Newspaper Page Text
BY CHARLES L. HILDRETH. L/Ove, tell me in whut other clime We met and loved and passed away; For surely in the olden time We kissed as we have kissed to-day. I have dim memories of a night— A night all summer perfume, when We passed an hour of pure delight And parting meant to meet again. ’Twas in a rude and warlike age Of lance and helm and steel-mailed glove. When more with joy than martial rage Men died to win a lady’s love. 1 loved thee then, not less than now; We meet to-day as then we met; The same sweet light on lip and brow— The look of love is lingering yet. We’ve slept since then, profound and sweet. The dreamless slumber of decay; Nor marked how time with tireless feet Bore years and centuries away. And while we slept the sword and pen Upturned the feudal world above. Changed customs, changed the race of men, Changed all except ourselves and love. But in this change we heeded naught Save ci a yearning, vague, profound, And restless through the world we sought Until each other’s arms we found. And ere long wo shall part, to take Our rest with death and silence. When After dim centuries we awake, Doubt not we meet and love again. —New York Evening Mail. THE STORK’S BENISON. At 11 o’clock one Bummer’s night the little village of Schondorf was in the wildest commotion; a file—that horror so blessedly rare in the tile-roofed, stone walled dwellings of Germany—had broken out at the outskirts of the village, and the church bell was splitting its brazen throat, and jarring the old belfry from top to bottom, in its frantic appeals for help. “Frau Siebel’s barn is burning; her house must go, too, and our whole vil lage is threatened!” was the cry that went from mouth to mouth, and the toil worn people, though needing their rest sorely for the work of the following day, turned out one and alt to aid in staying the destruction. Foremost among the workers, Paul Jager, a stalwart young man of dark, Gypsy-like features, and a figure which towered above all the other rustic lads about him, was flinging, with a giant’s strength, great buckets of water upon the flames, as fast as the others could fill them at the village pump, and reach them up to him where he had climbed on the roof of an adjoining house. It was a slow, hopeless way of quelling a fierce fire, but the simple peasants had no other means at their command. “Paul, Paul! for heaven’s sake try to save Nina!” cried Frau Siebel’s agonized voice below him, “She—” but Nina’s mother could say no more for the stormy flood of tears that overwhelmed her. ‘ ‘ She has rushed again into the burn ing bam to try to save Koseli, her be loved cow,” the bystanders said, excited ly. “But it is of no use; the poor beast has already suffocated in the smoke, and the girl only exposes her life in vain.” The last bucket of water was un heeded, for the young Hercules had sprung down to the ground, and flew like an arrow apparently into the heart of the fire. “ Saints above us! but they will both perish, mis rably, and all for the sake of a trumpery tow!” the people cried, too frightened to notice that the flames, fed by the dry hay and straw, was fast taking the cottage in their hot embrace. “Nina, Nina where are you?” a hoarse voice cried in the burning build ing, while a dark figure was see for an instant against the brilliant background of fire. Only the crackling of the flames broke the death-like silence of suspense, until, as young Jager reappeared bearing the object of his quest in his arms, a great shout of joy arose. “She is unhurt, only terribly fright ened,” he called, in answer to their eager inquiries; “ but now we must work with all our energies; do you not see how the fire Has gained on us ?” Paul’s hands were bruised and bleed ing’ and his face cruelly burned, but in his struggle to save Nina’s home he bore the heat and danger unflinchingly, and was unconscious of his wounds—for Nina was his betrothed bride, and he loved her better than his life. But it was already too late. Paul’s best efforts, united with the willing la bor of his friends, availed nothing, for the cottage with all its contents was doomed to destruction. ‘ ‘ But you must let me save the chest upstairs!” Nina cried, trying to shake off the restraining hands that held her. “ The poor child is crazy over the loss of her wedding clothes,” the women said, sympathetically; and with her blue eyes widely dilated, her long fair hair scat tered over her shoulders and sullied with smoke, and her white dress tom and dis ordered, she looked not unlike some hapless Ophelia. The sturdy peasants saved the town from the destruction that threatened it, but the hero of the fire fight, Paul, left the smoldering, subdued fire with only a bitter disappointment in his heart, that he had not been able to save for his be loved one her home and its treasures. * * * ♦ ♦ A melancholy heap of ashes, black ened beams and a fragment of stone wall was all that Nina Siebel found of her childhood’s home when, in the early morning she came to see the mins. She fell on her knees in despair at the sight, for in that brief, dreadful hour last night all her