New York dispatch. [volume], October 02, 1887, Page 7, Image 7

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

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
T:’E GULLY.
BY MARIE C. F. SIEBOTH.
in the ruined mill long shadows fall.
The mice creep over the floor,
The cobwebs swing ou the crannied wall,
The sun sifts in thro’ the door;
The great millstone hangs idly there,
And the brook as it trickles by
'Gives a happy laugh to the sunlit air,
And a smile to the far-off sky.
It springs and it 1-aps the mill-race down,
It whispers over the grass,
It gurgles under the tree roots brown,
It calls to the birds as they pass;
Over feathery moss it softly flows
Where the pines their bows interlace,
And the great gaunt rocks in their calm repose
For ages untold have their place.
In the deep ravine, in the Summer noon,
The lazy leaves scarcely stir;
A wayward bee gives a honeyed croon,
The crickets faintly whirr;
The trees grow green in their fallen state,
The squirrels run ont and in.
And the very stones seem to watch and wait
For the life of the mill to begin,
A DAY DREAM.
HOW A SUB FOOLED KMSE F.
There ia yet a lovely, unspoiled seaside nook
in the ever-altering and supposed-to-be improv
ing British island.
Few tourists have even heard of it, and to pre
vent their encroaching upon its peaceful terri
tory and breaking its refreshing quietude, the
secret of its whereabouts must remain a mys
tery.
Lt lies in a tiny bay, all wooded down to the
Water's brink, with green hills rising at the
flack, and away to the right there is good cover
for game in the thick, half-wild taugle 01 under
growth, where the white-tailed rabbits scurry
Shout by hundreds, or sit sunning themselves
in inanimate brown heaps of lazy luxury. A
sudden bend inland discloses a beautiful
estuary, which winds its way among the foot of
the hills, looking solt and silent, with scarcely a
Sipple to move its surface.
Cottages are dotted about here and there,
Covered with roses and jasmine and clematis,
and the gardens are filled with dowers.
A picturesque old house stands alone upon
[he rising ground overlooking the sea, sheltered
rom every rough blast, with oranges and
emons growing upon its walls, and myrtles in
full blossom under its abbey-like windows.
From the hills inland the view is pastoral and
fd.vllio; there re a wood of tender green larches,
With a background of dark-blue pines.
Fields ot waving golden corn, fields ol emerald
turnips and purple beets and mangel.
Hedgerows festooned with wild roses, briony
and elgantine, carpeted with primroses, violets
and ferns.
Narrow winding lanes, all overhung with
trees, with rustic stiles leading Irom them
across the country, and in the distance lay a
Village, from the cottages of which the white
smoke went up, like Summer clouds, into the
azure sky; and the steeple ot the old church
was peeping from among the many-generation-
Md trees.
Capt. Bertram Berkeley, who was quartered
With his regiment in the same county, noticed it
While out sailing in the regimental yacht, nest
ling, like a tiny gem, in its verdant setting, and
k fancy seized him to pay it a visit.
There was not one of his brother officers of
his own standing, whom he did not pester to
Accompany him thither, till it became almost a
Joke among them.
“My dear fellow,” remonstrated hie great
friend, Hubert Falkner “we should be burled
alive in such a dull place. Why, there can be
nothing on earth to do there. Go, by all means,
If you want a fit of the blues, but don’t ask any
One else to share your fate.”
" Well, he obtained leave of absence, and he
slid go.
They took him to the little bay in the yacht,
and they put him on shore, with bis small port
manteau, promising to return for him that day
Week, and sailed away again, laughing at Ber
tram’s folly.
The first afternoon he enjoyed thoroughly.
Everything was so new, and bright, and fresh,
and lovely.
He found a quaint, ivy-clad little Inn, where
the landlady was apple-cheeked and good-look
ing, and he intrusted himself for the week to
her tender mercies, and having ascertained
from her the prettiest walks, he started out for
a round, inhaling the sea breezes with avidity,
and ended hie day upon the beach, where he
aat till dusk, lazily throwing stones into the
water.
That night he wrote to his friend :
“Dear Falkner: You were wrong not to
some ; it is charming I Jolly little inn and pret
ty little hostess. Lovely walks ; all I want is a
companion. You had better join me. Yours,
“ B. B.”
But Captain Falkner did not see it in the
game light, and Bertram Berkely remained
alone.
The day after, he followed a lane which he
had not noticed before. Lt appeared to lead up
the rough and tangled undergrowth upon the
hillside, and he thought he might get that way
to sea.
Suddenly he stopped, for, before him lay a
home which was a per eotidyl. A many-gabled,
golden-thatcbed cottage of considerable size and
having on all sides the signs of affluence. It
was covered with rare climbing plants ; the
very air was redolent with the perfume of th®
roses of all sorts, which clustered in every avail
able spot.
The fences were rustic and twined with ivy
and Virginia creepers.
The lawns were smooth as a billiard table and
soft as moss.
The Hewer beds were filled with blossoms;
but it was neither upon house, nor lawn, nor
rustic work, nor flowers that his eyes were
fixed, but upon the figure of a girl ot some
twenty years of age, reclining in a low garden
chair, intently reading a book, and the more he
gazed the greater grew his admiration.
She was totally unaware of his presence, and
It was evident that spectators were not usual in
that bidden corner, all among the trees, and
hedge rows, and tangled undergrowth.
It was quite a surprise to find this little para
dise of perfume there, as though some fairv had
pqnjured it up with her magic wand, and the
recumbent girl was fit lor the princess in the
fairy rale. She had masses of gold-brown waving
hair hanging down loosely about her shoulders
and almost touching the ground, and the sun
beams were giving it their own bright shades.
She had evidently been out to bathe, and was
letting the sun and air dry her luxuriant tresses
ior her.
Her eyes were hidden by their long-fringed
lashes, but the rest of the oval lace was perfect.
In repose, the mouth vied with Cupid’s bow
in shape; the nose was short and straight, the
ears 1 Ke tiny sea shells, the chin dimpled, the
brow broad and white and intellectual, partly
hidden by short curls, which the water had but
made more wavy.
She was dressed in a plain white flannel cos
tume, which clung to her figure and revealed
its per'ect symmetry, while a pretty foot in a
neat black shoe and stocking was peeping irom
beneath the white skirt, and Bertram saw that
the ankle was slender and the instep arched,
and the white hands and rounded arms shown
by her somewhat short sleeves were none the
less to his taste.
Upon her lap lay a tiny Yorkshire terrier,
asleep, and she stroked it while she read.
“ What a girl 1 A regular Venus !” murmured
the watcher. “ And has a mind, too; how at
tentively she reads 1”
How long he stood regarding her he never
knew, but it was, he admitted to himself, a con
siderable time.
She got impatient with her book; tho author
bad not pleased her.
“Rubbish 1” she cried. “Sentimental trash I”
And she flung the volume aside.
“ Sensible, too,” said Capt. Berkeley; “by
Jove, she’s a rara avis 1”
Her sudden movement had awoke her fluffy
little rat ot a dog, and he began to bark furi
ously, with a sharp “ yap, yap,” for he had at
last found out the near vicinity ot a stranger.
Bertram’s goddess turned’ suddenly, and
looked searcbingly toward the spot where ho
Stood.
“ Heavens, what eyes I Blue as a sapphire
In the sunlight, with black fringed lashes I”
Boldier as be was, and carpet knight, he could
do nothing but stare, dazzled by her unusual
beauty.
A shade of annoyance crossed the beautiful
face as she turned away and walked toward the
house, fondling the happy little dog as she went
along.
How gracefully she walked, with an ease and
elasticity in her movements not often seen. He
continued watching, but the white-robed figure
appeared no more.
He found his road to the sea, happilv uncon
scious that it was a private one, and that he was
trespassing, and he returned the same way.
His divinity was singing, and her voice was
as sweet and beautiful as her face.
Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon ?
"When thy lend heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon ?
Why, indeed ? How he longed to go in and
say all sorts of insane and impossible things to
He made a perch for himself upon an ivy-clad
wall, and listened until the voice and piano
caage<l; then he hoard her call her horrid
little dog, and she came to the hall-door with it
in her arms, and kissed it and called it her
darling, and the little wretch found him ont
again and began once more the yap, like a
child’s toy; and, ashamed to be caught watch
ing her, he slid Irom his hiding place upon the
ground, out of eight.
