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ONE TEAR AGO.
From Every Other Saturday. [yiiHt year, under the chestnut treea, Uniior the chestnuts white, Two of us walked, two of us talked— Would it were so to-night. Two were the voices, tremulous, sweet Two wero the heads bent low Two wero the hands, together clasped, One white as the'flower-snow. One year! But a year, when all is told, Twelve months and a day! No more Yet my footsteps flag, and my youth seems old, And my seared life feels fourscore. 1'wo were the hearts that together beat, Two were the hearts, yet one Two were the figures that, interlaced, Strolled, 'neath those trees, in the sun. Those trees, those leaf-laden, bloom-strew ing trees, That glorious sun of June! Now they strike the golden chords of my soul, Sound sweet on it love!s own tune. Mi, leaves, ye full, and grow green again, Nor mourn for the spring-time fled Ah. trees, ye bloom in another .1 line, lJut the life of my lifers dead! THE MESSAGE. It was midnight, and two women awaited different messengers under one roof. To the elder, the slow-paced hours were bringing death to the younger a bridegroom. The faded mis tress of the rich parvenu's home had Iain down to die, facing the doom of all with the stoicism of the neglected and unloved. Ready to take her place, impatient to clutch at the gauds the other despised, and to parade a triumph which should have been her dishonor, was her rival. She was a young woman of course. Subtler feminine charms than bright eyes, rosy lips always parting in smile, a slender figure, and audacious, girlish ways, were hardly likely to fascinate a man of John Harden's character—a man who had risen from the meanest ranks of life, spent his years in money-getting, and shunned rather than sought good company in the true sense of the word. To be put out of countenance by no one, had been a leading maxim of t\»e money-maker's career whilst therefore surrounding himself with all the glitter of opulence, he remained the blunt, plain-spoken, homely John Harden of early days. He was just sixty, and the gi»l busied with such affectation of demureness on some foolish boarding-school bead work, could hardly be twenty. The pair sat opposite to each other by the fire, only interchanging a word from time to time, betraying nothing of their secret thoughts to chance eaves-, droppers at the door. Yet despite such guarded speech, a quick observer must have seen at a glance how it stood with both the girl's flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, the man's look of suppressed satisfaction, told their own story. The dread messenger, whose name is Death, as lie passed through this hushed house, made way for a joyous successor whom, under various guises, men call Love. The hand of the costly time-piece on the mantel-shelf pointed to twelve,and the mere sign seemed to chill the air. Mr. Harden rose to make up the fire, as he did so, letting one hand fall on his companion's. "It is growing late and cold. Better go to bed, Con stance," he said in a voice of tender concern. The girl, allowing herself for a mo ment to bo carried away by impulse, leaned forward, her bright brown curls just touched his scant gray locks, her softly rounded cheek just came in con tact with his own, lined and corrugat ed with care. "Should I leave you ulone at such a time?" she whispered. He said nothing, but kneeling before the fire, making it up after methodical fashion, contrived at the same time to transfer from his waistcoat pocket to her not unwilling fingers, a minute box of crimson leather lined with vel vet. Within gleamed a wedding-ring, and as Constance Emery gazed upon it furtively, her lover's face showed exultation equal to her own. To this shallow girl, the first glimpse of her wedding ring meant everything that life itself could mean. She was nothing, possessed nothing the ring would give her all she set store by, and render her exactly what she wished to become. It would throw the responsi bility of her own existence upon an other's shoulder's, relieve her from the odious burden of bread-winning, afford ease, luxury,social power, and the kind of sway over an ordinary nature that by such women is made to do duty for affection. The ring, in short, was to open wide the portals of a career after her own heart, without it, unattain able as a crown. To the man also the ring symbolized the aspect of life most agreeable to him. In one respect, money-making had not rendered him callous. To his mind, a certain femi nine type ever remained irresistible. Of ideal lovliness, of spiritual or intel lectual beauty, it was not at all likely that he should have the remotest con ception but he owned the sway of frolicsome girlhood, the easy assur ance of young, handsome, reckless women. To surface charms of look or manner, he was ever ready to do homage. But the ring had other and graver meaning for him. His first marriage had been childless. The enormous wealth amassed so labori ously lacked an heir. Might not a young wife make him the prond father of blooming children. The tiny box consigned to its hiding place, Mr. Harden fetched from the lobby close by, a carriage cloak lineid with rare fur, and bestowed it care fully about tlie girl's shoulders. He next went to the sideboard, ?ind half filling a glass with wine, "Do not let 3"ourselfget chill or faint then" he said softly, standing over her, glass in hand. She just sipped the wine, and put back the