The Mount Holly news. [volume], July 18, 1893, Image 1

About The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942

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The Mount Holly News.
VOL. XIV. NO 29.
MOUNT HOLLY. BURLINGTON COUNTY, N. J., TUESDAY, JULY 18, 1893.
ESTABLISHED 1879
PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD.
The standard railway of America. Protect
ed oy the Inter locking switch and block sig
nal system.
Trains leave Mount Holly at follows:
For Philadelphia. 5.30, 6.00,6.52. 7.®. 7.50. 8.00.
8.4U8.U, 9.16, n!s2u a. a .12.54, 2.31, 5.07, 5.1S,
6 15 6.48, 8.37, 10.50p.a.
On Sundays, 650,8.31 a. a., 12.05,610, 7.34 r.
On Mondays only: For Philadelphia at 10.25
On'sa’turdays only for Brown’s Mills, Toms
River, and points along the ooast at 1.40 r. m.
For Pemberton, 7.03, 9.28, 11.05. a. a.. 12.24, 1JB.
4 16 6.07, 7.07, 7.38 p. a. Sundays, 8.16, 10.26
a si.. 7.05 P. if.
For Brown’s Mllls-ln-the-Plnes, 9.28 a. a.,
12.24, 4.16 4.42 and 7.07 p. «. Sundays, 8.16,
10.26 A. a.
For Burlington, Borden town,TrentonandNew
York, 6 S, 9.08. 10.50 A. «.. 2.50. 4.45, 5.55 P. M.
For Lewistown, Columbus,Kinkora, etc., 7.08
a. a. 1.83, 4.16 P. a. On Sundays, 7.06 P. a.
ForLumoerton, Medford, Marlton and Had
donfleld 9 35 a. a.,
For Toms Kiver, Island Heights, etc., 9.28, 9.52
For Trenton and New York, via Pemberton
and Kinkora, 1.33, P. a. Sundays, 7.05 p a.
For Hlghtstown, 7.03 a. a., 1.83, 6.07 P. a. On
Sundays 7.0ft r. m. .
For Asbury Part and Long Branch 9.52
a. m. 4.42 P. m. Sundays 8.16, a. m.
For Tuckerton, 9.52 a. m., 4.82 P. m.
For Beach Ilaven 9.52 a. m., 4.32 p. m.
Trains leave for Mount Holly as follows:
From Philadelphia, 6.00, 7.20, 8.30, 9.10, 10.00.
11.20 A. a., 12.30 2.30. 3.30, 3.50, 4.00, 4.30,
610, 6.10, 6.30,8.00, 10.30. 11.46 P a. On Sun
days, 7.30, 9.20 a. a.. 1.06 6.60,10.30ip.a.
_I, y.ZU A. M., l.W. O.w, * \
On Saturdays only from Philadelphia,,1. Pu.
York. vlaTrenton and Burlington
From New at»>. - —
a 00 9 30 A M.. 1.00, 4.00, 5.00 P. M.
From* Trenton, 7.41,9.26,11.10 a. m., 2.53,5.20,
7.00 p. m. On Sunday atb.40 a m.
From Burlington, 8.31.10.06.11.53 a. M., 3.32,5.45
7.40 p.m. On Sundays, 7.45 a. m.
From Brown’s-Mllle-in the-Flnes, 7-16. 8.22,
A. M 2.00, 4.20, 6.20, 8.05 P. M. Sundays, 5.35,
FromFPemberton, 7f?’ s8'57'
11 00 a. M., 12.35, 4.11, 8.17 P. M. On SUli
dava s oo a m From Pemberton (south),
7.53, 8.37 A. ic.T 214, 4.42. 6.34, 8.19 P. M. On
From ^H^gitstown .^vla Bnrllngton,11.02 A. a.
7.02 p. a.
F^ ^gBrinVbfoA25K:. *-15 *- -• Sun
From* Asbury Park, 6.42 a. a., 1.32 P. a;
From Asbnry pars, o.« a. .. , „
On Mondays only from
Asbury Park,8.13, a. a., Island Heights, B.17
FromToms ttlver, 0.50,8^1 A..a., 3.53.B.M P.
From Island Heights, 6.38, 7.42, A. a., 3.38, j.48
p. a.
pj, .« pttqh J» Wood,
General Manager. Gen. Pass. Agent.
tuckrrton railroad.
I„vt Mount Holly tor Tuckerton and Beach
Haven. 9s“ “V, 4.32 p. m„ dally, except
Leave^each Haven for Tuckerton 5.00 p
in., dally except Sunday and 6.40 p. m. on
Leave^fuckerwn for Beach Haven. 5.35 a. m
TMonitTonly. 3.02 p. m. dally except
Leave^Reach Haven for Mount Holly. 6.66 a.
3.00 p. m., dally except Sunday.
Leave Tuckerton lor Mount Holly, 7.00 a. m.,
3.02 p. m., daily except Sunday- _
Pemberton and Hlarlitatown Ballroad.
Trains leave Mount Holly for New Egypt
Cream Ridge, Hlghtstown, etc., at 7.03 A. M.
1.33,6.07 r. M. Sundays, 7.06 r. M.
Trains leave Philadelphia and connect for
New Egypt, Cream Hldge.
6.00 A. «., 12.30 and 5.10 p. m. Sundays, 6.00e. k.
Trains leave Hlghtstown *°r New Egypt.
Pemberton, Mount Holly and Philadelphia
at 7.05, 10.00 a. m., 7.05 p. K. Sundays, 6.20
A. It
Hount Holly post Office.
MAILS LKAVB AS FOLLOWS :
New York and East.
Pemberton and Hlghtstown....
Vlncentown.
Trenton.
Bordentown.
Foreign.
West.
Atlantic City.
Medford...
Philadelphia.
Burlington.
Camden...
Lumberton.
6.30
6.30
6.30
6.30
6.30
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
8.20
p.m.
2.10
2.10
Slob
2.10
2.10
2.10
2.10
2.10
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
8.00
2.10:8.00
2.10 8.00
2.10,8.00
MAILS ARRIVB AMD RKADY FOR DISTRIBUTION I
New York and Bast
Pemberton.
Vlncentown....
Hlghtstown.
Trenton.
Bordentown....
Foreign.
West.
Atlantic City...
Medford.
PhlladelDhla....
Burlington.
Camden.
Lumberton —.
7.45 9.15
7.45
7.45
7.45
9.15
7.45 9.15
7.45
7.45
7.45
9.15
7.45
7.45
7.45
9.15
,"5 too
3.00
11.15
J:5>
5.00
p.m.
6.30
11.15 8.00 5.00
u.
11,
11
3.00 5.00
3.00 5.00
3.00 5.00
3.00 5.00
5.00
3.00
3.00
5.00
4.05
5.00
5.00
900
6.30
6.30
6.80
6.30
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
9.00
UMUEL A. ATKINSON,
ATTORNEY AT LAW, SOLICITOR AND
MASTER IN CHANCERY.
No. 109 Main St., Opposite Washington House,
Mount Holly, N. J.
QUARLES 31. SLOAN*
riRE AND LIFE INSURANCE.
Office in Arcade Building, Mount Holly, N. J
QUARLES EWAN MERRITT,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW,
Main Street, Opposite Arcade,
Mount Holly, N. J.
