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Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, June 22, 1881, Image 3

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85033295/1881-06-22/ed-1/seq-3/

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LOVE'S RE-AWAKENING.
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.

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