“Littte stupid,” she said, looking around
“no one is there.” • ’
And because the small animal wriggled so
she set it down. She had asserted that no one
was there, but Tiny knew better, and having
squeezed itself through the rustic work ‘it vig
orously attacked tho captain’s stocking-legs
for he had a shapely calf, and was indulging in
knickerbockers. B B
The littie brute "worried” him so terribly
that he beat a hasty retreat, and left it in the
possession of the field.
That evening he smoked profoundly, drawing
at his cigar like a man m deep thougllt- more
over, a rare thing for Bertramßerkeley he
MA* ot
oMh 9 B ?a r hy W ootu:e hOU£l1 ‘ tha
theMashore.” 8 ’’ “ lwi “ down to
mt 9X >9i m
even asking for his breakfast; and, regardless
of the cravings of the inner man, he stayed on
the beach till twelve o’clock, but she never
camo. Hungry and dissatisfied, he returned
to the inn and ate his burned-up viands, which
had been waiting for him since ten o’clock, and
started for that narrow lane once more. Inis
time he was not disappointed; there she was I
Her hair was plaited and coiled up, and she
looked like a young queen, and in his mind he
apostrophized her as a Juno.
He hid behind some thick shrubs and prayed
that his enemy might not discover him. A sun
hat was in her left hand, and she placed it upon
her head and turning to a mowing-machine which
stood upon the lawn, she set to work with a will
to out the grass, and the sharp, bright blades
revolved as tho verdant atoms flew before her.
“ Strong and muscular, too,” he said, admir
ingly ; “no doctor’s bills for her I What a wile
she will make I" ......
The grass was finished, and the bright vision
vanished, and once more the thoughtiul mood
descended upon the captain.
He was up again early the next morning and
down upon the beach, but his divinity was ear
lier still and was already in the water, dressed
in the prettiest of French bathing costumes and
swimming about like a fish.
When she perceived the stranger she swam
behind a projecting rock and darted with won
derful agility through the wooded path up the
hillside and out of sight.
“ And modest 1” cried Bertram, with enthusi
asm. “ I wish to goodness I knew her I”
He had his wish, in a measure, that afternoon.
He met her, accidentally, out walking, and Tiny
was with her.
For once he blessed that dog. He snarled at
a strange fox terrier, who immediately bowled
him over, with the evident intention ot making
mince-meat of him.
Here was a grand opportunity ! No one dis
liked the idea of hydrophobia more than Ber
tram Berkeley, but he was not the man to lose
such a chance. He rushed to the rescue, and
administering a severe chastisement upon the
bellicose animal, delivered the small creature
in safety to its anxious mistress.
“ Oh, thank you, very, very much !” she said,
eagerly. “It was so good of you to save my
little pot. lam most grateful to you,” and She
raised her beautiful eyes to his face, while his
heart beat with a heavy thud, worthy ot a Nas
myth hammer.
He was a handsome fellow, and she acknowl
edged the fact to herself as she looked up to his
animated countenance—the clear, dark eyes,
the closely-cropped hair and clean-shaved,
bronzed face—save lor tho heavy, brown mus
tache—the tall, manly figure and erect car
riage.
"It has been more than a pleasure to serve
you,” he murmured, raising his hat chivalrous
ly. “I am delighted I was upon the spot; such
savage dogs ought to be muzzed.”
He turned as he spoke and walked by her
side.
“So far out of London snoh regulations are
not entoroed.” she answered, with a smile.
“ No; but they ought to be, it hydrophobia is
to be stamped out ot England.”
“ I hope you have not let that animal bite
you ?” she said, anxiously.
“ Oh, dear no I What a lovely little place this
is 1 ’
“Yes. You are a stranger here?” she said,
interrogatively.
“ i.uita. Iconfess I should preler having a
companion, but I have enjoyed my stay here so
lar; they take great care ot me at the inn.”
“lheyare very respectable people,” she re
turned, demurely.
“ What an exquisite little cottage yours is I”
he said, after a pause; “ do you know I saw you
in your garden a day or two since ?”
“ Yes, 1 reoognl ed you again,” she returned,
quietly. “ Tiny rather objected to you, but he
did not know you would prove a friend in need
to him,” she ended, with a sunny laugh.
“No; he was decidedly antagonistic,” he an
swered, laughing, too.
“ Do you want to muzzle him ?” she asked.
“ I’m afraid so. If the thing is to be done at
all, it should be done properly; but if any dog
in the world is exempted, that one should be
Tiny.”
“Because he ia so amiable?” she queried.
“No; because his mistress is,” replied he,
gallantly.
“ That was well turned,” she laughed. “And
now I must wish you good day; our roads lie
apart. lam going home.”
A look of regret passed across his features,
and his eyes tell upon a cluster ot* delicate Mar
shal Niel roses upon her shoulder.
“ What exquisite blossoms I” he said. “ May
I ask a great favor ?”
“You have done me one,” she answered, gra
ciously, “ and have certainly the right to de
mand one in return.”
“ I haven’t a flower in my room,” he said, in
a low voice; “ may I crave one of your roses for
my table?”
“One would be of little use—you are wel
come to the whole bunch; they will fill a small
vase,” she answered, readily, and, unpinning
them, she placed them in his hand with a nat
ural, .unconcerned bow, as she turned in the
direction oi her golden-thatched cottage with
her dog in her arms.
“ Grateful and generous and affectionate,” he
decided, and pressed the roses to his lips.
That night he wrote again to his friend:
“Dear Falkner—l have met my fate. It is
no use your coming for me; I shall get my leave
extended. She is enchanting! It is serious
this time, old fellow, so don’t laugh.
•• Yours ever, B. B.”
He haunted that lane. Sometimes he spoke
to her over the fence; she was very gracious to
him, but she did not ask him in.
Ono® eh® was walking in the garden with an
elderly man.
“ Her father,” he told himself. " What a
nice-looking old fellow; I must get hold of him,
and then it will be all right.”
He telegraphed to Covent Garden for a
bouquet of rare exotics to be sent dewn to him
by parcels post. They came, and he went and
let them at the house himself, with his card at
tached, and underneath he wrote: “In grate
ful return for the roses,” and closed the box
once more.
A neat maid received it from bis hands, and
by her “ Merci, monsieur,” he discovered she
was a Frenchwoman.
He asked no questions, and le r t no message,
not wishing to expose his ignorance of even his
lady’s name.
He walked on, but he was restless, and re
turned once more and sat upon the wall to
watch. Surelv, his divinity would coma out
soon. She did, with the garden hose in her
hand and set to work diligently to water. Sud
denly she turned it in the captain’s direction,
and soused him through and through. Then,
with a silvery laugh, quickly checked, she made
her apologies.
“ Dear me, Capt. Berkeley I” she said, with
much apparent concern, “I’m afraid I have
sprinkled you a little.”
“ Sprinkled ” him ! He was wet through, but
he vowed it was “nothing,” and that he “liked
it,” and she thanked him so sweetly for the
bouquet that he was quite happy, only his hap
piness was short-lived, for she had a pressing
engagement and hastened indoors at once. He
sauntered to the inn and changed his clothes,
then started lor a walk, thinking of her.
A dog-cart was dashihg along the road, and
suddenly a cheery voice roused him.
“ Hallo, Berkeley ! Where on earth have you
sprung irom? Who would ever have expected
you to turn up in this quiet corner ?” and the
speaker handed the reins to his coekaded
groom and jumped down to greet his friend
and old brother officer, shaking him warmly by
the hand.
“ I may well return the compliment, La
Costs,” laughed Bertram Berkeley. “ I have
never once seen you since you left us at ‘ Gib,’
two years ago; fancy me meeting you in this
quiet place, when no quarters used to be gay
enough for you.”
“Ah, I have sown all my wild oats,old fellow,
and married and settled down into the bargain,
and what's more, I don’t regret it.”
“ I fear there are dot many such prizes in the
matrimonial market.”
“ Can’t say. I never bad a bad opinion of the
sex, as you are aware, and my wife has raised
my estimate of womankind.”