prospects of a happy future had been swept aw T ay. Her mar riage with Paul was to have taken place three weeks from that day; their com bined frugality—Paul at his rope-mak ing, and Nina with the sale of milk and eggs—had saved money enough to begin life together. A few days before Paul had proudly given into Nina’s hands a pocketbook full of paper notes and silver thalers, enough to buy a little cottage and patch of ground for their own, outside of the village. Nina was to guard this money with her own store, in a strong oaken box at her bedside, until the next market day; but, alas! box, money, her wedding clothes, furniture —all ‘ had been con sumed. At the alarm of fire in the barn, her first thought had been for poor Resell, not imagining that their House was in danger. The paltry insurance on Frau Biebel’e cottage would save her and her daughter from starvation, but everything else was gone, not even the small resource of the chickens remained to them, and the loss of poor Roseli was incalculable. It was, indeed, a heart-breaking prospect for the two young people whose future seemed so bright only the day before. “Cheer up, my girl, times must brighten,” said Paul, who, haggard and worn, with his head bound up from wounds of the night before, had stolen to the side of the kneeling girl. “We will work hard and win back what we have lost.” But they both realized fully what a weary labor of years it must be before they could, by their own efforts, save even the half of what had wasted away in the night—a waiting that would wear out their youth, and perhaps their love for each other, and there was no one to help them. “Oh, Paul, Paul, this is very hard to bear!” and again Nina crouched dovfn in the black ashes, and wept as though her heart would break. Time brought no change for the bet ter to Nina and her lover. Paul worked early and late, but he could earn little more than his own support. Nina had once served in a hotel in one of the adjacent towns, much frequented by foreigners, where she had learned English fairly well. She thought of try ing for another such situation, but her mother, growing old and ailing, needed her at home. At last Paul disclosed a plan which for weeks had been shaping itself in his brain; he would join a party of emi grants to Australia, and there try to win the means of subsistence for himself and Nina that his fatherland denied him. The separation would be long and very hard to bear, but no other chance for their eventful happiness offered it self. Gradually Nina ceased her tearful protestations to this plan, and tried to reconcile herself to the idea that it was for the best; that in a few months, per haps weeks, her lover would sail away over the seas without her. Alone, she gave full vent to her tears, and Paul was very sore at heart. ’* ♦ * * As the weather grew warmer a stranger came to Schondorf in search of quiet and purer air than the city afforded. He was a man past the prime of life, stooped in the shoulders, and with a tired look in his eyes that bespoke his days—and nights, too—spent over books. He spoke brokenly the tongue of those about him. The little town pleased him, with its narrow, irregular houses with pointed roofs and quaint little gable windows and balconies clinging on in all sorts of unexpected places. These dwellings were made still more picturesque by the lavish bloom of gay geraniums in the windows and an occasional stork’s nest perched confidentlg up among the chimney-pots. In one of these houses patronized by the steaks the stranger engaged a room, for he had a superstitious belief in the blessing which these classic birds bring to those underneath the roof on which they build. “Frau Josef has a lodger,” Nina said to her mother as, from their attic room across the way, she watched the prepara tions being made for the stranger’s ac commodation. Nina thought, with bitter regret, that they, too, had had tenants for the attrac tive rooms in their house which was now no more. She watched the tired-looking gentle man going to and fro in the streets, and, meeting often in the country roads, they soon began a nodding acquaintance, and finally would overtake and chat with each other. One day, in the little churchyard, while Nina was hanging wreaths over her father’s grave—it was his never-for gotten birthday—the stranger joined her, and, in a burst of confidence, she told him all her history—of her once so happy future, and of the blight that had so lately come to all her hopes. The gentleman seemed touched and very sympathetic at her recital, and they part ed, each feeling a deeper interest in the other than before. The stranger, on leaving the quiet cemetery, took the path leading to the river, but after a time changed his course and took a contrary direction, which finally brought him on a grass grown way, appearing but little trod den. Tracing its windings at some length up a gradual ascent, he came at last upon a curious old tower, surround ed partly by a ruined wall, at the top of the hill. At his approach un old man with bent shoulders and long, scant hair, as white as snow, came forward to greet the new