glass, smiling gratefully. He returned to the sideboard, swallowed the remainder of the wire, then sat down in lii§'$)ld place by the fire. Just then the door was tapped light ly and an elderly, homely woman-ser vant made her appearance. "If you please, SIE$" she said, with out looking at the girl, "mistress is herself again, and asks tor you." Such a summons unwelcome although it might be, was imperative. With a lingering look at the vision of life, youth and jollity left behind, Mr. Harden followed his hushed conduct tor into the chamber of death. n. It was a strikingly luxurious room, hung with rich arras of crimson silk, and carpets to match, in which the feet sank noiselessly. On each side of the Venetian looking-glass were hand some French candelabras supported by little Loves in tinted porcelain. On the dressing-table glittered silver-top ped scent-bottles and a woman's small watch set with diamonds. The fire had been allowed to burn tow, and only one small lamp lit up the silent room and its solitary occupant—a worn, whitehaired. woman whose life was Hearing its close. It was easy to see that, like her hus band Mrs. Harden had not been born to such luxury as this her physiognomy as well as his own indicated a homely origin. Her thin hands still showed evidence of laborious toil. The heavy silk curtains of warm red, and downy quilt covered with satin, were in strange contrast with the look of the mistress. Twenty years of opulence had never familiarized her with it. To the last, she looked, as indeed she felt, a stranger in her own home. "Go away, Anna," she said gently to the faithful peasant woman who had grown old in her service. "Leave us alone." The husband realized at a glance what had happened. She had re membered something, been reminded of something she wanted to say to him at the last, and as will often hap pen in the case of the dying a brief re turn of consciousness was accom panied by a momentary recovery of physical strength—last, bright, evanes cent flicker of the flame of life. The servant withdrew, and Mrs. Harden now beckoned the shrinking, conscience-stricken man to her bed side. They had hitherto been no leave taking between him and the faithful partner of well nigh forty years. From the beginning of her illness, greatly to his relief, she had avoided anything approaching to close, con fidential, talk, any allusion to the past or the future as they, more im mediately concerned themselves. He had taken care that everything money could do was done for her. A London physican had been summoned in consultation all the concern that deco rum exacted under the circumstances had been testified by him he was con stantly in the sick-room. But the solemn confidence,. (lie final under standing, the supreme valediction that might be looked for from two human beings who had passed almost a life time together, had never been uttered. Now it became clear to him that they were not to be separated thus. The opportunity for a last word had come, andsheclutchedit with almost frenzied eargerness. The expression on her fa:*e he could not misread—she was determined to say what she had to say. She felt confident that death would afford her this grace—consent to hold aloof a little while. "John," she began, gathering fire and force with every word, all the pent-up indignation of years poured forth at the last, "I have had something to say to you for years past. Now I must speak or not at all." "You ought not to agitate yourself, Bessie," he said nervously "It will do you harm." "Harm!" she reiterated with a ges ture of contempt. "You speak of harm to a dying woman! But do not inter rupt me. My time is short.-' "John, I am not afraid to die. have never been what is called a re ligious woman. I was never so tender hearted to the poor and afflicted as I see now that I ought to have been. But I have done my duty. As a wife, as a woman, I have acted uprightly. When the same moment comes to you,' when the door standsopen before you, as it doestoine,betweenlifeand death, and you know you must go the dark way, can you say even so much for yourself?" She leaned forwad, not looking ex actly at him, he could have borne that better, but peering as if into futurity, seeing, so he seemed to think, what lay behind the grave and was veiled from his own and from all mor tal's gaze. The meanness, the homli ness of the woman vanished indeed then. Something more than personal feel ing, the indignation born of silently endured wrong, almost flashed from her dying eyes and white, almost spectral features. It was not the in jured wife, the outraged woman so much that spoke now to John Har den's guilty soul, as the voice of con science itself, of awful justice, of award ing doom. I have been a hypocrite to you all these year.:. I have never once opened my lips to you 011 the subject of your conduct to me," she went on in a supernaturally strong, clear voice. "But do you suppose I was blind or a fool? Those long, long winter evenings I dragged out as best I could alone, did I not know how they were spent by you? I was not going to flaunt my self before the world as an insulted wife, to court the neighbor's pity for the slights put upon nie by my hus band. No I sat alone amid all this show so hateful to me, with unspoken curses in my heart. What right had you to treat me thus? Was I the only one of 11s two to grow old and wrinkled? If our marriage was not blessed with children, the misfortune was mine as well as