“Lucky man.”
“ 1 echo your sentiment. I suppose you’re
still adamant? No one has made an impres
sion, eh ?”
Captain Berkeley positively flushed under the
bronze, and thoughtfully pulled his mustache.
“By Jove! you’re in for it,” laughed Ma.or
La Costs. “Well, come and dine with us to
night, and I will introduce you to my wife, and
you can tell me all about it over our cigars after
dinner.”
“ What, you are living here, then ?”
“Yes. We have a pretty little box. Where
are you staying 1 I’ll stroll down and take you
back in triumph. It will be quite a treat to
hoar all the news of the old regiment."
“I’ll come with pleasure. I’m putting up at
the little inn. What time do you dine
“Seven—and I’ll fetch you at a quarter to.”
And with a friendly nod, the ma. or jumped
up once more into his dog-cart.
“ Can I take you anywhere, Berkeley ?”
“ No, thanks; I’ll continue my walk.”
And so the friends parted.
Major La Costs arrived with military punctu
ality, and there was a strange smile upon his
handsome face and lurking in the depths of his
fine gray eyes.
“ Are you ready ?” he asked. “We must not
keep dinner waiting—your cook is the last per
son in the would whom you should offend.”
They chatted briskly as they walked up the
lane.
“ Here we are,” said La Coste, throwing open
hie gate. “ Pretty little place, is it not? But
perhaps you may have seen it before, in your
rambles.”
“ You don’t live here ?” stammered his vis
itor. “I thought—l didn’t think—
“Ot course you didn’t, old fellow. Come in
and see my wife.”
Without oue word, Bertram Berkeley fol
lowed him.
Mechanically he hung up his hat in the hall
mechanically he wont with him into the room’
of which he flung open the door, with a strange
feeling as of a sleep-walker about him. It
seemed to him he was having some unpleasant
dream, and that he was spell-bound by it; that
he could see and hear and feel, but that all
power over himself was denied him.
“Geraldine, here is my friend, Captain
Berkeley—Berkeley, allow me to introduce you
to my wife.”
The eyes of Major and Mrs. La Coste danced
with merriment.
“ I think Captain Berkeley and I have met be
fore, said the lady, in a musical voice, and the
music of “ Kathleen Aroon ” sounded fresh in
the listener s ears.
» ft’jiy should jye railed be ?”
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 2, 1887.
“Why, indeed !”
“Lawrence, dear, Captain Berkeley was so
very kind; he saved my poor little tiny irom
being hurt by such a horrid savage dog. lam
sure, like myself, you are infinitely obliged to
him.
“Dinner? thanks, the passages are too nar
row for taking arms; we just follow the leader.
Shall Igo first and show the way ? Seo what a
lovely centre-piece your exquisite flowers
make !” and she waved her delicate white hand
toward the bouquet he had left for her, which
was in the middle ot the well-appointed table,
which was laden with beautiful blossoms.
“Lawrence, was it not kind of Captain Berke
ley to send me such lovely exotics? and all in
exchange for a cluster of common rosos ! Don’t
you think I had the best of the bargain?’ 7
“ Undoubtedly,” he laughed, and again their
eyes met.
“I do hope X did not splash you much with
that horrid hose this afternoon; but how was I
to know any one was sitting upon the wall ? You
see, the lane is a private road, and no one ever
passes this way, so I couldn't expect you, could
1?” and she looked at him quizzically.
“ Private !” he faltered. “ I beg your pardon
—I didn’t know.”
“ Ot course not, but you would have been very
welcome, as Lawrence’s iriend, had I been
aware of it, I’m sure, and I must make Tiny re
spect his protector. Lawrence has been away a
whole week in London, and left me here alone.
Did he tell you?”
“ No,” answered the captain. “ I don’t think
ho did.”
He did no justice to the recherche little dinner;
all be wanted to do was to escape. He knew
that he had made a fool of himself, and was well
aware that Mrs. La Costs knew it, too; and
more, that she had told her husband all about
it.
“ Well, now for your confession, Berkeley,”
said the major, as he lighted bis cigar by that
of his friend, and talked between the whiffs.
“ What is she like? Dark or fair, merry or pen
sive ? Beautiful, of course, or she never would
have attracted you.”
“There is no ‘ she’ in the case,” asserted the
other, almost roughly, “ and never will be. I
thought you wanted to hear all about the old
set; there have been a lot ot changes, even in
this short time.”
“And so I do; drive on, Berkeley. I’m set
tled as a good listener,” and he ensconced him
self in an Indian lounging chair, looking
thoroughly at home.
But the captain never before was so vague and
disjointed, and took his leave as early as he
could.
That night he drew up a telegram, and de
sired it might be sent off at the earliest hour the
following morning. It was to his friend, Falkner,
begging him to bring the yacht to fetch him the
same day.
He was waiting upon the seashore with his
small portmanteau beside him when the little
craft hove in sight, and they sent a boat to the
shore to bring him on board.
“ Well, old man, and how is the fair in
amorata ?” laughed his friend, looking at his
clouded face.
“She is, like the rest, a heartless coquette,”
returned Berkeley, savagely.
Captain Falkner gave a long, low whistle.
“Does the wind lie that way ? Well, old fel
low, I was once jilted myself, and I can sympa
thize with you.”
“Jilted!” replied the other sharply. “I’ve
not been jilted. I’ve only been made a fool of.
I fell in love with a married woman, and she
and her husband enjoyed the joke together;
that’s all, and so ends my day dream.”
And from that hour Captain Berkeley has
never been known to mention the subject.
Captain Falkner learned the details later on
from Major La Coste, who seemed to think the
affair rare fun.
THE WIDOW’S DAUGHTER.
BY SEIIGT. BADGER.
In the Winter ot 1864, while a portion of my
regiment—the New York Twenty-fifth Cavalry—
was at Pleasant Valley, M<l., to obtain a re
mount, word was received by the post com
mander that a Contederade scout named Wil
liam Baxter, but who was known to us as “Billy
Bowlegs,” was on a visit to his mother, who
lived between the Potomao at that point and a
village in Virginia called Uniontown.
There were a number ot Col. Kane’s “ Buck
tails” scouting for the Federals and making
Pleasant Valley their headquarters, and as I
had been detailed on several occasions for
scout service, and had made a good record, I
was instructed to select five men and cross the
river and secure “Billy,” dead or alive. The
fact that he was at home was fully established,
and the location of the farm-house was known
to two of the men who accompanied me. We
were ferried across the Potomao one evening at
dusk, just where the long highway bridge bad
been burned, and then we had a walk of about
eleven miles to make.
Although “ Billy Bowlegs” was a fearless
man and a handy shot, we didn’t figure that it
would need five men to capture him. The
country between the river and Uniontown was
then overrun with bushwhackers and guer
rillas, and we anticipated more or less trouble
with them.
The scout had been twice captured by the
Federals, and he was described to us as of slen
der build, medium hight, fair complexion and
dark eyes. Enough was known about his nerve
to know that he would not bo taken alive if he
had any show to fight, and therefore as we ap
proached the bonse about midnight from across
a field, we were anxiously wondering bow we
should get at him. If we knocked at the door
he would bo alarmed, and have time to arm
himself. If we broke ft in we might, and prob
ably should, find him in bed.
It was a a till, clear night, rather cold, and we
hung about for half an hour before adopting a
plan. Thon we decided to break in the
doors. Two of us went to the front and two to
the back door, while the fifth man stood ready
to receive the scout in case be dropped from a
second-story window, supposed to be in his
bed-room. We crept softly up, and at a signal,
both doors were burst
No, they weren’t. Neither of them gave an
inch under-the pressure, and in response to the
efforts we made, a woman’s voice called out:
“ Wh. is it, and what’s wanted ?”
“ Open the door or we’ll break it down.”
“ Wait one minute.”
She struck a light, and we heard her moving
about, and in a couple of minutes the front door
was opened, and a gray-haired woman of forty
five stood there with a candle in her hand.
“Union soldiers, eh? Come right in," she
said, smiling as if glad to see us.
I posted throe men around the house and
entered with the other, and as soon as I was in
side, I said :
“ Madam, we have come for your son. We
know he is here. We shall take him dead or
alive.”