comer. He was so very old, and seemed so perfectly in keeping with the soli tude about him, that the stranger was not surprised when he told him that a little room at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tower was his home, and that for years he had known no other dwelling. The people below in the village called him Morcar, the hermit, and that name served for him as well as any other. He seldom saw a human face, but when a chance traveler made his way up the mountain side he was very welcome. He had already greeted some of his fellow-beings that morning, for there was a party of foresters marking trees for felling further back in the woods. “ What is the history of you old tower, and when was it built?” the stranger asked, examining with interest its rough exterior, hung in ivy and hardy, clinging plants. “Some learned gentlemen who make antiquities like these their life-study, told me the tower belonged to a long forgotten age and race; that it dated from a time nine centuries before Christ; but further than knowing it was built by some heathen horde who wandered over the country at that remote no man knew its architect. You will, of course, ascend the tower,” the hermit continued. “The view from the top is very fine, and the steps are fairly well preserved. ” The stranger assented, and the old man led him through the bare little cell where he slept to the foot of the narrow stone staircase. “You will excuse my not accompany ing you,” he said. “My old bones fail me on those steep stairs. “I will go, in stead, for water from the spring below in the woods, and for safety will lock my door, for those rough fellows who are notching the trees would not hesitate to come in and make merry over my poor store of provisions.” The stranger scarcely heeded the her mit’s last words, for the old stone-pile afforded him keen interest, and he sprang up the dark, winding stairway with its eighty steps, feeling the light ness of renewed youth in every move ment. At intervals narrow windows pierced the wall, admitting a ray of light, and showing the great thickness of the mason ary. In the wall surrounding the top were higher windows, sheltered on three sides, where warriors had stood to watch for and shoot arrows down on encroaching enemies; one of these safe nooks being still sheltered by a roof ter minating in a curious blunted point, brown and irregular, as if the instinct of a beast rather than the hands of a man had finished it. The new-comer, fascinated by the view, and carried away into the dim past by the suggestions which the old tower called forth, forgot himself and time completely, until looking at his watch he found he had spent more than an hour among the ghosts of a heathen age which his imagination had gathered round him. He descended the steps and found himself again in the hermit’s dreary little room; but it was empty, and the door was still locked on the outside. The stranger felt no uneasiness, for the old man must soon return with his daily supply of water, but fell to exam ining the fragments of furniture which the tiny, ill-lighted room contained. The bed was only a heap of straw, covered with a ragged gray blanket, on a wooden frame, a roughly-made chest, on which a stone jug and loaf of bread were set, served duty also as chair and table. A crucifix hung on the uneven wall, and a few utensils of the common est kind, some firewood and a few pota toes were heaped together on the stone floor in a dark corner. Surely the man who existed in this dreary place without going mad must have in his past life unfailing food for meditation! Another hour passed, and still the door was unlocked. The wayfarer be gan to feel some impatience, mixed with a shade of uneasiness. Could the old hermit be playing him false ? But no; the idea was nonsense. What motive could the recluse have for keeping an or dinary traveler prisoner in his cell ? Night began to gather slowly, and the silence of the place continued, grave-like as ever. Weary with waiting the traveler began to shake the door with all his might, and shriek for someone to come to his release, but his efforts were utterly without avail. The door was of heavy oak, clamped with iron, unyielding as the solid wall itself, and only the birds and foxes heard and wondered at his cries. Tliick darkness came on, and still no sound of approaching footsteps. Either Morcar, the hermit was plotting against him for evil, or a dire accident had be fallen him. In any case the stranger be gan to realize that he must spend the night a prisoner in the tower. Fortunately he had matches in his pocket—a good, generous box full—and with the a?d of these he discovered a rushlight in one comer, which relieved a little the gloom in which he was plunged. Hunger and thirst now began to assert themselves, but these wants were un satisfactorily stilled by the brown bread and water from tb° stone jar on the chest. The hours dragged wearily by, and at last he threw himself upon the wretched bed to sleep, if possible, till release came in the morning. At daybreak he again mounted the outlook at the top to watch for some deliverer