as a husband.”
' “ Yet—aw—l have heard you say that I possessed
one admirable quality.”
*• Yea, you have one admirable quality. You are
considerate to your enemy.”
•• Considerate to my enemy ?”
“Yes, you never put an enemy in your mouth to
steal away your brains.”
•• No—nevah.’’
“And that shows you to be very considerate to
your enemy.”
“In what respect?”
“In not imposing on your enemy an impossible
task.”
The Estelline (Dakota) Bell tells this story of
AN IOWA PROHIBITIONIST.
On Monday afternoon a man with long, red chin
whiskers, full cheeks and small, light blue eyes,
cautiously approached a Sioux Falls man as he
stood on the sidewalk, and said:
••Say I”
“ Well, what is it ?”
“ Be you temp’rance 1"
What ?”
“ Do you ever drink ?”
“I do occasionally.”
“Ain’t pro’bition, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Say 1 can you tell me where I can get a drink o’
licker?”
“ There’s a saloon right across the street.”
“That place with them bottles in the winder?”
“Yes.”
“See here, now, on the square, can I go right in
the front door?”
•• Of course.”
“Won’t have to wait till after dark and make a
sneak through the alley ?”
“No.”
•• Do you reckon the mouth of the jug is kind o’
half-way clean?”
••There isn’t any jug.”
“ Isn’t, hoy ? Won’t have to drink an’ leave a ten
cent piece on the cork an’ go out quietly ?”
“Of course not.”
“ Won’t have to put up my money through a lit
tle hole an wait till some mighty poor licker comes
down from the ceilin' in a bottle tied to a string ?”
“No.”
“ Won’t have to sign no paper nor give my pedi
gree before I get it ?”•
•• Certainly not.”
“Won’t have to drink’bout three or four times
as much as I want for fear I can’t gat any more for
a mouth ?”
“ Why, no; all you’ll have to do will be to stand
up to the bar and take your drink and pay for it
and go out.”
••But won’t it be in the papers to-morrow ?”
“ No.”
“Women won’t get holt of it and tell it all
’round ?”
*• No danger.”
” S*y. podner, your answers are all satisfactory—
I b’lieve I can go over and get a drink, an’ it’ll be
all o. k. ! You see, I'm from lowa, where it’s pro’bi
tion, an’ I don’t know ’zactly how to perceed here.
Say ! doggone it all, it’s on me—come over and have
snort with me—l’ll pay for it I I ain’t been votin’
the pro’bition ticket in lowa for six years for noth
in’—come over and see old Jim Faulkner do a hand
some thing by a friend.”
Thia will be news tQ barkeepers who never
heard of
A BONE COCKTAIL.
“Gimme a bone cocktail,” demanded a man of a
fashionable barkeeper this morning.
The barkeeper blushed. He knew how to mix all
the fancy drinks in existence, and he felt ashamed
that any one should call for a drink the name of
which he had never heard before.
“I—l beg your pardon, sir; but did you say a
bone cocktail?”
“Yes, sir, I said a bone cocktail. I suppose you
know what that is.”
•• Oh, yes, certainly, of course; but I think we ? re
all out of bones.”
“Here, don’t give me any funny business, but
hand me over the dice box. I’ll shake you for the
drinks, and that’s what I mean by a bone cocktail.”
The barkeeper lost, but considered that he had
made money by loaming just what a bone cocktail
was.
A paper called the Epoch gives us this plain
discussion on
TALKING TO ONE’S SELF.
If any person will carefully note the manner of
speech used by those given to the habit of “ talking
to themselves,” he will come to the conclusion that
the phrase is misleading. For proof of this asser
tion let it be remembered that the “ talking ” al
ways takes some form like the following: “ Now
let me show you “If ever I find you ’’—“Noth
ing of the sort; he is”—••! just tell you”—“Why,
do you know ?” and so on.
Thus it will be seen that the language of the soli
tary talker takes the form of address to another
person. In the greatest number of cases the soli
tary talker speaks only when mentally excited, and
then his language is a mixture of assertion, contra
diction and vituperation. Now and again he is
merely exclamatory, but whatever the words he
uses may be, it is plain that he is always addressing
himself to an imaginary person.
Borne rather amusing incidents are told of persons
given to this habit. Two such approached each
other one day, and each was conversing in loud
tones with an Imaginary individual. “Sir?”
queried one speaker, as ha paused for a reply from
the person of his brain. ” I beg your pardon, ” said
the other at the same moment to the imaginary in
dividual with whom he was arguing.
The exclamation brought both men out of their
visionary disputes, and with a blush and mutual
apologies they continued their seperate ways.
Some solitary talkers are known to bo given to
self-condemnation, and this seems to contradict the
assertion that there is no such thing as “ talking to
one’s self.” The question was put to a man who is
given to condemning his own past conduct in em
phatic speech when he gets alone:
“ Do you speak to yourself?”
•• Not exactly,” he replied, slowly, “I am at these
times Dr. Jekyll denouncing Mr. Hyde, whom I con
sider the evil person dominating me.”
Surely, upon investigation, there seems to be no
such thing as ” talking to one’s self.”
Thia was the way a woman
SHOWED HER LOVE.
“ Tongue cannot tell how much I love you, Miss
Clara,” he said. “I would do anything in tha world
for you.”