“ Oh, you have come for Billy, have you 1” ex
claimed a girl about eighteen years of age who
came running down stairs at that moment.
“ Excuse me, gentlemen, for not being fully
dressed, but you see you didn’t send us any
word.”
She laughed in a merry way, while the mother
smiled good-naturedly. She had on a neat fitting
calico dress, a ribbon at her throat, and except
that her hair looked “ tumbled ’’ she looked as
well prepared as if she expected our coming.
“ Yes, Jennie, they want Billy,” said the
mother as she placed the candle on a stand.
“And wo arc bound to take him, dead or
alive I” I added in a loud voice, suspecting the
scout was within hearing.
“Oh, how sorry!” laughed the girl. “If
brother Billy had only known you were com
ing! But he didn’t, you see, and so he went
away at dark. He'll never forgive himself—
never I”
“ We must search the house,” I said.
“ Oh, certainly. Mammy, you light another
candle and I’ll show the gentlemen around.
Perhaps the sight of Billy’s old clothes will do
’em good.”
Well, sir, we hunted that house from attic to
cellar, and all we found was an old suit of Billy’s
clothes. The scout had skipped, and the best
I could do was to apologize to mother and
daughter, accept a midnight luncheon at the
hands of the latter, and take the back-track for
the river. I’ll own up, too, that I was “dead
gone” on Jennie before I left, and that I said to
her, as I squeezed her hand at parting:
“ When the war is over I’m coming to ask you
to be my wife.”
“And—and—l’ll say—say y e-s,” she whis
pered in my ear.
We got back to the ferry soon after daylight,
and there met a Union farmer living neighbor
to the widow. When he heard what we had
been up to he asked:
“ Was the widder all alone ?”
“ No; her daughter Jennie was with her.”
“Daughter Jennie? Describe her.”
“Good looking girl of medium bight, black
eyes and hair, and a sweet talker. I’m goin<r
back to marry her after the war is over.’ ’ °
“Bet you a farm you don’t! That ar’gal
Jennie was nobody else but that ar’ scout, Billy
Bowlegs ! He jist jumped into some of hie mam
my’s clothes, and you pig-heads couldnt see
through it I”
He was right. I met Billy in Barner’s Ferry
after the war, and he wanted to know if I had
taken out the marriage license yet.
Ihe Medieval M ateria M edica.
Ideas that Prevailed when Doctors were
Not Appreciated.
(From the London Times.)
A ring made of the hinge of a coffin was
credited with the power of relieving cramps,
which also received solace when a rusty old
sword was hung np by the patient’s bedside.
Nails driven into an oak tree were not a cure
but a preventive, against headache. A halter
which had served to hang a criminal withal
when bound round the temples, was found an
infallible remedy for headache. A dead man’s
hand could dispel tumors of the glands by
stroking the parts nine times, but the hand of a
man who had been cut down from the gallows
tree was, we need not Bay, a remedy infinitely
more efficacious. Some of these remedies still
exist among the superstitious poor of the
provinces, although the formula, of course, ia
not now strictly adhered to, the game being
emphatically hardly worth the candle. To cure
warts, for instance, the best thing was to steal a
piece of beef from the butcher, with which the
warts were to be rubbed, after which it was to
be interred, and as the process of decomposi
tion went on the warts would wither and dis
appear.
The chips of a gallows on which several per
sona had Hsu hanged, when worn jn a bag‘
round the neck, was pronounced an infallible
cure for the ague. Tho nightmare, supposed,
of course, to be caused by supernatural agency,
was banished by means of a stone with a hole
in it being suspended at the head of the suffer
er’s bed. This last remedy went by the name
of a hag-stone, because it prevented the witches,
who, of course, wrought the mischief, from sit
ting on tho patient’s stomach. Its effect upon
these mischievous old crones was singularly
deterrent. The poor old creatures, who could
not have sat on a horse the moment he began
to walk, were credited with riding these ani
mals over the moorland at headlong speed in
the dead of night, when better disposed and
less frisky people were wrapped in slumber.
A hag-stone, tied to the key of a stable door, at
once put a stop to these heathenish vagaries.
ANOTHER LOST ART.
CAUSES FOR THE EACK OF POL
ISHED CONVERSATION.
(From the London News.)
“Conversation,” says Shakespeare, “should
be pleasant without scurrility, witty without
affectation, free without indecency, learned with
out conoeitedness, novel without falsehood.”
Such conversation is but too rare. Indeed, con
versation, in ordinary circles, may be said to bo
a lost art. It is not cultivated as it was in the
days of old, when wit was considered a neces
sary part of a fine gentleman’s equipage. Con
versational powers were then rated highly, and
my lord’s latest epigram created at least as
much interest as would now be caused by his
descendant’s last big score on the cricket field.
There have, of course, always been giants in
this field as in every other. We remember
Johnson, not by his works, but by the records
of his conversation handed down to ns by Bos
well. We know what were the powers of Popo,
of Swift, of Garrick. We can refer to the “ Ta
ble Talk” ot Coleridge and Leigh Hunt; of
Lamb and Sidney Smith we have vivid recollec
tions that make their discourse almost as
charming to ns as it was to their auditors.
There were, too, varieties among these giants.
Johnson overbore the company with his sledge
hammer style of talk, and Carlyle, it was said,
would let no one speak but himself. In these
the fault was pardonable, and we agree with
tho writer who said that Coleridge was entitled
to speak on till doomsday. Genins makes its
own exceptions, but, as a rule, it is true that
“there should never be a first fiddle in a pri
vate concert.”
Conversation, to be truly delightful, must
not consist largely of a solo. Many must par
ticipate in the music, add.ng their share of har
mony according to their differing natures and
gi ts. Conversation, in fact, should be a salad,
judiciously mixed, and no one element prepon
derating. We all know the man who has his
hobby to ride, the man who can only take an in
terest in his own particular “ shop,” the man
who gushes, and ho who would make life one
prolonged sneer. Those should be rigorously
suppressed. There is the would-be wit who in
dulges in weak personalities, and the genial
bore who tells long stories and mnddles the
point. These should be tamed ; it is a shame
to let such range wild through the pleasant pas
tures of converse. They only ruthlessly tram
ple on the delicate flowers of wit and epigram,
of fancy and imagination; and the perfume of
poetry is lost upon them.
Let only those converse who can do so with
courtesy and self-restraint; let each submit hie
thought or experience for comment or judg
ment, and be willing, in his turn, to listen to
the thoughts and experiences of others. The
conversation of to-day is usually intensely heavy
or exceedingly empty. The reason, probably,
is not far to seek. Our newspapers do our con
versation for us. It wo are frivolous, we can
find froth enough in the “ society ” journals ; if
we are seriously inclined, wo turn with a sigh—
not of weariness, of course, but of conscious
virtue—to the instructive weeklies ;if we like
harping on one string, there are plenty of
“ specialists ” among our papers, and wo can
easily find one devoted to art, literature, sport,
or what we will. There we can converse with
out any trouble, and, if we can find matter con
trary to our views, can easily ejaculate, “The
m n’s a fool!” and no harm is done.
Butin the days before newspapers were a
power in the laud, colloquial discourse was a
necessity. Then men conveyed news to men by
word of mouth. Now every one knows every
thing before they meet, and the first freshness
has worn off. People did not read " reviews”
and “ criticisms,” but reviewed and criticised
themselves, and the smartness on which a mod
ern journalist prides himself was aimed at by
all. The use of the sword tended to preserve
among men more moderation and dignity in the
choice ot words than is now common, while the
discerning approbation of fair women caused
gallants, in times when all were gallants,
to endeavor to appear as brilliant in conver
sation as they were dazzling in velvet and
satin. They were as desirous of being a suc
cess in the art ot drawing-room thrust and parry
as their descendants are of shining at the pigeon
shooting at Hurlingham.
But nowadays conversation baa lost its
point, its sparkle and its vivacity. Our
wits, if we have any, keep their epigrams and
“ good things” lor fancied comedies; our poets
send their sonnets to magazines, instead of de
lighting Lady Amaranth’s gnests with them. In
stead of delightful conversationalists we get in
different essayists and weak rhymsters, all
rushing into prink with pitiable precipitancy.