yours. These things rest with the Almighty." For a moment, a moment only, her voice swayed to real feeling as she con tinued: "There was a time, when life was a hard struggle to us, and you behaved kindly to me, I would have laid down my life to make you happy. And I was ever a true wife to you, John, you cannot deny that. Do you remember when we kept our little shop, how I used to sit up till past midnight iron ing your shirts and mending your clothes? And the first time you were summoned to sit on a jury, I was so proud to have you go. I never told you that I sold my father's watch, the very watch he left me, to buy your black coat, and turn you out like a gentleman. And now Yet one tremor more as she got out the rest of the sentence. "And now, had you treated me with consideration due to a wife, had you cared for me at all, I should be the first to say to you on my dying bed— 'Do not fret, my dear marry some good woman try to be happy for my sake.'" Then she did indeed look at him, penetratingly and with a startling fixedness that seemed to search his very soul. Clenching her hand as if between himself and her stood her deadliest foe, she added: "Do I not know what will happen as soon as I am put in my grave? In spite of your caut ion. I see well enough who is waiting to take my place. Marry that ungrateful girl we picked out of the gutter. Ring the joy bells a year hence at the birth of a son and heir. No good will como of it. Con science will crush you, unclean heart, perjured tongue! You will tremble when Death stands near you, beckon ing as he now beckons me, and tremble in vain White as the dying woman, the hus band leaned forward with a word of exculpation, an entreaty for pardon 011 his trembling lips. But it was too late. The force of ebbing life had al ready spent itself. Mrs. Harden fell back unconscious on the pillow, and as he caught her in his arms, he saw that the end had come. The faithful Anna hearing his cry for help, hastened to the bedside to find her mistress dead. III. So enticing the warmth of that lux urious fur-lined cloak, so soft and easy the arm chair in which her patron had settled her, that Constance Emery telt ready to drowse. But her brain was too busy with the future to indulge in sleep. She must, would keep awake, in order to think out the future as it opened itself to her enlarging gaze. Perhaps the girl was not deserving of wholesome condemnation after all. Vulgarity may indeed be a piece of ill fortune, as much as a wry nose or mis shapen foot only to the rarely en dowed ones is it possible to burst the chains of custom, bringing up and her edity. In the midst of foolishly bewildering dreams of silks and trinkets, carriages and lacqueys, boudoirs and fashion able receptions, she was aroused by the abruptest intrusion. Rising to her feet, for she well knew who the intrud er must be, she was fain to clasp his hand, to whisper an endearing word, to greet him fondly as she had done surreptitiously scores of times before. But at a glance toward her patron, her heart stood still. Clever she was not. feminine tact she posessed in a moderate degree, yet she realized in a moment, without knowing the cause, the nature of the transformation that iiadcomeover him. She stood aghast, not venturing a step forward, lacking courage even so much as to utter his name. He came close up to the table by which she stood, holding in his hand a strip of paper barred with pink. "Constance," he said in that brief, hard, unanswerable voice she knew so well, though now used for the first time to her—"Constance I cannot marry you. I shall never marry again. Here is compensation for a broken promise." He turned up the Lamp in order that she might see what he had given her. There, it was plain enough, nothing could be plainer, a check for five thous and pounds. The astounded girl was dumb, and he hardly knew whether as yet she fully understood the meaning of the words. Something else he had to say, however, unmistakably clear to the purpose also. "It will be better for you not to stay here any longer. I have ordered coffee to be ready by six o'clock, and the brougham at half-past in time to catch the early express. William will drive you to the station, andgiveyoua first class ticket. Mind and be ready." Still not a word from the scarlet cheeked, mortified, trembling girl. Had any one half an hour before as sured Constance Emery that she should thus stand silent and abashed in the presence of this man, she would have laughed the prognostication to scorn. But with that quick, unerring in stinct of the dull, the instinct born of fea,r and self-preservation, she now rec ognized the fact for herself. There was nothing she could say to soften liini even were she mistress of herself, blandishments, exhortation, tears, would all prove ineffectual as children's dams to keep out the tides. Something had happened—she vaguely guessed the truth—to shut him from her, to harden him toward her forever. 