to come, but though he waited hours not a creature appeared. The foresters had gone home before sun set the previous day, and there was no hope from them. The second day dragged itself slowly away. “Heavens above ! Am Ito be kept a prisoner here till I starve !” he cried, the great solitude oppressing him like a black clond. Again he shouted from the top of the tower till he was hoarse, but no soul heard, and he beat the heavy door till his hands were bruised and bleeding. Then, calmed by fatigue, he examined a little more carefully his painful situ ation. Sliding down the outer wall by means of the climbing ivy, was certain death, as the tower was very high and the vines but fragile things. The win dows everywhere were only slits large enough for him to thrust an arm through, but no more, and there was no heavy implement in the little room with which he could break through that cruel door. He must only wait until someone heard his cries for help, or else die alone in that ghostly heathen tower-relic of a past age, that would willingly crush out the life of any mortal from the present garish world who invaded its silence. The prisoner was growing superstitious and fanciful in his prolonged confine ment, and a presentiment possessed him that old Morcar, the hermit, would never return to the tower again, and no one else knew of his captivity. In the room below there was food enough of the simplest kind to support life perhaps for a week, or ten days at least, and an earthen pot on the top of the tower caught enough rain, falling abundantly in the night to ward off the agonies of thirst. Four days passed, seeming to the prisoner four weary years, and no hu man footsteps had come near his cell. He had noted the days as they dragged along by signs cut in the stone by a sharp nail; otherwise he would not have been able to recognize the flight of time, as the monotony was so stupefy ing. From one part of the tower he could look down on a smooth white road lying far below, and one day ne saw a man pass with a loaded wagon. He had shouted to him with all the energy of despair, but the wagoner had not heard, and had passed slowly out of sight, leav ing the prisoner a thousand times more miserable than before, in the disappoint ment of this momentary hope. Then the lonely occupant of the tower had tried the experiment of binding scraps of paper with written appeals for help round fragments of stone, and flinging them down upon the distant road; but he felt that these would be of little avail, for he could not write the language of the country, and his own tongue would scarcely find interpreters in that lonely comer of the earth. A week had passed, and the prisoner, having finished his scanty allowance of bread and a few sodden potatoes, had mounted the tower to begin his weary, fruitless watch for the help that never came. Suddenly a sound like the music of angels broke on his ear; it was a wo man’s voice calling his name ! Leaning over he saw Nina Siebal, the girl who had told him her story in the churchyard, looking anxiously up for some sign of his presence. Tears of thankfulness filled his eyes and shut out this blessed apparition. “ Are you alive and well ?” she called, excitedly. “I found your writing be low in the road, and made my way up here as quick as possible. I thought at first it might be a hoax and hesitated, but lam so thankful that I came. Be patient but a little longer and I will go for someone to unfasten the door. Thank God, I arrived before you died of starvation !” The girl disappeared, and as soon as possible returned again with two men who would pry open the door, and she carried carefully a basket containing meat and water which, with womanly forethought, she had hastily collected. A ghost of his former self, and trem bling in every limb, Frau Josef’s lodger once more felt the earth beneath his feet; the men, roughly sympathetic, half-carried him down the hill, listening with great interest to his recital of what had befallen him. “Morcar, the hermet, meant no ill, sir. He was found dead at the bottom of those rocks a week ago—rest his soul !*’ one of the men said, reverently. “His water-jug, shivered in pieces, lay near him. They supposed he slipped and fell from the wet road above, and was in stantly killed. The poor fellow’s life was not such as one regrets giving up. Let us hope he is happier now 7 , though his death came near resulting in yours.” His little room under the stork’s nest seemed to the prisoner of the tower a glimpse of paradise, and, like a tired child, he fell into a refreshing, dreamless sleep w r hich was unbroken for hours. On awaking, the perplexing question arose in his mind of how he could fit tingly reward the girl who had saved his life, and who w T as so need of help. He, alas ! was poor, and utterly unable to give a substantial proof of liis gratitude; but that the girl should go unrecom pensed, in her present straits, seemed very cruel. The next day Nina came to inquire for her protege; the poor girl tried hard to be cheerful, but her heart was very heavy. In another week Paul was to sail for Australia, and a