£. **■ Csurve?6k and conveyancer,
atiiiv c,iua anu v/vj
COMMISSIONER OF DEEDS,
JUSTICE OF THE PEACE,
Cssak Km. Ockah County. N. J.
s
AMUBL PALSY. M. D.,
HOMOEOPATHIC PHTSICIAN.
Garden Street, near Cherry 8treet, Mount
Molly, N.J.
Ome* House: 7 to 9 a.1 to 2 r. m.,6 8 to r n.
QSORUE W. V AN DERVEEK, Jt. D
tomoeooatbidt,
Garden St. near Buttonwood, Vonnt Holly
r Until 9 a.m.
OVP1CM Houaa: -j 6 to 8 P. M.
( 1 to 2 r. M.
F1
KK, LIFE AND ACCIDENT INSUR
ANCE.
Reliable Companies and lowest rates. Cor
espondeuee solicited.
SAMUEL A. ATKINSON,
General Insurance Agent,
109 Main Street, Mount Holly, N.J.
QHA8. HAKKEK, M. D., D. D. S.
DENTAL OFFICE AND LAB0RAT0R1
No. I 37 MAIN STREET.
(Cor. Main & Union Sit.,)
Mount Holly, »T. J".
Fiwt-OlaM Work; Reasonable Prioee
WILLIAM H. CLINE,
FURNISHING UNDERTAKER,
VINCENTOWN, N. J.
Orders by Telegraph will be promptly at
tended to. __
R. IsIPPIMCOTT,
GENERAL AUCTIONEER,
MEDFORD. N. J.
,Special Attention paid to sales of realestute,
stock, tarmlnic utensils, etc.
DORON,
WATCHMAKER AND JEWELER.
NO.84 MAIN STREET, MOUNT HOLLY.
Keeps the best assortment ot Watches.
Chains, Kings, and Spectacles in Bur
lington County.
Also, a full line of Silver and Plated i
Ware
Mount Holly Academy,
BOARDING and DAY SCHOOL
-roil
oys and Young Men.
Apply for our catalogue, which contains full
particulars and references.
R*v. JAMES J . CO ALE, A. M., (Princeton).
Principal.
1TOCK8
BOUGHT AND 80LD
on Commission and carried on favorable
Terms.
Being members of both the Philadelphia and
New York Stock Exchanges, and having a
private wire direct from our office to New
York, we are prepared to execute orders left
with us promptly and satisfactorily. Ac
counts received and interest allowed.
DeHaven & Townsend,
No. 4*8 CHESTNUT STREET. PmLADSLrsi a
Do you know s gooa thing when you sec ItT
if so, order ous of
West’s Percolators
for Making COFFEE or TEA
Mures one-flfth oi your coffee, nnd no
grounds. The coffee will be us cleur us wine.
The Feroolutors will be shown from door to
door by our ugent. We here over 300 In use
in Burlington.
U. W. WATSON,
Bristol, Pu
34-St.
Only PURE Drugs,
are kept at
Williams' Drug j5tore,
Oor. Mill and Paxson streets.
Prescriptions Compounded
WITH CARE. A PULL LINE OF
PATENT MEDICINES,
kept In stock.
Williams’ Moss Balsam
will positively cure a cold.
DELICIOUS : DRIRKJ.
SODA WATER
made from the natural fruit or from carefully
prepared syrups.
CALL AND SEE US.
ANNOUNCEMENT!
i The undersigned desires to anounce to the
| public that he will hereafter keep a full Hue of
Staple Dry Goods,
Notions, Trimmings, etc.
In connection with the Stationery and Toy
business, at
36 Mam St., Mt. Holly 36
The Store Is now stocked with a new and
complete line of goods, embracing everytbinK
kept in a first-class Dry Gooes Store. A share
of your patronage is respectfully solicited.
COME AND SEE THE STOCK.
S. S. BOWER,
36 Main St.. Mt. Holly.
HAVE TOUR PAINTING
DONE BY
Samuel L. Bullock.
Best materials always used. Bure colors,
best White Lead and Zinc and Pnre Linseed
Oil. All kinds of painting done; Sign, Orna
mental, Frescoing, Graining, Calcimining,
Glazing, Ac. Work solicited from all around.
None but competent and ^Tperienced men
employed, and all work guaranteed. All or
ders should be left at my residence, Union
street, or T. B. Bullock’s store, G rden street
Mount Hollv
GASKILLS
COAL OFFICE
NOTHING BUT LEHIGH
well screened and picked ol
slate ; also
Land Lime, Building Lime,
Rosendale and Portland
Cement, Plaster Hair,
Calcined Plaster, Marble
Dust Finishing Sand, Drain
Tile, Terra Cotta Pipe,
WASHINGTON STREET
MOUNT HOLLY.
THE LEADING
MILLINERY STORE
IN MOUNT HOLLY.
City Styles at City Prices.
ALSO
Fancy Goods, Notions, Hosiery,
Silks, Satins, Etc.
J. Howard Shinn,
40 MAIN ST. MOUNT HOLLY
Mr. «T, H. Stillman
u I am Truly Thankful
For Hood’s Sarsaparilla. During the war I
contracted typhoid fever, and fever and
ague, leaving me with malarial and mrrru—
enrial poisoning from which 1 have sobered
ever since, in neuralgia, rheumatism, nervous
prostration and general debility. Since I
began taking Hood’s Sarsaparilla 1 have not
lost a dav’s work in three mouths, weigh lO lbs.
non tiian for years and am in better health
than any time since the war.” J. H. Stillman,
Cheltenham, Pa. HOOD’S (I BM.
Hood's Rills Core Liver Ills. 26c.
BARRINGTON S PHARMACY
(Miller’s Old Stand)
42 Main Street.
At this store will be found the largest and
most complete stock of
>1 l'.l; I Uni l”« I I I • • I • I I Hi lj|
| Drugs, Medicines
and Chemicals.l
”l '•.:|”|l I I I■ III! I I MUUiaS
All the Patent and Proprietary Medicines at
lowest cut rates.
Miller’s Diarrhoea Mixture, Cholera Mixture
Kheumatle Kemedy and Worm Destroyer
and all the standard remedies of the late
Louts Miller have been improved and are
specially recommended.
We also carry a large stock of Toilet and
Fancy Articles, Toilet Soaps, best Hand
kerchief Extract.
We give special attention to our Prescription
Department. Prescriptions compounded
at all hours.
OUR SODA WATERS ’S.T5
pure, sound, fresh fruit used in making our
syrups. ICE CREAM SOI>A a specialty.
E. D. PRICKITT,
30 Main street.
OUR SODA WATER
=L00KS RIGHT
_TASTES RIGHT
_IS RIGHT
It is pure, delicate and refreshing.
The best apparatus, the choicest
flavors. Even those who do not or
dinarily drink soda water like it.
Try a glass of our Red Orange Ice,
made from the Juice of red oranges.
Just now we are selling Insect Powder 30c
lb.; Tar Camphor 7c lb.; Gum Camphor, 66c lb.
The greatest care given to the Prescription
Department. __
ELMER I*. PRICKITT,
30 Main street, Mounl Holly. Branch Store
at Lnmbertou N.J
TIH, COPPER AND SMEET-1RO*
WARE BAHCFACTOBT.