'Whilst she stood thus, shrinking, ir resolute, unable to get out a sylable, yet feeling that she ought to say somethingon her own behalf, another significant act told her clearly enough, were proofs still wanting of what was in Mr. Harden's mind. The rich fur lined cloak in which he had so tenderly enveloped her just an hour ago, lay 011 the ground. In her startled surprise, it had fallen from her shoulders. She now saw him pick it up, and, with a gesture not to be mistaken, lay it care fully folded,011 his wife's favorite chair at the extreme end ofthe room. That cloak she was not to touch again. Then he left her,in a moment more to return. Constance Emery looked up, and once more her heart stood still. He had repented of this cruel abruptness, this undeserved coldness, and was come to whisper a tender word in her ear, to console her for what he had perhaps been forced into by a death scene. He came back to the table, leaving the door ajar. "Take good care of that piece of paper," was all he said as he pointed to the check. Again thedoor closed, and this time he was indeed gone. She heard himgo to his closet on the same floor and lock himself in that was a sign also she had learned to understand. Noth ing remained but to do as she was bid. After all he was master in his own house. She might weep, remon strate, implore, she could not stay against his will, Humiliation, mortified vanity and dismay were succeeded by other feel ings. On the whole, perhaps, her sud den departure would not create much talk in the neighborhood and in the kitchen. She was young and no re lation. Would it not be quite natur al for Mr. Harden, in the eyes of the world her benefactor only, to send her away? And certainly, as far as her own feelings and inclinations were con cerned, she would rather be anywhere than in a house with the blinds down, and the hush of death reigning over it. In her heart of hearts, but for the er rand, she was really glad to go. And, lastly that check, when she grew calm enough to think about it, altogether altered the aspect of things. She had 110 idea of Mr. Harden's real wealth, but the sum he had just given her in lieu of a wedding ring seemed to her simple eyes enormous. Whatever happened, she was a great personage now. It was characteristic of thegirl, as she deposited the check at the bot tom of her trunk, and sullenly made her preparations for departure, that she never for asinglemoment regretted the affection of this man or what had passed muster for his affection. She only thought of his rough flatteries, his unfigurative compliments, his homely admiration. But all these, and much more surely, awaited her in the triumphant future. Why should she shed a tear for one who could part from her without a handclasp, a smile. a fond look? She almost felt that in time she would»learn to hate him. True enough, punctual to the mo ment, William waited in the porch with thebroughman a moment later and a woman's trunk was placed on the top, a slender, girlish figure wear ing a small crimson hat with white feather, and tight-fitting crimson man tle bordered with fur, stepped in, the door was shut, and as if divining his master's wishes, the old manservant drove the carriage swiftly, toward the lodge gate. IV. What the rich man did with his inner life from that time, none knew. Outwardly it was clear for all to see, a model of austereness, rectitude and rigid adherence to duty. Mr. Harden made no affection of piety, of conver sion, as the phrase goes. He did not take to reading his Bible, or exces sive church-going. The exactions of conscience and custom in this lat ter respect had ever been fulfilled by him. But in his lonely, remorse-stricken widowhood he tooktogood company. Alike in look, dress and manner, he affected the an* of a gentleman. As if to challenge the world, moreover to say a syllable against his character, he generally had to reside with him some needy clergyman, or young man preparing for Holy Orders, with whom lie took liis meals and spent his eve nings over chess and back-gammon. He gave clerical dinner-parties, too, delighting to assemble round his lux urious board all the clergy of the neighborhood, well pleased also, in turn, to accept invitations to their houses and be initiated into what is called good society generally. The world of course welcomed the millionaire into their ranks. He might have married half a dozen times, to his social and moral advancement, had he pleased. From the first, however, it was evident to all that, whatever John Harden might do for the Church and society, he would never marry again. Clerical la dies might get money out of hirn. No woman would ever persuade him to purchase a wedding-ring. These dis tractions relieved the tendium of soli tude, and if he did not look cheerful, at least he invariably wore an express ion of satisfaction. He might well look satisfied! He was satisfyinghim self, in other words, as he thought, balancing his moral affairs, and put ting himself 011 the right side of the banking book. Nor was the widower forsaken in moments of sickness or when infirmi ties overtook him. The devo1»d An na, whose heart had once turned whol ly against him, whose feminine in stincts had revolted againsts the slights put upon her mistress, now testified even affectionate solicitude for the changed repentant man. And if there was one person in the world to whom he ever opened his lips on the subject of the past, it was to his wife's faithful servant and only friend.