separation of years, if not forever, would begin be tween them. Paul had a very advantageous offer of partnership in a mill near Schondorf, which, if he acceptedj would remove the necessity of emigration; but, as he could not collect or give surety for the money necessary for admission, the offer of the situation was passed on to a man with ready funds. Nina choaked back her tears w T hen she had told this circumstance, and said, hurriedly: ‘ ‘ But I am forgetting the chief reason of my visit.” She drew a package of newspapers from her basket, and con tinued; “While the whole village was in alarm over your absence, sir, and we had made up our minds to the sad fact that you had been drowned in the Bhine, an English gentleman came to Schon dorf inquiring for you. We could only tell him of your sudden disappearance, and of our fears for your safety. He remained here one day, in the hope of finding trace of you, and was then obliged to leave on business. ‘ ‘ Soon afterward another tourist passed through the village, and left these news papers at the Hotel zur Post. Being in English I asked for them, for practice in that language, and to my surprise I found in all of them paragraphs to this effect, which, I think, must refer to you.” The stranger looked over her shoul der, and read: “The celebrated Stephen Conrad, professor of ancient languages, of B , Wiltshire, who has been for a few weeks residing in a little village near Heidel berg, has mysteriously disappeared. As time reveals nothing of his whereabouts, it is feared beyond a doubt he has been drowned in the Bhine, as he was seen walking on its banks. A reward of fifty pounds is offered for the recovery of his body. ” “Yes, child, you are right, I am that missing man,” the traveler said, smiling at the strange sensation of reading the notice of his own death. “And will you not w r nte to the editor of this paper to say that you are alive and well? It will be such a relief to your friends.” “I will send them notice without de lay,” he answered, “and null add a peti tion to my letter, too,” in an undertone. “Listen, Nina,”Professor Conrad called, as the girl left the room, “ask that Paul may have three days longer to con sider the acceptance of partnership in the mill.” Stephen Conrad wrote at length an ac count of his captivity and release to those in England interested in his welfare, and closed with an elegant appeal that the reward offered for his body might not be withheld because he was still in existence. The girl who had rescued him was a most worthy object for benevolence, and was especially in need of help now; he sin cerely hoped that his pleading in her be half might not be in vain. The return post brought an answer to the effect that, in their joy over the pro fessor’s safety, his friends and pupils doubled the offered reward, and that the sum of one hundred pounds awaited the pleasure of Nina Siebel, for whose ser vices they w 7 ould be eternally grateful. ♦ * * * * ♦ Paul took the much-wished-for posi tion in the mill, and gave up very will ingly his voyage to Australia, but he declared that he had Nina’s money only in trust, and would pay every farthing of it back to her. Nina, radiant with joy and thankfulness over her sudden good fortune, fell on Professor Conrad’s neck, and in every endearing term she could think of expressed her gratitude. “Don’t thank me, child; it was my faith in the storks, and their influence which brought you this good. Take care that, in the cottage which you and Paul shall choose, these kindly birds shall shelter you with their blessing—a clear conscience and a stork’s nest on your roof will insure you both happi ness. ” CHIT-CHAT. A flirt —“ Sofa and no father.” A keg of beer is included among ap propriate wedding gifts in Cincinnati. A Brooklyn girls speaks of one of her fellows as her night-blooming serious beau. The most fastidious ladies now say pillow protectors instead of pillow ‘ ‘ shams. ” At one of the fashionable weddings in London last month a bride carried a bou quet six feet in circumference. Cincinnati calls the Boston girls “gray and lanky,” but Boston says that the “ skinny, sallow 7 ” heroines belong to Philadelphia, and then the rival eastern cities talk about their neighbors. For the every-day dinner, to which every lady sometimes invites her most intimate friends, it is considered the height of hospitality and grace for her to carve and help the plate of each guest. When a Boston girl is presented with a bouquet she says: “Oh,how delicious ly sweet; its fragrance impregnates the entire atmosphere of the room.” A down-east girl simply says; “I smells scrumptious; thanks, Beuben.”