The suoscrlber, thanktnl ror tne past lib
eral patronage of tbe public, announces that
be is still engaged In the manufacture of
Stoves, Heaters, Ranges, Tinware, Eto.
A tall variety ot which will bekept eon
st&ntly on hand or made to order at theshortest
notice.
Tin Roofing, Spouting, Plumbing, Oat and
Steam Mttino
Promptly attended to by experienced work
men
W. J. BRANNIN,
MAIM STREET. MOUNT HOLEY,N.
Adjoining St. Andrew's church.
ED. PRICKITT has a new soda water ap
• paratus, the finest and most complete In
town, and his soda water is delicious. Try
his chocolate oreim and red orange loe.
What is
Castoria is Dr. Samuel Pitcher's prescription for Infants
and Children. It contains neither Opium, Morphine nor
other Narcotic substance. It is a harmless substitute
for Paregoric, Drops, Soothing Syrups, and Castor Oil.
It is Pleasant. Its guarantee is thirty years’ use by
Millions of Mothers. Castoria destroys Worms and allays
feverishness. Castoria prevents vomiting Sour Curd,
cnres Diarrhoea and Wind Colic. Castoria relieves
teething troubles, cures constipation and flatulency.
Castoria assimilates the food, regulates the stomach
and bowels, giving healthy and natural sleep. Cas
toria is the Children’s Panacea—the Mother’s Friend.
Castoria.
" OactoHa is an exoellent medicine for chil
dren. Mothers hare repeatedly told me of its
good effect upon their children.'*
Da. Q. C. Osgood,
Lowell, Mass.
“ Castoria is the beet remedy for children of
which 1 am acquainted. 1 hope the day is not
far distant when mothers will consider the real
interest of their children, and use Castoria in
stead of the various quack nostrums which are
destroying their loved ones, by forcing opium,
morphine, soothing syrup and other hurtful
agents down their throats, thereby sending
them to premature graves."
Dm. J. F. Kixchilos,
Conway, Ark.
Castoria.
“ Castoria is so well adapted to children that
I recommend it as superior to any prescription
known to me.'*
H. A. Archer, M. D.,
Ill So. Oxford St., Brooklyn, N. Y.
“ Our physicians in the children's depart
ment have spoken highly of their experi
ence in their outside practice with Castoria,
and although we only have among our
medical supplies what is known as regular
products, yet we are free to confess that the
merits of Castoria has won us to look with
favor upon it.’*
United Hospital and Dibpbnsaey,
Boston, Mass.
Allen C. Smith, Pres.,
TVa Centaur Company, TT Murray Street, H«* York City.
Are you all run down ? Scott's Emul
sion of Pure Norwegian Cod Liver Oil
and Hypophosphites of Lime and Soda
will build you up and put flesh on you
and give you a good appetite.
Seott’a Emulsion cures Coughs,
Colds, Consumption, Scrofula and
all Anaemic and Wasting Diseases.
Prevents wasting in children. Al
most as palatable as milk, tiet only
the genuine. Prepared by Boot! A
Bowne, Chemists, New York. Sold by
•11 Druggist*.
Scott’s
Emulsion
DO.
Don’t you think It must be Jolly when the rain
comes down,
To be a little duck, because a duck oan’t drown?
And though the whowers fall as if a sea had
been upset,
They only trickle off him, and he can’t get wet.
Don't you think it must be jolly when the dust
blows high,
To be a flitting swallow in the deep blue sky?
For all he has to do is Just to beat his little
wings,
And up above the dusty earth his light form
springs.
Den't you think it must be jolly when the
moon won't rise,
To he a feathered owl, and hare an owl’s round
eyes?
For he sails about the forest in the middle,
moonless night,
And can And his way much better than in
broad sunlight
Don't ycu think it mu9t be jolly when the sun
burns hot
To be like the gliding fishes in a sea-green (rot?
For they never can be thirsty, and they always
must be cool,
And they havent got to dress themselves in hot,
thick wooL
—F. VV. Home, In Spectator.
A TYPE-WRITTEN LETTER
Mr. Denham's Queer Way of Be*
curing a Partner.
When a man has battled with pover
ty all his life, fearing It as he fought it,
feeling for Its akinny throat to throt
tle it, and yet dreading all the while
the coming of the time when it would
gain the mastery and throttle him—
when such a man is told that he is
rich, It might be imagined he would
receive the announcement with hilari
ty. When Richard Denham realised
that he was wealthy he became even
more sobered than usual cand drew a
long breath, as if he had been running
a race and bad won it. The man who
had brought him the news had no idea
he had told Denham anything novel.
He merely happened to say: “You are a
rich man, Mr. Denham, and will never
miss it.”
Denham had never before been called
a rich man, and up to that moment he
had not thought of himself as wealthy.
He wrote out the check asked of him,
and his visitor departed gratefully,
leaving the merchant with something
to ponder over. He was as surprised
with the suddenness of the thing as if
some one had left him a legacy. Yet
the money was all of his own accumu
lating, but his struggle had been so
long and he had been so hopeless about
It that from mere habit he exerted all
his energies long after the enemy was
overcome—just as the troops of New
Orleans fought a fierce battle not know
ing the war was over. He had sprung
from such a hopelessly poor family.
Poverty had been their inheritance
from generation to generation. It was
the invariable legacy that father had
left to son in the Denham family. All
had accepted their lot with uncom
plaining resignation, until Richard re
solved he would at least have a fight
for it. And now the fight had been
won. Denham sat In his offioe staring
at the dingy wall paper so long that
when Rogers, the chief clerk, put his
head in and said in a deferential voice:
“Anything more to-night,Mr. Denham?"
Denham started as if that question in
that tone had not been asked him every
night for years.
“What's that? what’s that?" he <mea.
Rogers was astonished, but was too
well trained to show it.
"Anything more to-night, Mr. Den
ham?”
“Ah! quite so. No, Rogers, thank
you, nothing more. ”
“Good night, Mr. Denham.”
“Eh? Ohl yea Good night, Rogers,
good night.”
When Mr. Denham left his office and
went into the street everything had an
unusual appearance to him. He walked
along, unheeding the direction. He
looked at the fine residences and real
ised that he might have a fine residence
if he wanted it. He saw handsome
carriages; he, too, might set up an
equipage. The satisfaotion these
thoughts produced was brief. Of what
use would a fine house or an elegant
carriage be to him? He knew no one
to invite to the house or to ride with
him in the carriage. He began to real
ize how utterly alone in the world he
was. He had no friends, no acquaint
ance even. The running dog, with its
nose to the ground, sees nothing of the
surrounding scenery. He knew men in
a business way, of oourse, and doubt
less each of them had a home in the su
burbs. somewhere, but he oould not
take a business man by the shoulders
and say to him: “Invite me to your
house; I am lonely; I want to know
people.”
If he got such an invitation he would
not know what to do with himself. He
was familiar with the counting room
and its language, but the drawing-room
was an unexplored country to him,
where an unknown tongue was spoken.
On the road to wealth he had missed
something, and it was now too late to
go for it. Only the day before he had
heard one of the clerks, who did not
know he was within earshot, allude to
him as “the old man.” He felt as young
as ever he did, but the phrase, so lightly
spoken, made him catch his breath.