— Temple Bar. Great Defeats. In the German official report, 1866, we find that 400,000 men fought in the battle of Koniggratz,andit is stat ed that the outposts of the two armies faced each other within a distance of four and a half miles without either army suspecting the near and concen trated presence of the othe^ .Clery. has an excellent chapter on this head, though one would prefer different di vision and definition of these duties. Macdonald on the Katzbach, trusting to reports that Blucher was in retreat and taking no precautions to verify them with his cavalry, was surprised on the march, and his defeat ibecame such a rout that he had to beg the emperor to come in person to restore matters. In 1870 McMahon's right flank, was left unscreened. The result was, that, although he had two divi sions of cavalry in the reserve, his Fifth corps was surprised and routed at Beaumont. In tactics the same rule holds good, for "at Waterloo Na poleon neglected to reconnoiter to ward Wavre, and became aware too late of the advance of the Prussians." The necessity of constant touch is ex emplified by the fact that, after the battle of Austerlitz, Murat's cavalry mistook the line of retreat of the al lied army, and so the whole French army pursued on the wrong road. To obtain the touch of the enemy and keep it is all important in enabling re connoiters to find out much about him. This is best done by small bodies, having great mobility, under sharp officers or non commis sioned officers. Von Schmidt says: "The more the enemy sees himself sur rounded by 'points' and patrols only which avoid him, but constantly re turn again, and not by tangible bod ies, the more certainly will every at tempt he may make to break through be frustrated, and the less will he be able to avoid perpetual observation and obtain any information for him self." Touching the distance in front of an army that the screen should maintain and the extent of front to be covered, Clery gives some useful exam ples: "I11 the advance of the First and Second German armies from the Saar to the Moselle, in 1S70. the cav alry of the Second army during the first day's march was pushed forward to points varying from fifteen to twen ty miles in advance of the general front. Ten regiments were employed, and they reconnoitered along a line extending from Pont-a-Chanseyonthe right to Pfalzbcyig on the left, about sixty miles. This gave one regiment to about every six miles of front to be reconnoitered."—Army and Navy Quarterly. A Georgia Sanison. Perhaps the strongest man in the State is Mr. Beussee, the blacksmith at Mr. T. E. Birchmore's shop. Max eys. He is about six feet ten inches high, stands erect, and his muscles Eand rominent. He stands and with one raises a hundred and twenty pound anvil out straight for a minute, and takes a large cart wheel in one hand by one spoke and holds it out horizontally at arm's length. On hearing of his wonderful muscu lar power we went over to wit ness some of this modern Samson's strength, and when we asked him about it—"Yes," says he. "I think I am as strong as anv man in this coun try. I can take this anvil and throw it from here to that wagon (adistance of fifty yards) I use thehammerwith my right hand, but I believe I am stronger in my left. Here, feel of this arm and the muscles measureit if you want to. When I used to shoe horses I never encountered one that I eould'nt. manage. I could hold them even if they were wild. I have never found a man that was as stout in the arms as I am."—Lexington Echo. ROMANCE OF A RIATA. How ft llogton Soplioiuore He CM me a Cow boy and Won a Ilride. From the San Francisco Alta. The movements of a real cowboy on Kearney street attracted attention He stood nearly six feet in his boots, and his regular features and drooping blonde mustacliegave his face an aspect of beauty fully in keeping with his handsome proportions. His attire was that of the vaquero, consisting of buckskin trousers, a wollen shirt fastened at the throat with a carelessly knotted silk handkerchief, a coarse chinchilla sack coat and broad-brim med felt hat of the sombrero pattern. An Alta reporter learned his name and his history. His name was Edward N. Willets and six years ago he was at college, when lie received peremptory orders from his father, a wealthy Bos ton merchant, t» enter the theo logical class and fit himself for the ministry. The command came like a thunderbolt to the happy-go lucky young fellow, who had always believed himself destined to follow his father in business when the latter should be ready to retire. A quarrel with his pere was the result and the young fellow suddenly left for the west. At Cheyenne he laid over for a short hunt 011 the plains. The wild life of the cow boys caught his fancy. Sal ary proved little object, and he had little difficulty in attaching himself to a big ranch until he had mastered his new vocation. Finally he drifted through portions of Montana, Nebras ka, Dakota, Idaho, Nevada, and final ly into Oregon and California. The opening of the Summer found him en gaged with three or four comrades in driving a, small band of steers over the Santa Cruz Mountains. Cattle in the mountains are not pleasant objects to deal with. Every unruly steer that broke from the band required an hour's chasing up and down steep slopes, over rocks and fallen trees,and through the spiteful brush. Toward the end of the drive the steep bluffs that line the road 011 either hand kept the steers in fairly good order, and only occasionally did an unusually juicy bunch of grass tempt some hungry one to bolt up the slope or into the canyon below. It was an occasion of this sort that sent Willetts careering among the brakes and ferns on the slope .above. A chase of half a mile had seen the truant re turn to the road, and Willetts was skirting the edge of the bank some dis tance in advance of the drove in search of a safe place to descend, when in the