For the drawing-room is as different from the
press in its demands as is the amateur platform
Horn the stage, and the talents which show so
brightly in the small arena are eclipsed in the
wider sphere. What is left for the use of mod
ern convereat on is the small talk of gossips, the
scandal clubs, the inanities of the ball-room, or
the pedantries of specialists.
At our “at homes” we are forced to call in the
assistance of professional entertainers, for we
are incapable ol entertaining ourselves. It
says something, perhaps, for society that it has
at last awakened to the fact of its incompetence,
and no longer forces us to listen to the slang of
men fresh from the cricket field or stable—more
familiar with the pedigree of horses than the
rules of the sonnet. It is not every one “who
could speak for hours, days, months and years
about the weather without e'er becoming tire
some,” and the weather is apt to crop up too
often in the conversation of the present day.
It is better to enjoy the strains of some divine
songster or a petite comedie interpreted by gifted
actors.
The salon of the past finds no true successor
in the crush of modern receptions. Hands may
meet there, but hardly minds. There are still
little coteries whoso reunions form a welcome
oasis in the conversational desert; but the ordi
nary assemblies ot fashion provide more wine
than wit, and the gregarious instincts of society
are satisfied by mixing without blending. In an
old comedy a lady affected to distinguish a
“gentleman" by his conversation, which, she
affirmed, “could not be counterfeit.” It is
doubtful if the distinction holds good among us
nowadays.
The discourse of our so-called “ gentlemen ”
is usually marked by a singularly limited vo
cabulary ot adjectives and an alarming pre
ponderance of interjections. Mere “ talking,”
of course, is not conversation. Beatrice won
ders that Signor Benedick will “evermore be
talking,” but we should find no fault with our
Benedicks if they talked with equal brilliancy.
It is by conversing that we have, usually, to
find out the heart and mind of those we meet.
It is the more regretable that opportunities for
such discourse are rare. What with our sports,
our theatres, our concerts, our amateur enter
tainments, our “ charitable ” exhibitions of
budding talent—the charity, it is understood,
is notehown toward the audience—our balls,
and other pastimes, we have little leisure for
conversation, and Jonson and Shakespeare, had
they been lions ot our era, would never have
engaged in those “wit combats” that so de
lighted their happy contemporaries. If we can
talk, we must hide our gift; there is no time lor
more than persiflage.
For the benefit, then, of those who maybe
unduly anxious to prove the superiority of their
conversation we may repeat the advice of Lord
Chesterfield: “Never hold any one by the but
ton or the hand in order to be heard out, for if
people are unwilling to hear you you had bet
ter hold your tongue than them.”
“ thTtexw
ORIGIN OF THE NAME.
The term “ Texas,” applied to the hurricane
deck of a steamboat, had its origin on the Mis
sissippi, in 1845. When boats were first built,
the pilot-house was placed on the hurricane
deck. Finally, in the above-mentioned year,
the pilot-house was placed up higher, and un
derneath it was made a room or two, with about
six or eight berths in it. When a tough passen
ger came on board and had sufficient money to
pay his cabin fare, the clerk, not wishing to put
him among the cabin passengers, gave him a
bunk in this little cabin, and sometimes it would
be filled with some of the worst roughs in the
country. Finally the officers of the boat, owing
to the toughness of the room, christened it
Texas, after the State of Texas, which, at that
time, was noted for its wild cowboys, robbers
and the like. Boats of late years, and especially
the large ones, are built with a full-length
Texas, which is occupied by the dfficers and
crew.
A good story is told of a bluff old river cap
tain and the great American statesman, the late
William H. Seward. In the Presidential cam
paign of 1860, Seward made a trip up the Mis
sissippi, as far as St. Paul, in the interest of Lin
coln, the Republican leader. He took passage
for the Northwest at Burlington, on one of the
finest side-wheelers of the day, and, at his own
request, was given a berth the first night in the
Texas, which happened to be filled with rev
elers.
On the following morning, in the hearing of
the captain, he soundly berated the officers of
the boat to a political friend, who accompanied
him, for allowing a party of drunken men to in
fringe upon the rights and destroy the peace of
the rest of the passengers. The master of the
boat, who did not know that the speaker was
Seward, and would not have been at all mealy
mouthed if he had, turned upon him and blunt
ly told him that he was captain of that boat, and
that it he didn’t like the way things were con
ducted on it, he might go to h—ll.
“Go to h—ll, sir,” replied Seward, with great
vehemence, I have already been there, sir. I
slept in the Texas last night.” It is related
when the captain found out who his passenger
was, although a staunch Douglas man, he
cleaned the Texas of its noisy gang of occu
pants and gave it up to Seward the remainder
of the trip, and that the two “ made it up” be
tween them over a bottle of Kentucky whisky
and some rare Havanas,
SIGNS OF THE HEREAFTER.
WHEN DEATH IS AT HAND.
Most of our readers have seen friends ceiled’
suddenly away from life, and it may be useful
to remind them of some of the numerous in
stances of indications being accepted as signs
of death which are not necessarily so.
There are people who have died simply because
they have fancied they had to die, and others
who have been frightened to death by the sense
less predictions of those around them. It might
be imagined, indeed, that the day has gone by
for the influence of superstition, but a closer
acquaintance with human nature will bear out
the tact that cheerfulness on the one hand and
a joyous disregard of the morbid prognostica
tions of others on the other, will often go a long
way to conserve existence.
The first symptom of approaching death is
the strong presentiment that they are about to
die. A famous mathematician, while in appar
ent health, declined to take pupils on the
ground that he was approaching his end, and he
expired shortly of an apoplectic stroke. Mozart
composed his famous requiem for himself.
When life was flitting fast he called for the
score, and, musing over it, said: “ Did I not
tell you it was for myself I composed this death
chant ?”
Hogarth was aked what his next subject was
to be. He answered, “ The end of all things.”
“In that case,” some one remarked, “there
will be an end of the painter.” “ There will,”
he replied, “ and therefore the sooner my work
is done, the better.” When he had completed
his labors he broke his palette, saying: “ 1
have finished,” and he died before the print,
under the title of “ Finis,” was shortly after
published.
The old idea was, that these forebodings of
approaching dissolution were due to supernatu
i ral agency. It was supposed that the guardian
genius who was thought to attend on man, gave
him a warning in some form or other. John
Hunter, a famous anatomist and surgeon, who
died a little less than a century ago, took a
more rationalistic view of the matter. “We
sometimes,” he says, “feel within ourselves
that we shall not live, for the living powers be
come weak and the nerves communicate the in
telligence to the brain,” To himself something
very singular happened. On leaving home, he
said that if a discussion which he was going to
at the hospital, took an angry turn, it would be
the death of him. During the debate a col
league gave him the lie, and he expired almost
immediately after in an adjoining room.
When health is failing we accept some circum
stance as an omen which, at another t me, we
should pay no attention to. The death of a con
temporary which raises no fears in the young
and vigorous is often regarded by the old and
feeble as a summons to themselves. Foote
stood before the portrait of his brother actor,
Weston, with his eyes full of tears.
“ Poor Weston,” he said. “ Soon others shall
say, ‘Poor Foote.”’
And a few days afterward, to every one’s sur
prise, he died. There is very little doubt that
whatever may be the case to-day, many an idle
belief in superstitious times lent a stimulus to
disease, and pushed into the grave those who
happened to be trembling on the brink. Kings
and princes took the shows of the skies as their
particular snare. Louise of Savoy, the mother
of Francis 1., when sick of a fever, saw, or
thought she saw, a comet.
“Ha I” she exclaimed, “ there is an omen
which appears not for people of low degree;
God sends it for us great. Shut the window;
it announces my death; I must prepare.”
Notwithstanding all the doctors could say to
the contrary, she persisted in her opinion, and
surely enough died three days after.
But persons in sound health have died from
the expectation of dying. It was once common
for those who perished by violence to summon
their destroyers to appear within a stated time
before the tribunal of God; and there are many
instances in which, through the united influ
ence of fear and remorse, the perpetrators
withered under the curse and died.