As he was now walking through the
park, and away from the busy streets,
he took off his hat and ran his fingers
through his grizzled hair, looking at
his band when he had done so, as if the
gray, like wet paint, had come oft He
thought of a girl he knew once who,
perhaps, would have married him if he
had asked her, as he was tempted to do.
But that had always been the mistake
of the Denhams. They had all mar
ried young except himself, and so sunk
deeper into the mire of poverty, pressed
down by a rapidly increasing progeny.
The girl had married a baker, he re
membered. Yes, that was a long time
ago. The clerk was not far wrong when
he called him an old man. Suddenly
another girl arose before his mental
vision—a modern girl—very different
indeed to the one who had married the
baker. She was the only woman in the
world with whom he was on speaking
terms, and he knew her merely because
her light and nimble fingers played the
business sonata of one note on his office
typewriter Miss Gale was pretty, of
Course—-au typewriter gins me—auu iv
was generally understood in the office
that she belonged to a good family who
had come down in the world. Her
somewhat independent air deepened
this conviction and kept the clerks at a
distance. She was a sensible girl, who
realized that the typewriter paid better
than the piano, and accordingly turned
the expertness of her white fingers to
the former instrument Richard Den
ham sat down upon a park bench.
“Why not?" he asked himself. There
was no reason against It except that
he had not the courage. Nevertheless
he formed a desperate resolution.
' Next day business went on as usual.
Letters were answered, and the time
arrived when Miss Gale came in to see
if he had any further oommands that
day. Denham hesitated. He felt
vaguely that a business ofHce was not
the proper place for a proposal; yet he
knew that he would be at a disadvan
tage anywhere else In the first place
he had no plausible excuse for calling
upon the young woman at home, and,
in the second place, he knew if he onse
got there he would be stricken dumb.
It must either be at his office or no
where.
“Hit down a moment. Miss Gale,” he
said at last. “I wanted to consult you
about a matter—about a business mat
ter.”
Miss Gale seated herself and auto
matically placed on her knee the short
hand writing-pad, ready to take down
his instructions. She looked up at him
expectantly. Denham, in an embar
rassed manner, ran his fingers through
his hair.
“I am thinking," he began, "of tak
ing a partner. The business is very
prosperous now. In fact, it has been
so for some time.”
“Yes?” said Mias Gale, lnterroge
ttnfijr.
“Yes. I think I should have a part
ner. It is about that I wanted to speak
to you.”
“Don’t you think it would be better
to consult with Mr. Rogers? He knows
more about the business than I. But
perhaps it is Mr. Rogers who is to be
the partner?”
“No; it is not Rogers. Rogers is a
good man. But—it is not Rogers.”
"Then I think in an important
matter like this Mr. Rogers or some one
who knows the business as thoroughly
as he does would be able to give you ad
vice that would be of some value."
“I don’t want advioe exactly. I have
made up my mind to have a partner, if
the partner is willing.”
Denham mopped his brow. It was
going to be more difficult than he had
anticipated.
“Is, it, then, a question of the capital
the partner is to bring in?” asked Miss
Gale anxious to help him.
“No, no. I don't wish any capital. I
have enough for both. And the busi
ness is very prosperous, Mias Gale—and
—and has been.”
The young woman raised her eye
brows in surprise.
“You surely don’t intend to share the
profits with a partner who brings no
capital into the business?”
“Yes—yes, I do. You see, as I said, 1
have no need for more capital.”
“Oh, if that is the case, I think you
should consult Mr. Rogers before you
commit yourself. ”
“But Rogers won’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I don't understand, either.
It seems to me a foolish thing to do—
that is, if you want my advice."
“Oh, yes, I want it. But it isn’t as
foolish as you think. I should have
had a partner long ago. That is where
I made the mistake. I've made up my
mind on that”
“Then I don't see that I can be of any
use—if your mind 1b already made up.”
“Oh, yes, you can. I’m a little afraid
that my offer may not be accepted.”
“It is sure to be, if the man has any
sense. No fear of such an offer being
refused. Offers like that are not to be
had every day. It will be accepted. ”
“Do you really think so, Miss Gale? I
am glad that is your opinion. Now,
what I wanted to consult you about is
the form of the offer. I would like to
put it—well—delicately, you know, so
that it would not be refused nor give
offense.”
"I see. You want me to write a let
ter to him?"
"Exactly, exactly,” cried Denham,
with some relief. He had not thought
of sending a letter before. Now he
wondered why he had not thought of
it It was so evidently the best way
out of a situation that was extremely
disconcerting.
"Have you spoken to him about it?”
“To him? What him?”
“To your future partner about the
proposal?”
“No, no. Oh, no. That is, I have
spoken to no one but you.”
“And you are determined not to speak
to Mr. Rogers before you write?”
“Certainly not It’s none of Rogers’
business ”
"Oh, very well,” said Miss Gale short
ly, bending over her writing-pad.
It was evident that her opinion of
Denham’s wisdom was steadily lower
ing. Suddenly she looked up.
"How much shall I say the annual
profits are? Or do you want that men
tioned?”
“I—I don't think I would mention
that You see, I don’t wish this ar
rangement carried out on a monetary
basis—not altogether.”
“On what basis, then?”
"Well—I can hardly say. On a per
sonal basis, perhaps—that my partner—
would, you know, like to be associated
with me.”
“On a friendly basis, do you mean?”
asked Miss Gale, mercilessly.
“Certainly. Friendly, of course—and
perhaps more than that”
Miss Gale looked up at him with a
certain hopelessness of expression.
“Why not write a note inviting your
future partner to call upon you here or
anywhere else that may be convenient
and then discuss the matter?”
Denham looked frightened.
“I thought of that, but it wouldn’t
do. No; it wouldn’t do. I would much
rather settle everything by corre
spondence. ”
“I am afraid I shall not be able to
compose a letter that will suit you.
There seem so many difficulties It is
very unusual.”
“That is true, and that is why I
knew no one but you could help me,
Mis» Gale. If it pleases you it will
please me.”
Miss Gale shook her head, but after a
few momenta she said: “How will this
do?
“ ‘Dear Siiv-’ "
"Walt a moment," cried Mr. Denham;
“that seems rather a formal opening,
doesn't it? How would it read if you
put it ‘Dear Friend?’”
“If you wish it so. ’’ She crossed out
the “sir" and substituted the word sug
gested. Then, she read the letter:
“DBAR Friikd: I have for some time past
been desirous of taking a partner, and would
be glad If you would consider the question and
consent to join me In this business The busi
ness is. and has been for several years, very
prosperous, and. as 1 shall require no capital
from you, I think you will find my offer a very
advantageous I will—"
“I—I don't think I would put it quite
that way,” said Denham, with some
hesitation. “It reads as if I were offer
ing everything, and that my partner—
well, you see what I mean.”
“It’s the truth,” said Miss Gale, de
fiantly.
“Better put It on the friendly basis,
as you suggested a moment ago."
“I didn't suggest anything, Mr. Den
ham. Perhaps it would be better If
you would dictate the letter exactly as
you want It. I knew I could not write
one that would please you.”