middle ofthe narrow road he saw a lovely girl. The drove was thundering down 011 her, and promising to soon crush her young life beneath their ponderous weight. Escape for the girl seemed impossible. From the road to where Willetts' horse stood was a wall of rock fully twenty feet in height, and below to the bed of the stream was a sheer descent of double that distance. For only a second was the horseman inactive. Then with a speed born of long practice he lifted his trusty rawhide riata from the horn of his saddle and threw it. "Put that under your arms, miss," was Willetts' hasty injunction. It was obeyed, and not a moment too soon the gill was lifted above the heads and horns of the oncoming cattle. When they were well by, Willetts slowly slacked down until his "catch" dropped .safely to the earth. Five minutes later, when he managed to find a pathway down and reached the subject of his daring bit of horseman ship, she was lying in the dust in a faint. When she recovered he learned that she, too, was from Boston, and with her fat her and mother was spend ing the summer amid California's most favored spots. The old gentle man, her father, was highly delighted when he learned of Willetts' identity, as he soon did. "His daughter fool ishly placed a high value 011 my little service," explained Willetts, blushing, "and when I saw how she had over estimated it, I meanly demanded the largest reward I could think of. The details were settled and I came on by the evening train to fit myself for her society. She swears that I look like an angel in my woolen shirt and buck skin trousers, but I will try and get her used to me in civilized garb, for a vaquero's dress is hardly the thine for a'sthetic Boston." I "Are you going back?" I "Yes, in September. We shall tour I Yosemite as man and wife' and then go back home. My father-in-law says that my father has long been anxious tohavemecomehome,andthathe will set me up if the old gentleman doesn't, so I think I had better go." A Remarkable Career. New York Letter in the Hartford Times. Gotham has always been a wonder ful place for 11 p.s and downs, but I doubt if. it has produced anything more remarkable this way than is seen in the career of "Ed" Stokes, or as an increasing number of people now call him, Mr. Stokes. His elec tion recently as president of the Unit ed Lines Telegraph company marks an advance in a few years that may well excite surprise. Previous to the Jim Fisk episode the public in general knew nothing about Mr. Stokes. What it learned then was that he belonged to a respectable family, but had been rather wild. Fisk crossed his path for a woman, hounded him a good deal, and, it is said, also threatened his life. Then came the shooting in the Grand Central hotel followed by Stokes' long imprisonment in the Toombs and the still longer one at Sing Sing. That was supposed to be the end of him. Certainly no one im agined that "Ed" Stokes would ever be a man of note in the community, with so very dark a cloud hanging over him. He served his term at Sing Sing and soon after his release he went to California. Very little was heard of him for some time. Only his personal friends knew how he was employed there. No one had any thought that, having been down so low, he would ever rise again. But the stuff that makes men rise was in him. After a while New Yorkers heard that a magnificent bar the most elaborate and costly in the city, had been opened in the Hoffman house, with Ed Stokes as proprietor, and they went in thousands to see it. It certainly was worth seeing, the pictures and statues alone representing a small for tune. The bar flourished and after another while it became known that the Hoffman house itself was largely owned by Stokes. Its business grew rapidly and Stokes made money fast. He also made the acquaintance of a number of Wall street men. for his bar became their favorite up-town resort. Gradually his footing among the Wall street men became'firm and they, on the other hand, gradually recogniz ed in him an uncommonly able busi ness man. He went into Wall street himself and made some pretty good turns. And now he comes to the front as president of a telegraph organiza tion that promises to give to the over grown Western Union company a hard push. Some of the strongest finan cial men in New York are at his back and evidently have confidence in him. The rise of Ed Stokes since his dreary days at Sing Sing is very remarkable indeed. BEHIND THE BUSHES. A Convivial Young Hiw'i VUlt to Hit Uncles, Aunta aud Couniui in M»M»chu •ett*. Exchange.—Uncle Tom Saunders was a thrifty farmer in the Connecticut River Valley, owning a fine "place" in old Hampshire County, Massachu setts. Brother Billy Saunders went to the Southern States and settled when a young man, whereliereared afamily, and, although there was a correspond ence kept up, no visits passed between the two families for more than twenty five years. A year or two after the Maine law went into force in Massachusetts, cousin Joe Saunders, from the South, a handsome, manly young fellow, "came North" to visit his relatives. He arrived at Uncle Tom's house about nightfall, in haying time, and was heartily welcomed by uncle, aunt and cousins. Then after a chat about the folks, cousin Joe went to sleep in the "spare bed-room," with feathers and pillows enough for two, and did not get up until 9 o'clock the next morning. Joe told the story on himself after ward. When he came down, the first