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Pw* as'thtflllyia white and puro, Ftom .lt* heart to its aweet lea! tips. And the little ones understand. Girls that are fair on tho hearthstone, .And-pleasant when nobody sees Kind and street to their own folk, Beady and anxious to please. The girls that are wanted are wise girls That know what to do and to say at drive with a smilo or a sott word The wrath of the household away. The girls that are wanted are the girls oi sense. Whom fashion can never deceive ,c Who can follow whatever is pretty, And dare, what is silly, to leave. But see that nothing is lost. Suddenly her face looked as if a -door had opened and flooded it with sunlight. "I know what I will do I will write a story. I know I can if I try. Peo ple do not have to be so awfully clever to do that. It is a knack,not a talent. There is Mrs -—, who has made heaps of money and her stories are only poor trash—all of them. John says iSO." W Beftre another hour had passed the -outline of a plot was dancing in her ^excited young brain, and as soon as she could get the time she sat down "with pad and sharpened pencil. Then came a pause. "How shall I be -gin?" She drew little geometric figures on the margin of her paper as she reflect -«d, her thoughts seeming to revolve in circle, returning ever to the place 'from whence they started. Finally -.•he wrote: "In a small village on the banks -of—" "Oh, that is so commonplace. No that will not do." And she tore oft the first sheet of her pad and reflected again, then wrote: "Frank Atwood was the only son 'Of a—" "No. no that is too stupid," and "the second sheet of the pad went in ito the waste paper basket. She recalled what John had said of it he superfluous first three pages, "which micht with benefit to most storied be eliminated—for John was a journalist and literary critic, arid his standards and ideals were just on the measure of her own. So she thought with great deference of what he had •aid about tedious preambles. "He is right,"shesaid with decision. "It is the personal interest in the characters which we are looking for in reading a story. All that comes be fore thai is tedious superfluity. "I will dash right on with a letter from the heroine, which will at once explain the situation." So with the confidence which came from feeling herself at last on the right track, she wrote: 'Dear Frank: I return herewith the letters, which of course I have now no rieht to keep. I need not tell you what it costs me.' "I have reflected much upon what you said yesterday, but I am at last resolved. I will not see you again. Any attempt to make me break this naolve will be fruitless. God knows you have Only yourself to blame that this marriage has—' '"Please ma'am," said the cook, comiAR suddenly in' upon the' young authoress. "Please ma'd,m, the butch -jjtere. Will you come and see him give the order yerself about bav in' tmm chops! frencbed or whatever it jg "Oh, what a bore," sighed Mildred. "I was just getting into the swing of it." And she left the manuscript up on her desk'to be resumed later. The matter of the chops disposed of there were Other things requiring at t4ntifa. At last, however, she was at her desk She read over the letter with which her story opened to see how it sounded. "Really," said she, "I thi6k that starts off very well," ^4 then she took up the broken "Only yourself to blame that this marriage has—" A violent ring ing at the telephone again broke the cornst. "Hallo," said our young novelist. ''Mildred, is that you?" fjk: "Yfw, it you, Alice?" ,»*YBT Jfamma does not feel very trail and Wishes you to take luncheon With OS. .t!l I I •, The girls that are wanted are home girls— _GirIt that are mother's right hand, fathers and brothers can trust to, The girls that are wanted are careful girls, Who count what a thing will cost Who UBO with a prudent, generous hand, The girls that are wanted are girls with hearts They are wanted for mothers and wives Wanted to cradle in loving arras The strongest and frailest of lives. The clever, the witty, the brilliant girl, They are very few, understand But, oh! for the wise, loving, home girls There's a constant and steady demand. —New York Ledger. 