“It does please me, but I'm thinking
of my future partner. You are doing
first-rate, better than I could do. But
just put it on a more friendly basis."
A moment later she read:
*• •* • • join me In this business I make
you this oiler entirely from a friendly, and
not from a financial, standpoint, hoping that
you like me well enough to be associated with
ina’
"Anything else, Mr. Denham?”
“No, I think that covers the whole
ground. It will look rather short,
typewritten, won’t it? Perhaps you
might add something to show that 1
shall be exceedingly disappointed if my
offer is not accepted. ”
"No fear,” said Miss Gale. “I’ll add
that, though. ’Yours truly,’ or ‘Yours
very truly?”
“You might end it ‘Your friend.’ ”
The rapid click of the typewriter was
heard for a few moments in the next
room, and then Miss Gale came out
with the completed letter in her hand.
'■Shall I have the boy copy it?” she
asked.
“Oh, Mess you, no!” answered Mr.
Denham, with evident trepidation.
The young woman said to herself:
“Ho doesn’t want Mr. Itogers to know,
and no wonder. It is a most unbusi
ness-like proposal."
Then she said aloud: “Shall you want
me again to-day?”
“No, Miss Gale; and thank you very
much."
Next morning. Miss Gale came into
Mr. Denham’s office with a smile on
her face.
"You made a funny mistake last
night, Mr. Denham,” she said as she
took off her wraps.
“Did 1?” he asked, in alarm.
"Yea You sent that letter to my ad
dress. I got it this morning. I opened
it, for I thought it was for me, and that
perhaps you did not need me to-day.
liut I saw at once that you put it in the
wrong envelope. Did you want me to
day?"
It was on his tongue to say "I want
you every day," but he merely held out
his hand for the letter, and looked at it
as if he oould not account for its haring
gone astray.
The next day Miss Gale came late and
she looked frightened. It was evident
that Denham was losing his mind. She
put the letter down before him and said:
"You addressed that to me the second
time, Mr. Denham.”
There was a look of haggard anxiety
about Denham that gave color to her
suspicions He felt that it was now or
never.
“Then why don’t you answer it. Miss
Gale?” he said gruffly.
She backed away from him.
“Answer it?” she repeated, faintly.
“Certainly. If I got a letter twice I
would answer it.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, with
her hand on the doorknob.
“Exactly what the letter aaya 1
want you for my partner. 1 want to
marry you, and—financial considera
tions—”
“Oh!" cried Miss Gale, in a long
drawn, quivering sigh. She was doubt
less shocked at the word he had used,
and fled to her typewriting room, clos
ing the door behind her.
Richard Denham paced up and down
the floor for a few moments, then
rapped lightly at her door, but there
was no response. He put on his hat
and went out into the street After a
long and aimless walk, he found him
self again at his place of business.
When he went in, Rogers said to him:
“Miss Gale has left, sir.”
“Has she?”
“Yes, and she has given notice. Says
she is not coming back, sir.”
“Very well.”
He went into his own room and found
a letter marked “personal” on his desk.
He tore it open, and read in neat type
written characters:
“I have resigned my plaee as typewriter girl,
having been offered a better situation. I am
offered a partnership in the house of Richard
Denham. I have decided to accept the pool
tlon, not so much on account of its financial at
tractions, as beoause I shall be glad, on a
friendly basis, to be assoolated with the gentle
man 1 have named. Why did you put me to all
that worry writing that Idiotic letter when a
few words would have saved ever so muoh
bother? You evidently need a partner. My
mother will be pleased to meet you any time
you call. You have the address. Your friend,
MabgAttar Gale. 11
“Rogers!” shouted Denham, joyfully.
“Yes sir,” answered that estimable
man, putting his head into the room.
“Advertise for another typewriter
girl, Rogers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.—Troy Times.
SLAIN HIS TEN THOUSANDS.
A UuuUr Who Has Bought a Farm wltl
Squirrel Pelts Alone.
Freeman Biggs, of Hutton township,
eight miles from Charleston, 111., car
ries the scalps of twenty-one thousand
squirrels at his belt, so to speak. As
his reputation for truth and veracity
is good, his neighbors do not dispute
his claim that he has slaughtered five
hundred deer, three hundred wild
turkeys and more prairie chickens than
he had time to count. He is, accord
ing to the Chicago Tribune, seventy
one years old, and his sight is just as
good as ever, so good, in fact, that if
the bullet from the rifle he has carried
for many years fails to strike Mr. Squir
rel between the eyes he will hardly
throw the animal in his game bag—
and squirrels are worth from twelve
and a half to fifteen cents. For thirty
five years “Freem'’ Biggs has hunted
“bush tails,” and the proceeds of his
accurate aim have bought a fine farm
on which he reared a family of ten
children.
“Freem” Biggs was born in Clinton
county, O., ana went to Hutton town
ship when fifteen years old. At that
time there were plenty of deer and
turkeys there, and as a boy he aoquired
a remarkable proficiency with the rifle
and finally drifted into hunting as a
means of support. The railroads came,
and deer oould be shipped to the east,
and until the settlements drove the
game away he sold venison. After the
country became settled and the greater
part of the timber felled, the turkeys
and deer disappeared, and he was
obliged to begin a business engage
ment with the squirrels, which con
tinues up to the present, at least up to
the time prohibited by law in each
year. For the last thirty-five years he
has done business exclusively with the
squirrels, and modestly estimates that
on an average he has sold about six
hundred a year. At first the price
ranged from fifteen cents up, but now
it ranges about ten cents and twelve
cents. Of course the supply of squir
rels is not so large at present. Be
sides, farmers who have woods pas
tures where these aulmals abound, put
huge signs on their gateposts declar
ing that “No hunting aloud on this
here farm.” Under these disadvantages
Mr. Biggs was unable to take over four
hundred last year.
- |
WHITE HORSE OF LAMBOURNE.
Tbs Strangs Natural Formation Which
May Bs Seen on an English Hillside.
In Berkshire, England, is situated a
hill on the steep sides of which is the
figure of a gigantic horse whose di
mensions are almost an acre in extent.
The head, neck, body and tall of this
wonderful figure consist of wide
white lines, as does also each of its
four legs. The outlines of this mon
strous specimen of the genus equinus
are formed by cutting trenches in the
chalk, of which the hill is mainly com
posed, the ditches being from two to
three feet deep and about ten feet in
width. The chalk of the trendies be
ing of a beautiful white and the sur
roundings the greenest of the green,
makes the figure of the horse plainly
discernible, according to the Philadel
phis Press, at a distance of about
twelve miles. This is the famous
“White Horse of Lambourne.” The
white horse is known to have been the
standard of the Saxons, and some have
supposed that this monster emblem
atic figure was made by Hengist, one
of the Saxon kings. Mr. Wise, an an
tiquarian who has written mueh on
the white horse of Berkshire, brings in
several arguments to prove that this
figure was made by or under orders
from Alfred during the reign of Ethel
red, his brother, and that it is a monu
ment to a victory over the Danes in the
year 871. Other well-known writers
are of the opinion that the celebrated
white horse is a natural freak—one of
nature’s oddest oddities. Ashmead
Burrton thinks that the early tribes
noticed that the outlines of the freak
resembled a horse to a certain extent
and that they worked it into its pres
ent shape, at least that they gave the
outlines their present graceful sym
metry. However this may be, it has
been the custom since time out of mem
ory for the neighboring peasants to
assemble on a certain day of each
year, usually about midsummer, to
clear away the weeds from around the
white horse and to trim the edges of
the trenches so as to preserve the color
and shape. This task is known all
over England as “scouring the white
horse.”_
Wealth Out of a Poor Farm.