— Waifs. A merican m anuf acturers advise women to buy enough knitting silk to finish an article before they begin it, in order to avoid the difficulty of matching, says an exchange. What cruel minds to deprive the poor shoppers of the delight of “ matching.” Among the presents displayed at a re cent wedding in Ellenville; Ulster coun ty, N. Y., was a silver butter-dish heaped high with twenty-dollargold coins, a gift from the bride’s father. One admires butter for being golden in color, but this is the richest pat we have ever heard of. A new figure in the German is the wind-mill. Four ladies cross their right hands, and with the left select gentle men, w 7 ho in turn give their hands to ladies, then the ladies to the gentlemen. They then all change from the right hand to the left until all the dancers are whirl ing in windmill fashion throughout the room. Miss Clara Jerome, the heroine of the latest “international episode” in New York society, wore at her wedding recently a lace shawl yellow with age, which was worn in New York thirty years ago by Mrs. Leonard Jerome. It was of the most delicate texture, and could not be duplicated in New York— so the gossips say. “Clara Bell,” the lady correspond ent of the Cincinnati Enquirer , who writes from New York, says: “Do you know what a martingale is ? It is that loop at the rear of the harness through which the ‘horses tail is thrust, and it serves to hold the whole toggery of straps back in place. Well, women wear martingales now.” When 7 handsome Jack was cautiously going up behind pretty Miss Dashie to steal a kiss which she wouldn’t have granted for any amount of pleading, her little brother, who happened to look in the door behind Jack, yelled to her to look out, and so she was able to avoid letting Jack kiss her. And somehow she boxed her little brother’s ears when they were alone together. The New York Herald has something to say in favor of a hot-tempered woman: she always makes the spiciest dishes. You never knew a mild-tempered woman to make a rich and spicy pie. Her tea is always mild; her chicken is as tame on the table as it was in the coop. But a sharp-witted woman, with a tongue like a buzz-aaw, will devil a crab, dress a cutlet, or serve a rum omelette to a turn.” Mr. Mackey has given his wife the dress which the French Indian company were manufacturing for the ex-empress when Bismarck’s little game shut up the Tulleries. It is pronounced by the learned in lace the ne plus ultra in Point d’Alencon. Seven different stitches are employed, some of which were only dis covered by unravelling a lace flounce which once belonged to Mme de Pom nadour. A story is told of an American lady who, while abroad, made her reputation at a watering place. She one morning dropped a letter on the piazza of the hotel. When it was picked up, it was found to read as follows: “My dear madame, as your agent, I hasten to make my semi-weekly report. I have, in your absence, three hundred new horses in order to carry the wheat to the nearest depot. Wheat is rising, and I hope that you will not think that I was officious in chartering all the freight trains of the railway for the first two weeks in June.” The lady received four • offers of marriage within a week after she dropped the letter. The girls of Tennessee are lovely, but we tell them frankly that it won’t do. They had a ball last week in Nashville in honor of sixteen young iadies, and it appears that twelve of the lot habitually write their Christian names as Sallie, Minnie, Mamie, Callie, Maggie, Nettie, and so on. This is alarming. If the girls are rbh as well as beauteous they may perhaps get married to fellows named Charlie, Johnnie, Tommie, Fred die, Willie or Harrie, but who will guarantee their felicity afterward? The only solid ground for the hope of bliss in this world is a firm character and a good education, and we fear that no girl who spells her name in such a silly man ner can possess these qualifications.— New York Sun. A confirmed misogynist in Boston has been jotting down fragments of conver sation which he has overheard when passing young women on the streets of that city. His notebook contains 1,000 of these scraps. Out of that number, 780 began with either “And I said to him,” or “He said to me,” or “She told me that he said;” 120 referred to dresses or hats that were either “perfectly lovely,” or “just splendid,” and the re mainder were pretty evenly divided be tween comments on other gills, who were “horrid,” or “stuck up and hate ful,” new novels, studies, the summer vacation, the Greek play at Harvard, and the latest scientific discoveries. Now let this enterprising statistician take a census of the complimentary remarks made about himself by those one thou sand luckless victims of his eavesdrop ping. BABY’S MISSION. What can you do, my dearest of babies,— You sweet, lazy baby, say what can you do ? Mother and father and brother are working, All of us working, sweet baby, but you. Sitting all day a-bllnking and winking. Winking and thinking the whole day long, Nursey to hold you, no one to scold you,— Crowing and crooning your sweet little song. Crooning and tuning myself to the lessons That seem very strange to me, fresh from (he skies, — Learning your language and learning to love you, •Vatching you all with my blue baby eyes. Then, when I’ve grown as wise as my brother, These dimpled white hands as strong as his too. Oh, then I will help you—now, thinking and Inviur Are surely enough for a baby to dD. GLEANINGS. Admiral Dahlgren’s widow is build ing a Catholic chapel on South moun tain, Maryland. The evidence