Pestilence does not kill with the certainty of
terror. There is a well-authenticated case of a
condemned man handed over to some French
physicians, who told him of their intention to
kill him by the easiest method known to the
art. Covering his face with a cloth, they
pinched him in imitation of the prick of a lan
cet, placed his feet in a bath, and conversed to
gether concerning the supposed symptoms.
The man died without the loss of a drop of
blood. Montaigne tells of a man who Was par
doned upon the scaffold, and was found to have
expired while waiting for the stroke.
- “Another curious fact in connection with this
mysterious but always interesting subject is
that there seems to be a real relationship be
tween the wish and the power to live. Doctors
and nurses have strange stories to tell of cases
in which a strong motive for living has seemed
sufficient to recall patients from the grasp of
death. Sometimes the mere assurance, given
in a confident manner but a doubting heart, that
recovery is possible, seems to give strength to
rally and may turn the scale in favor of life.
There are cases on record on the other hand,
where the announcement that there is no hope,
though met with perfect apparent calmness, has
seemed to sap the strength in a moment and
cause a sudden and rapid sinking. The practi
cal moral of all this is that it is neither
wise nor kind to go about stating opinions about
the physical condition of others in this matter,
and predicting events which, after all, if they
do occur, happen “more by good luck than
good guiding.” It is just a few days ago that
the writer heard an angry Evangelist arguing
with a man whom he evidently thought a
skeptic. The question was about the inspira
tion of the Bible, and the red-hot and headed
Evangelist was strong on its verbal inspiration,
which his antagonist would not or could not
admit.
“Sir,” said the prophet and teacher, “if you
do not change your opinions you will end your
life by committing suicide.”
It seemed to me a terrible ending to a some
what indifferent matter, but it affords a very
good illustration of the careless way that many
people deal with the life and destiny of others.
There are many strange actions connected
with the exit of the soul from the body at death.
One is, and it is said still to obtain in this as
well as in other countries, that the departure of
life is delayed so long as any locks or bolts in
the house are fastened. This is a common su
perstition in France and Germany, and is also
found among the Chinese, who mako a hole in
the roof to let out the soul. In some parts of
Holland, when a child is dying, persons shade
it from the parents’ gaze with their hands to
hide the sympathetic glanoe, which is supposed
to detain the soul. Every one knows how com
mon the superstition regarding nurses in con
nection with death has been, as perhaps it still
is. There was the “ death-watch —
"The solemn death-watch clicks the hour of
death.”
Then the howling dog at night has been long
and firmly believed in. Another omen of death
is the hovering of birds around a house and
their tapping against a window-pane; another is
the crowing of a cock at midnight. So, fires and
candles have been considered indicators of ap
proaching death—coffins flying out of the former
and winding sheets guttering down the latter.
Indeed, the superstitions on the subject have
been endless, and, if this be in reality an age of
skepticism, and much doubt exists in our midst
as to the reality of anything which we can
neither touch, taste nor handle, there is much
comfort in thinking that we have at least come
to disbelieve, among other things in much that
is ridiculous and mischievous.
Many great men have expressed a wish as to
the kind of death they wanted to die, and they
have mostly desired a sudden death. Ca sar,
Gustavus Adolphus and Nelson are among the
number. Ctrsar was murdered, Gustavus Adol
phus died on the battle field of Lutzen and Nel
son at Trafalgar amid the roar of cannon. Per
haps in this matter old Fuller, who had thought
over all possible modes of exit, arrived at the
wisest conclusion. “None please me. But
away with such thoughts: the mark must not
choose what arrow shall be shot against it.”
After all the choice is not ours to make, and if
it were the privilege would prove an embarrass
ment. This is certain, that of the innumerable
weapons with which death is armed the worst is
lees intolerable than imagination presents it —
his visage is more terrible than his dart.
THREE QUEER BIRDS.
A VALIANT AND USEFUL TRIO.
The trumpeter bird is the rag-picker of the
woods and swamps of Guiana, where he is al
ways at work at his trade, with his stomach for
a pack and his bill for a hook. He performs a
most useful but most extraordinary service
devouring a perfect multitude of snakes, frogs’
scorpions, spiders, lizards and the like crea
tures. But this terrible bird can be made per
fectly tame. On the Guiana plantations, says
the l out/i’s Companion, he may be seen fra
ternizing with the chickens, ducks and turkeys;
accompanying them in their walks, defending
them from their enemies, separating quarrel’
era with strokes ofhis bill, sustaining the young
and feeble, and waking the echoes with his
trumpet while he brings home his flocks at
night.
The trumpeter is as handsome as he is use
ful. Noble and haughty in his aspect, he raises
himself up on his long, yellow-gaitered legs,
and seems to say, “I am the trumpeter, the
scourge of reptiles and the protector ot the
flocks I”
In Southern Africa there is another great ex
terminator of reptiles—the snake-eater, or sec
retary bird—a magnificent creature, who at
tacks the largest serpents, making a shield of
his wings and a sword ot his beak. The name
of “ secretary bird” is derived from the plumes
projecting backward from the head, which look
like quill pens carried behtnd one’s ear.
In South America, in the very neighborhood
of the trumpeter’s home, there lives the Kami
chi, or Kamiki, who wears a sharp horn pro
jecting from his forehead and a murderous
spur upon each of his wings. With these throe
weapons, the serpents that he attacks are pow
erless against him, and are easily put to death.
The secretary bird, the Kamichi, and the
trumpeter form a valiant and useful trio. The
trumpeter has two merits above the others—the
ease with which he can be domesticated and his
musical talent.
The natives have a saying that he has swal
lowed a cornet. Whether promenading or war
making he fills the air with his trumpet-calls;
and at the sound ot his voice of brass the rep
tiles take to flight. Presently the bird arrives
flapping his wings and wielding them like a
sword. Having killed the serpent, the trum
peter sounds his blast of victory, as he had
sounded his charge.
A QUAKER GOWEN WEDDING
BY G. B. STEBBINS, DETROIT, MICH.
(From the Chicago Inter-Ocean.)
In Eastern Pennsylvania on© finds the spirit
and ways of Quakerism, a good influence help
ing to sincerity and quiet self-poise, and to
friendly hospitality and simple manners. Their
country life is marked by thrift and abundant
comfort. It is an old saying that “ a Quaker
never settles on poor land.” Chester county,
near Philadelphia, shows the rich results of two
centuries of Quaker farming, and the emigrants
from that region make the Western wilderness
bloom into fine fruitfulness wherever they go.
Not only this, but they give new warmth to the
air and new wealth and peace to life as results
of the good old ways of the Friends. The strict
ness of dress and discipline may be relaxed, but
when they keep the better part, “ the spirit
which giveth life,” it is well.
Visiting that region this Spring, I passed the
solid brick farm-house a few miles north of
Kennett Square, where John and Hannah Cox
spent more than fifty years together, and the
memory of pleasant visits at that restful home
in the old anti-slavery days and of their golden
wedding came up with vivid freshness.
That homestead had an air of comfort and
abundance. All around were the well-tilled
fields and sunny slopes of the farm, with ample
old barns and outhouses near at hand by the
roadside. A grassy yard, with its wealth ot
roses and shrubbery and great overshadowing
trees and old-fashioned brown picket fence; the
old orchard; the garden, with its medicinal
herbs, its small fruits and vegetables, and its
blooming flowers near the bee-hives, fitly sur
rounded the substantial dwelling. The old
house, with its narrow and irregular passage
ways, steep staircases, cozy, low-ceiled rooms
with small window-panes, cheery dining-room
with old-style, blue-figured ware on the stout
table; great kitchen; odd nooks and corners,
old furniture—home-like, quaintly plain, yet
dear to the eye and heart; pictures, old and new,
mementoes of friendship and affection, and
books from “George Fox’s Journal'’ to “The
Liberty Bell” and Emerson—was lull of attract
ive interest and was indeed a home. There had
sons and daughters been born; from thence had
they gone out, but this was the centre, the place
full of heart-warmth and welcome, They had
many visitors.
In the old slave days the doors opened for the
fugitive to enter, and opened again for him to
start refreshed, on his way to freedom. No
piece ot property ot this kind, with its face set
toward the North Star, was ever taken south
ward from that house. Sometimes their visitors
were of quite different degree. William D.