There is a man in Alabama who, ac
cording to the New Orleans States,
takes life very easy for the simple rea
ion that his farm extends up and down
the Louisville * Nashville railroad for
a distance of fifty or sixty miles. A
great many persons will be disposed to
doubt this statement, but nevertheless
it is the truth. A short time ago the
old Alabama countryman was a victim
of impecunlosity because his farm was
so poor that the cats would not stay on
it, but one day the engineers of the
road came along and discovered that
his farm was nothing more than a vast
deposit of gravel, the very material
they desired to use as ballast for the
bed of the road. They endeavored to
buy the farm outright, but the old
countryman stubbornly refusing to
sell the only home he had on earth it
was finally arranged to g>ay him a roy
alty on every car load of gravel taken
from his land. The royalty has made
him rich, and as the supply of gravel
is practically inexhaustible he will
soon be able to boast that his farm Is
the largest in the world and extends i
all the way from New Orleans to Louis
ville.
UNSOPHISTICATED,
, She was bashful, self-conscious but rosy,
This fresh littie bud from the Helds;
She’d blush like the heart of a posy
When to the soft zephyr it yields.
And not being well up iu grammar,
She’d often say “came” ’stead of “come/*
And she’d pick at her apron and stammer,
And “at home,” with this maid, was “to
hum.”
| And the questions she’d ask you were funny
I On matters irrelevant quite;
But her smile was so open and sunny,
| To answer them all was delight.
' And she'd tell you, with naive little touches
Of frankness confiding as sweet,
Of things the most personal, such as
Her age and the size of her foot.
And of quizzing she’d never suspeot you,
Though amused at her sallies you were,
And her laughter uncurbed would infect you
I As well as her “bon hommie” rare.
As for slang—let us draw here the curtain,
| And country slang, mind you, at that;
! And, heavens I the town belles, I'm certain,
'Most swooned at the style of her hat.
Yet, still, this sweet maiden bucolic
Had virtue enough in h6r way;
Though rather too ready to frolic,
She kept mooning dudelets at bay.
In fact, she had Just enough “gumption,**
Or call it good sense, if you please,
While blandly Ignoring presumption.
With a look the “presumer” to freeze.
And then she could get up such dishes,
And “flxin’s an’ things/' that you’d own
That never such cooking delicious
To tickle your palate you’d known.
Besides, she made all her own dresses
As well as her sisters', they say,
And neatly she groomed her brown tressea,
Though not In conventional way.
9o while all the giris In the city.
Where she’d “come for to visit a spell,**
Tried, each, to be brilliant and witty,
And laughed at her frequent “do tell,”
She kept her own gait most demurely,
Nor noticed their quizzing and chaff,
And, ail quite unconscious, was surely
On them neatly turning the laugh.
For soon it appeared that this posy,
So verdant and fresh from the fields;
So blushing, confiding and rosy,
With arts that true innocence wields,
Had captured nobility’s sofon.
The hope of the citified belle,
Who said, as she sighed for her lion:
“Well there! Did you ever! Do tell!”
—Emile Plokhardt, in Detroit Free Press.
THE VILLAGE OPERA,
A Lesson That Was Taught by the
Good Singer.
Near a little Tillage in the south of
Saxony there dwelt a musician. It
seemed that he had always been living
there, and yet in appearance he was
not old. His eyes were full of Are, and
the dark clustering hair still fell away
from his smooth, high forehead. His
figure was still ereot and his step
buoyant and firm. He lived alone upon
the mountain that hung over the pretty
valley. The children could plainly see
his cottage shining above them on the
cliff, white against the purple shadows.
“Seel” they would say to each other,
“that is where the good singer lives.”
When he came down into the little
town they would stand in the door
ways, smiling as he passed. But they
did not have that chance very often, for
mostly his way lay upward to the moun
tain^ crest, where, above the clouds
that hid the summit from the sight of
those below, he spent days sitting
alone in the sun. Then he would come
down again to his little cottage, bring
ing with him beautiful songs and har
monies which he would work out in his
study and set down in a music soroll.
While he was gone on these trips to
the mountain top, the villagers were
always on the lookout) and one of their
number had leave from his work in the
fields in order that he might constantly
watch so as to let the others know when
the singer should return. The watcher’s
post was high on a cliff, in full view of
the path winding down from above.
Here, by bending out with the aid of a
stout bush, he could see the men at
work far below. If the breeze were
favorable, he could even hear their
laughter or catch a strain of a song or
two which the singer had taught them.
Then, swinging himself back upon the
cliff, he would trvatch the path that led
up into the mountain. In time he
would always be rewarded by a sight of
the singer coming down from the rocks
to his cottage below. When he came
near enough, the watcher would always
lean forward to oatch the expression in
his eyes. They seemed full of the sun,
with that rare light indeed which comes
only from looking down upon the world
like the sun itself. Suoh a sight the
watcher prized always as the chief
treasure of his memory. He who
caught it was very fortunate, for, as the
singer drew nearer to the village nest
ling in the valley, this strange light
faded slowly, and his face became as
before, full Indeed of nobility and sweet
ness, but not as luminous as it had
been.
When, however, at the bidding of the
watcher, the villagers thronged into
the singer’s study at nightfall, the lus
trous eyes would half glow again with
their former fire as he sang to them the
songs he had brought with him from
the mountain top. A hush fell upon
the men and women as they listened.
They alaaped hands silently and smiled
through their happy tears. If, per
chance, anyone stood in the crowd who
had aught against a neighbor, his face
relaxed as the singer sang, and hie
hand stole out shyly to his enemy, who
grasped it eagerly, and the men were
friends. And if two women had quar
reled at their tasks, they laid Jtheii
heads in women fashion upon each oth
er's shoulders, and, weeping, became
sisters once more. So the singer sang,
and as the light from the hearth fire
shone upon his face the villagers
thought: “It is an angel who brings to
us the songs he has gathered at the feet
of God!”
Thus year in and out they went from
the fields and from the fireside up to
the little study of the singer. They
brought with them their common vex
ations and triala They came some
what hardened with the week’s toil
and struggle, somewhat burdened with
their daily cares, for they were simple
folk and their valley was not over
bountiful. But one by one their
burdens dropped away as they listened
to the singer; and they took back with
them to theirjhousesa 11 the warmth and
beauty and comfort of his songs. It
happened now and then that one,
touched more than usual by some song.
veould beg to bear it again. out
smilingly the singer would answer that
all the songs were being written into
one great opera, and when he should
hear the whole he would find his song
again. Sometimes a mother would say,
pleadingly: ‘•Give we the little Bong
which has spoken bo comfortably to
me. It is like the prattle of the little
one who rests so deep that 1 uan no
longer take her in nyi arms. ” But the
singer, smiling still, shook his head,
and began another song so tender and
sweet and yet so joyful that the vil
lagers held their breath, and even the
mother no longer yearned for the song
which had been Bung and was already
folded away within the scroll of the
great opera now almost full. They
said among themselves: “How beauti
ful must the entire work be, since these
are only parts!” Some, indeed, more
outspoken than the rest, said often to
the singer: “When shall we hear the
whole opera?” Then the singer, smil
ing ever, answered: “Bide thou,
friend, and never grow impatient.”