in a San Francisco di vorce suit was all found in a diary which defendant kept. There is a kitten in Providence which has succumbed to the charms of modem civilization. It chews tobacco. The lighting of Akron, Ohio, is satis factorily done by a powerful electric lamp placed on top of a tower 208 feet high. One of the Newport cottages has been fitted up in Oriental style at a cost of $70,000, $6,000 being paid for one parlor rug alone. Corn cakes made from dough that had stood over night in a glazed crockery dish poisoned an entire New Albany, Ind., family recently. A man employed to tear down a bam in Meadville, Penn., is said to have found a box hidden in the foundation containing $1,900 in coin and bills. The town of Groton, Mass., has eclipsed Nab ant. The rate of taxation is $2 on a thousand, the lowest of any town in the state. Last year the rate was $4 on a thousand. The stock of unlicensed Toronto bars is seized by the police, who take it to the Pc lice Court, where its destruction is ordered by the magistrate. All the lager beer at a picnic was seized the :ther day, and the bungs officially pulled out. The whale which recently came ashore at Eye Beach, N. H., yielded twenty-five barrels of prime oil, 400 pounds of whale bone, and twelve tons of bone. The oil and bone have been taken by Boston parties. A cottage at one of the seaside re sorts has been rented to a California millionaire, at $4,500 for the season. A dozen years ago the same man was a street-car conductor in the city of San Francisco. One end of a crochet needle which Mrs. Henson of Jackson Township, Ind., had in her dress pocket struck with such force against a nail fence she was climb ing that the needle was driven into her side. Surgeons have been unable to find it. George Loeillard’s stable is only second to that of his brother Pierre. Though their tobacco business brings them in a princely income, the elder brother made his stable pay SIOO,OOO last year, and expects to do even better this year. In Toronto an escaped bullock made for the Don river, followed by two drovers. Just as they had entered the stream the beast turned, caught one of the men named Stein, flung him into the water, and held him there until he drowned. The little son of James Baker, of Perry, Ga., upset a hive of bees, and stirred up the bees with a stick. The children and their parents were badly stung, ten chickens and a dog were killed, and two pigs were stung nearly to death by the angry bees. Abraham Lincoln’s mother is buried at Lincoln City, Ind., where her grave was visited the other day by a large party of citizens from Evansville. Several speeches were made beside the grave, many of Mr. Lincoln’s old friends and neighbors giving personal reminiscences of the good man whom they called “Abe.” In a New York street car a day or two ago a fight was begun by a wife against ! her husband, and she would have | whipped him if he had not wakened from I his sleep. The two people fought not merely in the aisles, but also over the knees of the passengers, and they final ly reached a comer of the car where a very quiet person was sitting. As he rose to make room for the two fighting people he said, “ Me think they fightee; Chinaman must go. ” A new swimming device has been re cently patented by William H. Richard son, of Mobile, Ala, It consists essen tially of a light frame carrying a float and longitudinal shaft, having at one end a small screw propeller and provid ed with gearing for running the propel ler. The swimmer reclines on the float, and, grasping one of the hand cranks in each hand and placing his feet on the two foot cranks, proceeds rapidly and easily, with the head far enough above the surface of the water to be comforta ble, without extra exertion. The board of trustees of the Seventh Day Baptist Church in Newport have voted to sell the church property. The society was organized in 1671, and was the third established organization in the state. The church was built in 1729 by Henry Collins, one of the founders of the Redwood library. 'Upon the gallery hangs a clock that was placed there at the time of the building of the church, and over the pulpit, underneath the sounding board, is a set of comments that were used during the revolutionary war, and which were the means of sav ing the building at the hands of the British. The building and contents have been offered to the Newport His torical society. The dog stories have all been told and retold, a Nevada Ananias brings out the story of a shade-tree that became very mad at being transplanted. “Hardly had it been placed in its new quarters before the leaves began to stand up in all directions like the hair on the tad of angry cat, and soon the whole plant was in a quiver. This could have been en dured, but at the same time it gave out an odor most pungent and sickening just such a smell as is given off by rat tlesnakes and many other kinds of snakes in summer when teased. This odor fill ed the house, and it was so sickening that it was necessary to open the doors and windows. It was fully an hour be fore the plant calmed down and folded its leaves in peace.