Kelley, of Philadelphia, and his large-hearted
wife greatly prized their occasional visits. Ea
mund Quincy, ot Boston, that courteous and
accomplished old-school gentleman and pioneer
abolitionist, found interest and instruction in
the talk ot the intelligent daughters and sons,
as well a« in that of the parents. William Lloyd
Garrison was a welcome visitor and correspond
ent. Tired itinerants in the anti-slavery field
found a home there. In the sitting-room was a
curious album—a wax plant trailed up the walls
and over the windows, on the leaves ot which
were pricked the names of their visitors, each
making an autograph, and all a long and inter
esting list, the thriving plant literally keeping
their memory green.
In the early Autumn of 1875, fortunately on a
lovely September day, came their golden wed
ding. Tables were spread in the yard beneath
the trees; seventy-five guests sat down; fit and
choice were the speeches, presents were of the
best kind—not golden tinsel and vain display,
but books and pictures and fine simplicity ot
tasteful mementoes. Whittier sent a poem;
Bayard Taylor, their neighbor from boyhood, a
letter and’ present from Germany; messages
came from the South and West, and from Wash
ington, Philadelphia, New York and Boston,
and the golden wedding testimonials gave add
ed interest and heart-warmth to the household
rooms.
John Cox was one of the steadfast men, indus
trious, of few words, wise in advice, only given
when asked for and whose weight and worth
grew on acquaintance. His plain yet attractive
features and solid frame typified his character.
Hannah Cox was large in person, with open and
animated features full of life and intelligence,
finely expressive eyes, a noble head, and an air
of large motherliness. She was a mother in
deed to the sick and needy, and the sight of her
Jersey wagon, as she went her rounds in the
neighborhood with medicines and food, has
made many a sick heart glad.
The letters and poems sent to the golden
wedding, lyith s?me sketch of its events, were
printed in a valuable book, only for private cir
culation. But a few months after Hannah Cox
passed away, aged eighty-five, and her hus
x band, over ninety years old, soon joined her.
In 1876 I enjoyed a day in that home with the
family| and with William Lloyd Garrison, dur
ing the sessions of the Longwood Yearly Meet
ing of Progressive Friends, where he read a tes
timonial, prepared at the request of the meet
ing, touching the life and character of HannaU
Cox.
This family, reared in the midst ot Quaker
ism, familiar with the views of Elias Hicks, not
bound by the letter of the discipline, but faith
ful to the “inner light” of duty, trained in the
grand school of anti-slavery and its kindred re
form of women’s equality, did their full share of
work on the farm and in the kitchen, after the
farmer fashion, while their social life reached to
the most cultivated persons. Without college
diplomas or academical honors they graduated
in the sedool of plain living and high thinking,
and so gained grace and power of character,
and a sweet simplicity of manners which gave
them place with the best persons. From such
homes go out the influences that keep this world
in its upward way. It is fortunate for us that
the tide of emigration sets westward, so that
those educated in such homes may cast their
lot among us and help in the needed work of
creating a higher civilization.
This operatic manager had
A FINE COLLECTION OF OLD CROWS.
My prima donna is 99,
My tenor 97,
But they can sing with tones divine
Like angels up in Heaven.
My baritone of great renown
Is 84 and hoary;
But he can yell an engine down
In Verdi's “ Trovatore."
My second donna’s 83
And fat as Pastor (Tony),
But she can sing way down to G,
And gurgle like Al bom.
My sweet contralto, all the rage,
Can count 100 summers,
While 90 is my leader's age,
And 85 my drummer’s.
The bass is nearly 98,
The office by is 50,
But they succeed in dodging fate
And manage to keep tbritty.
My choristers and birds of song
(And heaven knows I’ve plenty,)
Have warbled lor me all along
Since eighteen hundred twenty.
While all the operas I brought out
Since fortune made me bolder.
Without the slightest trace of doubt
Are several decades older.
Tho “ beautiful city of the sea ”
DID NOT FAVORABLY IMPRESS A MISSISSIP
PIAN.
An American traveler, while in Venice, met a
man dressed in the unmistakable "toggery ” of the
Mississippi River bottoms.
“Ah,” said the traveler, approaching the South
erner, •• I am not acquainted with you, but I am
glad to see you, for I know you are from my
country.”
“ 1 am from Mississippi.”
•• I knew it,” said ‘the traveler, extending his
band. “What do you think of Venice ?”
“ Well, I don’t reckon I orter express my opinion,
fur I didn’t get here till arter the overflow, and
hain’t had a chance to see the town; but as the
water ’pears to be on a stand now I reckon it’ll be
gin to go down putty soon, an’l’low that when
she starts she’ll go down right peart.”
“ My gracious, man ! this is not an overflow.”
“ Then it’s about as lively a freshet as I ever
seed. In our country when we have to paddle
round the streets in canoes wo call it a pooty good
overflow.”
“ You don't understand. This is Venice, and the
Water is always here.”
“You don’t say so! An’ does the government
issue rations to all these folks ?**
“Of course not. This town was built this way
to ”
“ Well, that mout be, but I call this a overflow
all the same. But if it ain’t going to fall enough
for me to seo the town, I reckon I’d better go. -This
is the blamest swamp I ever seed.”
Old Carl Dunder not yet having decided as to
his return to Germany indulges this week in
A TALK WITH THE BOYS.-
Shildren, I like to ta’.k mit you a leedle on two
subjects. One subject vbas being good, und der
odder subject vhas being badt. I suppose you haf
heard of Sheorge Washington ? He vhas an awful
nice mans. Vhen he vbas a poy so high ho doan’
make no more troubles as a cat. He goes to pod in
der dark und doan* make one kick. He doan’ shteal
nor lie nor sbeat nor play dot confidence game on
somepody. One time he takes down bis fadder’s
shotgun und kills a calf in der lot. His fadder
comes home und sees dot calf und call oudt in loud
voice:
“ Who vhas dot out down my favorite sherry tree?
Let der villain shtand pefore me!”
- Dot leedle Sheorge he vhas awful scart, und his
knees wobble like dis, und he wished he vhas deadt.
But he vhas like some hero. He should tell der
truth if he vbas brained mit a club, und so he
shpoke oop und says:
“ Fadder, I can’t tell some lies. It vbas me, but
I didn’t know it vhas loaded.”
“ My son, come to my arms I” sbpoke dot fadder.
und he shed some tears und gif leedle Sheorge a $2
continental bill.
Dot vhas Sheorge Washington’s start,in life. He
doan’ tell a lie, und he gets to be a great sheneral
und vhas President. You see, if you vhas good you
vbas sure to be rewarded. When you vhas leedle
you vhas rewarded mit shweet cake und white
sugar; vhen you grow oop you haf a fat office und
vhas called der fadder of your country. Dot vhas
being good. I now tell you how it vhas to be padt.
One time dere vhas a leedle poy named Horace
Greeley. It seemed like he was pad all oafer. If he
play marbles mit some poy he sheat him out of
more ash ton dollar. He bites der school teacher in
der leg und runs avhay, und pefore he vhas ten
years old he shteals a horse. One day he goes mit
der court for breaking a window, und der shudge
say:
“ Horace, vy did yon do like dis ?”
“Your Honor,” replies dot poy, “I cannot tell
some lies. I vhas in Chicago vhen Shim Brown
tweaks dot glass I”
Dot vhas der beginning of his downward career
He goes to New York and starts a saloon called del
Tribune, und he invents a by-word called "Ge
West,” und he finally grows so badt dot he kills a
man named Peter Cooper, und vhas hung until ha
vhas deadt.
Now, shildren, you see der difference. If you
like to be good it pays you two hoonered cents on
der dollar. If you like to be badt you shall come to
some awful end. I could go on und tell you of del
fat® of Sheorge W. Childs, Shay Gould, Russell Sago
und odder mon who vhas badt und vbas sent to
destruction, but I pelief you doan’ need him. Der
poy or girl who doan’ befia highway robber or red
handed murderer, shall grow up respected und
happy und wear more ash one hoonered rhine
stones.
The “ Tid-Bita” has thia pretty little acene
concerning
THE PHENOMENAL BABY.
“ Oh, George !” cried young Mrs. Merry, running
to meet her husband at the door. I’ve something
the best to tell you.”