At last, however, there came an even
ing when the singer said to his people:
“The opera is done!” They cried out
joyfully: “Now we shall hear it all!"
But he checked them, saying: “Nay,
you may uot hear it yet.” His voice
grew very gentle, as though he grieved
to disappoint them. "Good friends," he
went on, tenderly, “we havedwolt very
happily together, and your love has
rown very dear to me. Now, however,
must leave you, for there are other
songs for me to sing and other operas
for me to write. I may not sing them
here, for all my songs to you are sung.
I must go to other villages. ”
But they cried: “Why dost thou
leave us alone? Without thee we shall
have no more singing."
He answered; “I m»v not lin*er
dear friend; for if I tarried hei'e I
should miss those other songs which
will be given me to sing Do you not
know that beyond your mountain there
are other villages that need the songs X
have for them? Are you not willing
that they should have their musio
also?”
They wept, saying: “Thou wert our
father, and we thy children, thou
knowest; but henceforth without thee
we shall be mute.”
He, however, smiled and said: “Nay,
I have tasks for you.” He held before
them the scroll in which were enfolded
all their songs. “You must learn the
opera which I have written, holding
all the songs which I had in trust for
you. When I return we shall sing it; for
there are many tunes, and many times,
and many keys. Without me to guide,
you would miss the central harmony.
But unto each will I give the song I
sang for him alone, and he shall learn
it by heart, that, when I return, alto
gether we may sing the opera, and I
will lead the whole.”
He divided the scroll among them,
and to each he gave his piece, some
large, some small, but every one hav
ing written upon it the song that had
been made for the receiver alone. Then
he dismissed them tenderly. They
went out weeping into the night, for
they grieved bitterly at being parted
from their singer. But they said
among themselves: “Shall we mur
mur because he goes to sing to others?
Nay, did he not even tell us that if he
tarried he might lose the songs which
he should gather upon other mountains?
Surely that were a pity!” Thus they
comforted themselves. And when by
their own firesides each found upon his
scroll the song which most had touched
him in the other days, he fell weeping
to his knees and thanked the good God
who had given the singer this message
entirely for himself.
In the morning the village stirred
with a new life. The men went to the
field, carrying their scrolls with them
and as they rested from their work
they set about learning their song. It
was truly like a meadow of unfledged
larks learning to pipe. At home the
women, as they busied themselves with
household tasks or plied their needles,
sang cheerily as they spelled out each
new phrase. So through the day they
worked, laughing gleefully at each
other’s mistakes and false notes. At
night they gathered together for a mo
ment to think of the singer who had
gone from them, but had left them each
his song, neither too high nor too low,
but just adapted to his voice and capa
ble of bringing out all its sweetest
tones. “The good singer,” they said,
“how well he knew us all!”
So the days were spent in practice.
If by chance anyone grew weary and
his hope failed, or if, cast down for the
moment, he feared that the singer
might not, after all, return, he would
reassure himself, saying: “How grand
will the whole chorus sound!” Some
times, too, one became spiritless and
discouraged over his task, rebelling at
his discords. Then would another say
to him: “Shall then the singer when
he comes be disappointed in thee?
What if, lacking thy one part, the
whole opera should wait?” Thus they
cheered each other.
As the seasons waned, however, and
the singer came not, the little doubts
began to grow stronger, the little dis
couragements were less easily recovered
from, and even (among the more indo
lent of the villagers) could be heard
murmurs. “Of what use,” they grum
bled, “is this trill here and that note
there? I never can sing it in that way;
no one will know if I leave it out.” An
other was bolder still. “I will not
trouble myBelf with that phrase,” he
would say: “I will write it over to suit
myself.” Still others, more self-willed
than the rest, cried out: “Oh the stupid
song! it was good enough for last year,
but I have quite overgrown it. I am
kick of its old drone. I will make an
other like it, but more varied and bet
ter suited to my voice, which of late
has grown so much stronger.” And
there were one or two who found their
songs so small in comparison with oth
ers that they were quite angry and gave
up their parts altogether.
In vain did the wiser heads in the vil
lage remonstrate, for soon. Indeed,
most of the villagers had followed the
lead of their bolder neighbors and
altered their songs to suit themselves.
So it came about that only a few re
tained the simple, sweet melodies
which the singer had left them. Of the
rest, some had put in new notes and left
out old ones, some had changed the key
of their song to another which they
thought more suitable to their voice,
and some had so varied and simplified
the ir songs that the original theme
could scarcely be discerned. Most, in
deed, were, in this way and in that,
quite different from the songs left them
by the singer. It was true that a few
who thus changed their scrolls found
out their mistake too late, and tried to
erase the alterations they had made.
But here and there they had forgotten
a note in the original melody, which,
try as they might, they could not re
store.
The villagers were In this condition
when, one morning, as, according to
their custom, they looked up to the lit
tle empty cottage on the cliff, they
found, to their great surprise, that it
was again occupied. They had waited
so long that at first they could not
credit their own eyes; but as they
looked they saw the yellow smoke curl
up from the chimney, and they could
no longer doubt that at last the singer
had returned to them. With mingled
feelings they awaited his summons to
the study, some with joy of hope ful
filled, others with a sense of their own
insufficiency and shortcomings, and
some with a heavy weight of shame.
And, truly, many lagged behind when
the little procession wound up the
mountain to the cliff. None, however,
was so covered with diunay and con
fusion, or so steeped in ingratitude,
that he stayed behind altogether.
Even the most willful of them all
cared too much for the singer for that.
So, half-hastening, halt-lingering, the
villagers went to greet hi m.
When all were gathered together in
the study they knew so well, and saw
him standing as they had so often seen
him, erect in the firelight, watching
them with the old luminous, tender
eyes, now smiling, now sad, they fell at
his feet with a cry, and, holding up
their worn and blotted scrolls, they
sobbed out their joy and their sorrow,
their struggle and their failure, like
children from their tasks at school.
The singer heard them with a gentle
smile. He passed among them touch
ing now one and now another who
seemed most in need of comfort. By
and by a hush fell upon them all.
"My people,” he began slowly, “I
have not lacked tidings of you in the
distant villages where I have dwelt. I
have heard how it has fared with the
songs which I left you, and how you
have forgotten the meh)dies which I
taught you. You have spoilt their
beauty and their sweetness, and you
have perverted their meaning by addi
tions and renderings of your own. But
becanae you have not forgotten me, the
singer, I have oome to you that I may
teach you again the songs which I sang
to you. Faulty Indeed now would be
the opera if 1 should join all these
blotted scrolls Into one. for the har
monies are grown discordant. You
must learn them over again. But that
you may not. fail another time, X wish
you to understand the full meaning of
each song that 1 gave you, and how
necessary each is to the harmony of the
whole. Then, with renewed hope and
earnestness, you may set to work once
more. I, therefore, knowing how you
had failed, have brought with me, from
other villages which have better learned
the tasks which I set them, a choir of
singing men who will sing your opera
for you, and show you how each song
goes, and Its place la the whole.”