one to welcome him was aunt Han nah, who, after the usual good morn ing, said: "Joseph I suppose that your cus toms in the South in many ways are different from ours. Are you in the habit of drinking something a little strengthenin' and appetizin' in the inornin'?" Joe signified that such was the hab it with him sometimes. "Well, we are all temperance folks here, but I've got a little bottle of 'spirrits' that Dr. Billm's gave me for the hypo that I keep in the buttery. Here it is, Joseph help yourself." Joe was nothing loth, and, thinking that he probably would not have an other such an opportunity during his visit, betook a liberal snifter, and af ter finishing breakfast, which had been kept for him, finding himself doubly refreshed, strolled out toward the barn, where Uncle Tom was busy at work. "Mornin', Joe," said his uncle, cheerily "say, come here." Then he led Joe into the granary and said in a confidential kind of way. "You know, I 'spose, that we're all temperance lolks, but I've got a little old apple jack behind that bin there, that I kind er keep for my roomatiz,away from the old woman and the boys. 'Spose we take a horn apiece, you and I. It's pretty good stuff." Nothing loth Joe imbibed again, and, feeling still more exhilarated, started down into the meadow where the boys were at work in the hay-field. "Good morning, cousin Joe," sung out the oldest, as Joe came along. "How are you feeling this morning? Say, Joe, don't you Southern fellers take a little eye-opener occasionally? You see, this 'ere is a temper ance State, and father and mother are bright and shinin' lights. But we boys ain't—that is, we ain't practically. Just yougoto that corner of the fence, and under Jim's jacket you'll find a jug of as good old Jamaica as you have tasted in a year. I'll go with you. Take hold, Joe, it's out of sight of the house. Joe complied, and the operation was repeated once or twice before dinner time. He managed to get through with the meal without incurring sus picion as to his actual condition, thanks to a somewhat extensive capac ity, and stayed a week with the good folks. But he said afterward that he never came so near being kept on a week's solid drunk as hedid during the time of his visit to that "temperance family." Effects of Heat. It is certain death to a man to have his temperature rise about a dozen de grees above the normal standard. Yet one who has endured a climate twenty or more degrees below zero, can equal ly endure one over a hundred decrees above. Indeed, some men work in an artificial heat one hundred and fifty degrees above, and some enter, from time to time, a drying oven more than twice as hot. It is only when the air is dry that such a heat can be borne. A much lower moist heat would be speedily fa tal. What keeps the temperature of the body down in air that so heats every thing else is the evaporation which is constantly goin: 011 from the surface and the lungs. Evaporation is a cool ing process. This matter of evapora tion Providence has so nicely adjust ed that the temperature of the body in health remains nearly the same whatever the outward temperature. But should evaporation be checked when tliooutward temperature is high, dangerous results would follow. Among these results are heat apopiexy, or sunstroke. It is greatly checked when the atmosphere is so charged with moisture that it can take np little moisture from the body. This is the atmosphere condition known as "muggy," when the most copious per spiration seems to have little of no power to cool. So, too, there is dan ger, if the power to perspire is lost, or greatly lessened. Any feverish con dition may induce this, and so may the lack of fluid in the system. Per sons who work under a high temper ature should drink freely. The long continued heat of summer reduces the digestive power, and hence, since few equally lessen the amount of their food, causes more or less disturb ance of the stomachand bowels. Most cases of cholera infantum are due to this simple fact. Teething in summer is dangerous from its tendency tofever isliness. which checks perspiration. During a heated term every thing should be done to keepthechild cool the least possible clothing, a frequent sponging of the body and cooling drinks. A sudden change from a hot to a cool temperature exposes one to internal congestions. W oolen clothing must be put on again. Heat and moisture favor the de velopment ofnoxiousgerms. Theonly safety is in cleanliness—clean cellars, clean kitchens, clean sleeping-Tooms. clean drinking water, and just as much clean air as possible.—Youth's Com panion. THE NATIONAIi Description Petrified Xonntsln—Itai mirkabU Geological Curioaitiea. San Francisco Post: It will natur ally be asked, what is 'Petrified Moun tain?" It is an immense mountain near the northeast corner of the park lying between the forks of the Yellow stone a few milesabove their junction. It was called "Petrified Mountain" hZ prospectors several years before it was seen by Dr. Hayden, who seems to have considered himself called upon to rechristen it, which he did, giVinc it the more poetic name of "Amethyst Mountain. Junction Valley is one of the most beautiful regions of the park. The valley along the east fork is particularly attracti ve. For twenty miles it is very broad, abounding in grassy meadows and delightful parks. On the north side rises the massive range of Yellowstone Mountains, and on the south is Petrified or Amethyst