“ Would you ?” she asked, wsarily.
“ Try me.”
“Well, go and spend the evening with Lily
Brown.”
•• Lily Brown I What for ?” he asked, astonished.
” I hate her.”
SCINTILLATIONS.
When the old man lights up the lover
lights out.
A French definition of a cashier is
that he is a guardian angel who often wings his
flight.
The man who sits down and waits to
be appreciated will find himself among uncalled
for baggage after the limited express has gone by.
First Saleslady—“ Marie?” Second
Saleslady—•• I am here.” “ Are you busy ?” “Yes.”
“Where is the other saleslady?” “She has not
come in yet. What do you want ?” “ I want some
one to go and ask the lady cashier if she can Change
a hundred dollar bill for a woman I”
A poet says : “Butstoop and kiss her
elyly behind the apple tree.” He would find a good
deal better location for kissing right under her
nose.
The Michigan man who tried to light
a fire with eomo wood from a box which had con
tained nitro-glycerine succeeded. But he can’t do
it again.
When a young man sits in the parlor
talking nonsense to hie best girl—that’s capital.
But when he has to stay in of evenings after they’re
married—that's labor.
‘‘Why, how are you, Phil? Glad to
see you in town. Where are yon putting up?”
With my wife, of course; and I have a good deal to
put up with, you can bet.”
“John, John ! there’s a burglar in the
house. I hear him at the cupboard,” •• Where you
putthat pie?” “Yes. Oh, John, where are you
going ?” “I’m going down to rescue him ?”
A six-year-old boy, whose father is a
masician, was yery restless the other night and
couldn’t go to sleep. Finally, as a last resort, he
called out: “Pupa, please play your cornet; that al
ways makes me tired.”
Hotel porter—“ Gents, this way,
please.” Swell (who dislikes the word “gent”)—
“By jove, fellah ! I’m no gent!” Hotel porter (in
apparent confusion)—“Beg y’r pardon, Miss, but
y’r clothing deceived me.”
A.—What are you reading ? B.—A
useful book for those who don’t know how to swim.
A.—How so ? B.—lf you fall overboard, all you
have to do Is to turn to page fifty-seven and read
the directions, and you are safe.”
Fat Man—“lt’s d d hot! Oh, beg
pardon, miss. Really, I did not observe ’•
Young Lady—“ Don’t mention it, pray. I don’t
mind a little swearing. I work in a telephone ex
change. Beside, I guess you are right.”
Cook (on the day of her arrival) —
Please, mum, I’m a bit fiery at times, and when
I’m fiery I’m apt to be a bit rough spoken; but you
needn’t let that put you about. With a little pres
ent now and then, you can alius bring me round
again.”
“ How does it happen that there are
so many old maids among the school teachers ?’*
asks an inquirer. Well, it is just possible that a
girl who has taught school is afraid to marry. She
knows just what sort of cubs most men wore when
they were young.
“ Waiter,” said a gentleman, in the
dining-car, •• have you any gooseberry pie ?” “ No,
sab; hain’t carryin’ any dis yeah, sah.” “ Why il
that?” “Well, you see, sah, dey’s scarce dis sea
sum. Las’ Winter was so cole and stormy dat it
wag mighty tough on de geese.”
“ Women are unreasonable creatures,”
observed Brown, as he ordered another round foi
the boys. “Now, there’s my wife. Before we wore
married, when I went to see her, she always thought
it was too early for me to go home, and now I cau’i
go home early enough to suit her.”
Little Girl—Papa, did mamma say
“Yes” to you right off when you asked her to
marry you ? Papa—Certainly she did. Little Girl-
Why is it she don’t say “yes” now just as quick
when you ask her to do things? Papa—Mamma’s
hearing is not so good now, darling—that’s all.
As an evidence of the elevating effect
of civilization on humanity, the innabitants of Zu-
Inland are placed in comparison with the people of
our exalted nation. The former do all their fighting
before marriage; the latter wait until the connu
bial knot is tied, then the trump of war is sounded*
A German has invented a safe that, on
its lock being tampered with, throws open its doors,
seizes and drags and locks in the burglar and hand
cuffs and holds him in readiness to bo conducted to
the Police Court in the morning. This is almost
equal to the American servant girl patent bad,
which at a certain hour in the morning pitches her
out, dresses her, carries her downstairs, and shows
her how to start the fire.
A man invented a mechanical doll that
cries like a baby, says an exchange. But can it
crow like a baby? Can it kick up its heelsand
smile at you like a blue sky on an April day ? Can
it possees itself with those admirable qualities that
causes its mother to ask, “ Ain’t it like its father?
Ain’t it got his very eyes, his mouth, his expression,
his very way about him ?” If it can’t, the mechan,
leal doll is a miserable failure, so far as it is intend*
ed to.be a substitute for a baby.
An Old Map. —There has recently
been received at the State library in Albany, a
map of the world, which was printed in 1529.
Thia map, which was made long before Henry
Hudson was born, shows the Hudson river on
it. This is proof positive that the river was dis
covered long before Henry Hudson sailed up
the stream. The map is a fac simile of that by
Ribero, called the Borgian map. This fact will
reopen the question of who discovered the Hud
son river.
I
I ° r
I Vmf tgyilgfl UR
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7