He opened an Inner door. There, In
the full glow of many candles, stood a
Dana or men and boys, and on their
faoes was a light that resembled the
singer's. They all carried scrolls writ
ten In the singer’s own hand. He him
self, stepping forward, gave them the
signal. On a sudden they began all at
onoe to sing, and the sound broke on
the people like a sea of light. They
raised their faces from the ground and
wiped away their tears. They seemed
bathed in the glorious harmony. With
wonder they looked at each other. One
said: “Surely that cannot be my little
song!” and another: “Could rnipe have
sounded like that?" And they clasped
each other’s hands as in the old days,
and wept with joy. Then the singer
began to sing above them all a song
which they had never heard. It filled
the pauses of the other songs, and glor
ified them.
When the last notes died away, they
stood hushed and awed, and their faces
shone like the faces of the choir men.
They said: “Sing us again that new
song.” But the singer answered, smil
ingly: “Nay, you must iearn your own
songs first. Then will I sing you the
new one, completing your harmonies
with the master song.” The villagers,
still clasping each other's hands, with
their hearts full of joy and love of the
singer, cried out, eagerly: “Give us
again our old songs, that we may learn
to sing them aright.”
He, still smiling, took from the choir
men the fresh scrolls written in his own
hand, and gave them to the villagers.
Then they went slowly back to their
quiet valley. But the singer stood
long in his study window, looking down
upon them from the oliff. He smiled
gently, and said softly to himself:
“Bide thou, and never be impatient,”
just as he had so often said to his peo
ple.—Christian Union.
FIRESIDE FRAGMENTS.
—Cannelon.—Chop one pound of raw
beef, add yolk of egg, one tablespoon
ful each of melted butter and chopped
parsley, two tablespoonfuls of crumbs,
one teaspoonful of Balt, one-quarter
teaspoonful of pepper. Koll up, wrap
in greased paper, and bake half an
hour. Remove paper. Serve with
brown sauce.—Good Housekeeping.
—Preserved Oranges.—Boil them till
you can put a straw through the skin.
Clarify one and a half pounds of sugar
for each pound of fruit; take the,
oranges from the water and pour the
hot sirup over them; let them stand
one night. Next day boil them in the
sirup till it is thick and clear.—House
keeper.
—rrieu Apple sauce.—fiace a oil or
butter in a sauce pan and let brown.
Slice the apples without paring-. Place
them in the hot butter with a pinch of
salt, also a tablespoonful of sugar if one
prefers; add about half a cup of water,
this of course depends on the quantity
and juiciness of apples. Coyer closely
and cook until tender.—Farm, Field
and Fireside.
—Snow Balls.—Beat the yolks of
three eggs light, then add gradually
one cup of granulated sugar, beating
all the while. When very light, add
two tablespoonfuls of milk, one cup of
flour, and beat again. Beat the whites
of the eggs to a stiff, dry, froth, add
quickly to the batter with one rounded
teaspoouful of baking powder. Fill
well-buttered cups twro-thlrds full, and
steam for twenty minutes. Koll in
powdered sugar and serve with sauce.
—Boston Budget.
—Horse-radish Sauce.—A good relish
for roast beef both hot and cold is the
following; Mix three large tablespoon
fuls horse-radish, freshly grated, with
half a teacupful of sweet cream, and as
much vinegar. Add a little salt, a tea
spoonful of sugar and if hot sauces are
liked, a little cayenne and Worcester
shire sauoe. This sauce is good cold
but, if preferred hot, care must be used
that it does not curdle, and it must be
removed from the fire before it boils.—
Orange Judd Farmer.
—Smoked Salmon. —Soak a half pound
of salt, smoked salmon for an hour in
cold water, drain and set on the back of
the range for twenty minutes; drain
again, lay for a few minutes in cold
water, and with a sharp knife cut into
strips half an inch wide and three long.
Roll each strip in flour or in egg and
bread crumbs and fry brown in hot fat.
Pile up log-cabin fashion, and pass a
cream or tomato sauce with the dish
it may also be broiled after soaking.—
Country Gentleman.
—Fish in White Sauce.—Flake up
cold boiled halibut and set the plate
into the steamer, that the fish may
heat without drying. Boil the bones
and skins of the fish with a slice of
onion and a very small piece of red
pepper; a bit of this as large as a ker
nel of coffee will make the sauce quite
as hot as most persons like it. Boil
this stock down to half a pint, thicken
with one teaspoonful of butter and one
teaspoonful of flour braided together.
Add one drop of extract of almond;:
pour this sauoe over your halibut, and
stick bits of parsely over it.—Old Cook
Book.
—To Prepare Table Mustard.—We
think this the finest dressing for cold
neats we ever tasted, and I have given
the recipe to a great many of my
friends, and they also like it very
nuch. Put three large teaspoonfuls of
ground mustard into a bowl, and pour
on enough warm water to make a stiff
paste. Rub smooth, add half a cupful
if vinegar, a pinch of salt, and the
oeaten yolks of two eggs. Set the bowl
in boiling water and stir constantly
until the mixture thickens. Then add
butter the size of an egg. and continue
the stirring until it is dissolved.—
Prairie Farmer.
LONDON'S IMPERIAL INSTITUTE.
Description and Objects of the Msfnlfl.
cent Building Just Opened by Victoria.
The object of the Imperial Institute,
which was opened in London the other
day by Queen Victoria with an impos
jng ceremonial, “is to promote the de
velopment of the material resources of
the empire and to bind its component
parts more closely together by a variety
of interests—commerciab social, intel
lectual, and sentimental.” The insti
tute, in short, is designed to be a meet
ing-house for over-seas men when they
return home, a showroom and exchange
for over-seas produce—a practical book
of reference, as it were, for informa
tion about every inch of the empire,
,md a school for young Britons intend
ing to emigrate. Externally it presents
a massive and impossing appearance.
The plan of the building is very simple.
The entrance is in the center under the
great tower, named the queen's tower;
and facing it is the approach to the
main staircase, with two corridors run
ning right and left to the east and west
wing. These corridors run along the
whole length of the front of the build
ing and give access to a series of hand
*ome and lofty rooms, which are devo
ted to the social objects of the insti
tute. They are really clubrooms, and
the two chief floors of this part of the
building practically constitute a oolos
ial club. There are also six very fine
.•hambers, called conference rooms,
where the representatives of the colon
ies will meet on ceremouious occasions.
Behind the main structure is a series of
galleries running round two rectangu
lar open spaces. These galleries are to
contain a complete museum, or rather
exhibition, of British produce, natural
snd artificial, from every part of the
empire. At present only the East In
dian section is approximately complete,
though Victoria and Queensland are
well forward. What there is, however,
suffices to show the iutention. Here
are rows upon rows of cases containing
hundreds and hundreds of specimens—
minerals, woods, fibers, grasses, seeds,
barks, leaves, and so on in profusion,
but all neatly labeled and ticketed with
name and place of origin. The main
abject of the collection Is commercial,
tnd the museum is a show-room where
ipecimens of every kind of imperial
produce are on view for those whom it
may concern.—IS. V. Post.