Mountain. Biding along the trail at the base of this mountain, one is as? tonished to see great numbers of pet rified logs of remarkable size and beauty. In places the side of the mountain is covered withthem. About ten miles above the mouth of East Fork this mountain rises very abruptly over 2,000 feet above the level of the stream. The face is a succession of steppes, varying in thickness. Upon these steppes the petrified trunks stand out like the columns of a ruined building. The standing trunks are generally short, seldom more than six feet in height, but a few were four or five timefc as tall. Fallen trunks are found over fifty feet in length. Prof. W. H. Holmes, in his report on a ge ological survey made by him in 1878, says: "One upright trunk of gigantic proportions rises from the inclosing strata to the height of twelve feet. By cartful measurement it was found to be ten feet in diameter, and as there is nothing to indicate to what part of the tree the exposed sections belongs, the roots may be far below the surface, and we are free to imag ine that there is buried here a worthy predecessor of the giant sequoias of California. Although the trunk is hollow and partly broken down ©n one side, the woody structure is perfectly preserved, the grain is straight and the circles of growth dis tinctly marked. The bark which still remains on the firmer parts, is four inches thick and retains perfectly the original deeply lined outer surface. The strata which inclose this trunk are chiefly fine-grained greenish sand stone, indurated clays and moderately coarse conglomerates. As would na turally be expected, these strata con tain many vegetable remains branch es, rootlets, fruits and leaves are ex tensively inclosed." In many cases the trunks are changed to agate and opal, and in the cavities of partially decayed trunks are found beautiful crystals of quartz and calcity of differ ent colors. Many beautiful amethysts are found, suggesting, doubtless, the name to the mountain. Nothing is more apparent than that there is an immense sedimentary deposit of many different ages, of hundreds, perhaps thousands of years each. First, upon the granite base was made a calca reous deposit from 300 to 500 feet thick. Then nature changed its mode of operation and vegetation sprang up. According to the indisputable fossil record this continued hundreds of years. Then a stratum of sand stone was deposited, burying the for est, which became stone. Then anoth er age of vegetation, succeeded by an other age of deposition, changing all to stone. I counted an even dozen of these vegetable strata, distinctly sep arated by strata of sedimentary rock. Petrifactions are found along the streams and upon the rougher sur faces, over an area of perhaps fifty square miles. Indestructibility of Gold. Gold may be said to be everlasting, indestructible. The pure acids have no effect upon it. Air and water are alike prohibited from working its de struction while to baser metals they are decay, to gold they are innocuous. Bury it through long ages, and when the rude tool of the excavator again brings it to light, while everything around it, and originally associated with it, has returned to dust from which it sprang while the delicate form which it adorned has become a powder so impalpable as to be inappreciable while the strong bone of the mighty warrior crumbles as you gaze upon it while his trusty sword lies a mass of shale rust, the delicate tracery in gold which adorned it, or the finely-wrought tiara which encircled the lofty brow of the fair damsel is there in its pristine beauty, perfect as when it left the work man's hands and became the joy of her fleeting moments. Yes, days,years, centuries have rolled by, mighty em pires have risen and fallen dynasties that dreamed their power was to be everlasting have passed awav armies have marched, conquered and become nerveless with decrepit old age cities teeming with population and com merce have become the dwelling place of the owl and the bat the very pyra mids themselves, raised in the pride of power, and destined to be forever, have crumbled and are crumbling, and yet that thin filament of gol has stood unchanged through all these mighty changes it has withstood triumphant ly the destroying hand of time it is to day what it was three thousand years ago. Surely it is a noble metal, worthy of all admiration.—Sir Henry Vivian. Arctic Exploration. There will be a general acquiescence in the opinion of Lieutenant Danen hower in respect to the practicability of further Arctic explorations when he says: "After having served with one Arctic expedition, and having devoted seven years to the study of the subject, as well as to the watchful observation of the numerous efforts and the compara tive insignificant result attending sac rifice of human life and treasure, I un hesitatingly record myself as opposed to further explorations of the central polar basin with our present resources. The gradual extension of observatory stations in the interests of meteoro logical. magnetism and other scien tific bianches should be made, but national support should not be given to another polar expedition. Lieutenant Greely and other ex plorers take an opposite view of the matter, and the question is one which will probably be much discussed, but the result of .the recent expeditions point strongly to the conclusion that the game is not worth the candle.'* fK* '•iiafe fii4 -1-' :':S Ig 1 A -if iZM y* Jf