“ No ?” said George; “ what is it ?*’
“Why don’t you think —the baby can talk! Yes,
sir, actually talk ! He’s said ever and ever so many
things. Come right into the mursery and hear
him."
George went in.
“ Now, baby,” said mamma, persuasively, “ talk
some for papa. Say, * How do you do, papa ?’ ”
“ Goo, goo, goo, goo," says baby.
"Hear him!” shrieks mamma ecstatically.
“Wasn’t that just as plain as plain ran be ?”
George says it is, and he tries to think so, too.
*’ Now say, ‘l’m glad to see you, papa.* ”
“Da, da, boo, bee, boo.”
“Did you ever ?" cries mamma. “He can just
say everything ! Now you precious little honey bun
ny boy, say, 'Are you well, papa?’ *’
"800, ba, de, goo, goo.”
“There it is,” said mamma. “Did you ever know
a child of his age who could really talk as he does ?
He can j ust say anything he wants to; can’t you,
you own dear little darling precious, you ?”
“Goo, goo, dee, dee, di. goo.”
“Hear that ? He says, ‘Of course I can,* just as
plainly as anybody could say it. Oh, George, it
really worries me to have him so phenomenally
bright. These very brilliant bab:es nearly always
die young.
SCINTILLATIONS.
Arsenic-eating produces clear, whita
tombstones.
The Smithsonian Institution ought to
pla?e a traveling minstrel show among its archaeo
logical specimens.
In Singapore, if a lover can catch his
adored in a canoe race he can marry her. Hence
the expression, canoebial bliss.
At the Club—“ Is old Guzzler intel
ligent?" “Well, there are times when he can tell
ice oream from hot rum, but not often.”
On the wedding journey : He (senti
mentally—Darling, do you love me better than
your first husband ? Ehe —Certainly. He's dead.
Robert—“ Gimme some pie.” Mam
ma (reprovingly)—“‘Gimme some pie!’ What
else do you say ?’’ Robert—“ And hurry up about
it.”
To trim ship is to restore the centre
of gravity to a point about which all its parts ar®
balanced. To trim a bonnet is to make it top
heavy.
Nobody who pretends to be anything
in society and belongs to the better classes will
have a cold in the head nowadays. Hay fever is
tho proper thing.
An Omaha real estate man was attack
ed by three footpads the other night. He killed
one and forced the other two to buy a thirty days’
option on town lots.
Extract from evidence in a petty ses
sions case: Counsel—So far as you saw, she was do
ing her ordinary household duty ? Witness—l
should say so; she was talking,
A Western editor is wondering how he
is ever going to get his clothes on over his wing®
after he gets to heaveu. That editor is borrowing
trouble from the wrong pawnshop.
Wife (in the cabin, anxiously)—What’a
the trouble on deck, Charley ? Yacht Owner—The
jib sheet is lost overboard. Wife—Well, why don’t
they come and take one from the state-rooms?
“Is that a valuable ring you’ve got
on, Gus ?” asked a John street salesman. Gus—
I’ve hung it up for $75. Jack—You don’t say so?
Gus—-Yes. Seventy-five times—dollar each time.
Great Actress—Oh, Mr. de Stage, wa
can’t play to-night. Traveling Manager—Why not ?
Actress—Our trunks haven’t arrived, and we
haven’t a thing to wear. Manager—That's all right.
I’ll put on a burlesque.
It is believed that hall the swells who
have shone resplendent at Bar Harbor and otbt r
gilded resorts have returned to town eager to inter
view their uncle. Dead broke is the watchword all
along the impecunious line.
“ Yes, we took in the spas this sum
mer,”
Said a maid who had plenty of tin;
But the father was lost when he counted ths
cost,
And he said; “Yes, this pa’s takes ip,”
A stout, red-nosed man in a hotel, of
fered to wager a sovereign that he could close hi®
eyes, and, simply by taste, name any kind of liquor
in the place. The bet was taken. “ This is genuine
port,” taid the fat man, tasting from a wine gbras:
"and this is whisky,” and so on. A wag then pour
ed a few drops of water into a glass, and handed it
to the taster. “This is—ah—ah—this is ,”
tasting it several times. •• By Jupiter, gentlemen I
I have lost the bet. I never tasted this liquor be
fore.”
At Glasgow, in a private house, Dr.
von Bulow, having been asked by his hostess what
he thought of her piano, replied in these words,
“Madam, your piano leaves something to be des
ired." “It needs new strings/’ he added, in an
swer to the lady’s inquiries as to what it really re
quired. “The hammers, too, want new leather,’*
he continued; “and, while you are about it, with
the new leather you may as well have new wood.
Then, when the inside of your piano has been com
pletely renovated,” he concluded, having now work
ed himself into a rage, ‘ call in two strong men,
throw it out of the window, and burn it in tho
street."
WMSEWiI
Hemorrhages.
Nose, or from any cause is speedily con
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Sores, Sprains, Bruises.
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CiSf JIFFh 111 is most efficacious for thia
vaCAicii 4 111 disease, Cold in the Head.&c.
Pond’s Extract Cat arrh Cure,(7sc.)
specially prepared to meet serious cases,
should be applied with Pond’s Extract
Nasal Syringe, (25c.)
Rheumatism, Neuralgia.
No other preparation has cured inore
cases of these distressing complaints than
the Extract. Pond’s Extract Plas
ter is invaluable in these diseases, Lum
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Diphtheria, Sore Throat
Use the Extract promptly. Delay ia
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P■l no Blind, Bleeding or Itching. It
A llpoy is the greatest known remedy; rap
idly curing when other medicines have
failed. Pond’s Extract Ointment,
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inoval of clotning is inconvenient.
In Bottles only. Prices, 50c., sl, $1,75.
Note our name on every wrapper and label.
Prepared only by POND’S EXTRACT CO.,
NEW YORK AND LONDON.
HUMPHREYS’
HOMEOPATHIC VETERINARY SPECIFICS
For Horses, Cattle, Sheep,
\ D°gs, Hags, Poultry.
I 500 PAGE BOOK on TreaU
j/ meat of Animals and
XUL-X Chart Sent Free.
cores—Fevers, Congesffons, Inflammation,
A. A.—Spinal Meningitis, Milk Fever.
B. Strains, Lameness, Rheumatism.
C. C.—Distemper, N asal Discharges.
D. D.—Bots or Grubs, Worms.
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F. F.—Colic or Gripes, Bellyache.
G. G.—Miscarriage, Hemorrhages.
11. H.—Urinary and Kidney Diseases.
I. I. —Eruptive Diseases. Mange,
J. K.—Diseases of Digestion.
Stable Case, with Specifics, Manual,
Witch Hazel Oil and Medicator, $7.00
Price, Single Bottle (ovdfc 50 doses), . .60
Sold by Druggists; or
Sent Prepaid on Receipt of Price.
Humphreys’ Med. Co., 109 Fulton St., N. Y.
B HUMPHREY’S’
HOMEOPATHIC «
SPECIFIC No.SO
In us® 30 years. The only successful remedy for
Nervous Debility, Vital Weakness,
and Prostration, from* over-work or other causes.
$1 per vial, or 5 vials and large vial powder, for $5.
Sold by Druggists, or sent postpaid on receipt of
' price.—Humphreys* Medicine Co., 109 Fulton St., N. X.
Mathey-Caylus’
CAPSULES.
This wonderful discovery has been used for 30
?3ars by the Physicians of Paris, London and New
ork, with great succes®. These Capsules are supe
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Bold everywhere,
DR. YOUSG’S ELECTRIC
BELTS, as they are worn round the body,
asure cure for Nervous Debility, Weak
ness of Body and Mind, Youthful Errors,
Loss of Manhood, Weak Back, Kidney
\ and Spinal Diseases, Rheumatism. There
\ is nothing like Dr. Young’s Electric Beit
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Jfor restoring lost manhood and impart
fing renewed energy and vitality to the
/ most shattered constitution. Bauds for
7 Female Weakness. Write for book oa
\ Manly Vigor, free. DR. W. YOUNG,
’ 260 Hudson street, near Canal
New York City. Office hours from 10 A. M. till 7 P. AL
and by appointment. Call and examine before
lag elsewhere.
7