5-#- TIIK PERILS OF AUTHORSHIP. Mildred's pretty face wore a new •expression as she toyed with her tea spoon and tried to finish her roll and '-coffee. John had just left her for his ^office. They had been married three months, and the serious aspects of .'life were for the first time presenting themselves. The problem of income and outgo had made a fairshowmg on paper. A small apartment—fuel and gas includ ed —one servant, and with such loads of wedding presents, absolutely noth ing to buy, they could actually save money. But, somehow, there were leaks which had not been considered, and ten dollars covered a much sraall er amount in time and space than ... John or Mildred had supposed. "I wish I could do something to help John," thought Mildred as she gazed abstractedly out of the window. '•He has to work so hard," and gave a little sigh. "What can I do?" she pondered. "What can I do?" she asked herself -again and again, as with deft touch ...she straightened and arranged the "dainty apartment. She has sent the carriage. Be ready to come soon as it arrives." Obviously no more authorship to day. So slipping her paper into her desk she departed. Now John was a nice sort of a fel low. But we may as well acknowledge at once that be*was not so heroic, nor nor go infallible an authority as his wtfe supposed. CK it-' it giotttMg wwrs oyier iraagmilflQn and out of it had made an ideSI John, which while it bore a strong resem blance to the real was nevertheless largely a work of art. But, after subtracting these addi tions from the real, there was still left a very excellent fellow, with good tal ents, which hp was using with rather brilliant effectiveness in journalism and various kinds of literaiy work, who was adoringly fond of his wife, and had not yet recovered from his surprise at his excessive good fortune in possessing that much coveted treas ure—for whom he had contended,with many others, in those anxious days of courtship. And now—there she was at home, waiting for him, while he was urging his brain to the top of its speed, and driving his quill in eayer haste, thinking only of what it would bring for him to lay at her feet. Mildred was right in thinking he felt anxious at times, for thines did not always turn out as he hoped. And he oftentimes felt disheartened when he thought that with the fullest measure of success which he could achieve his profession could never yield what so peerless a wife as Mildred deserved. For, of course, he had with his imagi nation retouched the real Mildred too. Tho new purpose of authorship brought a great light and hope into Mildred's life. She felt important— indeed that she was muijh more im portant than people was aware. That she was carrying a very large secret— that if John only knew! Then she pictured to herself his reading her story, possibly reviewing it. After he has written all kinds oi nice things about it I will tell him I am the author or—or and her heart turned cold and sick—what if he should say it was trash? For of course, like other good critics, John was seldom pleased. If things were all excellent, what would be the need of critic? So he had cultivated the art of discover ing flaws in what seemed to ordinary readers pure gems. He had developed rather a talent for pilloring people in a single terse phrase, and was much valued for his skill in beating down with the editorial club tender young aspirants who were trying to make themselves heard. This sounds bru tal. But he was only professionally brutal. In his personal characteris tics none could be more tender or sympathetic. Mildred knew of this caustic vein and believed it too—as she did also of John's attributes and gifts—"but, "she thought, "if he should say any of those dreadful things about me what should I do? I should never—never —tell him." And so during the entire day she thought and planned. New intricacies of plot suggesting themselves—vivid and interesting scenes coming before her stimulated imagination. Her mother urged her remaining and sending for her husband to dine with them. Her secret desire was to return, but she looked at her mother's wistful face and had not the heart to refuse. She would stay and send for John. That gentleman arrived at home at the usual houi. As he put his latch key into the door he smiled thinking of the quick ear which was listening for it, and of the pretty apparition which would meet him in the hall. "By jove," he thought, "what a lucky fellow I am." But the expected figure did not come to meet him. He was conscious of a little chill of disappointment, and still more as he wandered through the rooms and found all silent and deserted. He rang for the maid. "Where is your mistross?" "She is out, sir. There's a note, sir, somewhere," and she looked anxious ly about. "Oh, it is on her desk," said she with returning memory, start ing to go for it. "No matter, I will get it," and John turned his impatient steps to ards his wife's room. There was no note on the desk and quite naturally he opened the lid. His i-yes were riveted upon the words be fore him. DEAR FEANK: I return herewith the letters which I have no longer any right to keep. I need not tell you what it costs me— He felt as if his blood were turned into ice. I have reflected much upon what you said yesterday— "Yesterday!"—John felt as if he were going mad. "Yesterday!"—and he had so trusted herl The room had grown black and a great sledge ham mer was beating in his brain, but he read on upon what you said yes terday, but I am at last resolved. I will not see you again. Any attempt to make me break this resolve will be fruitless. God knows you have only yourself to blame that this marriage has— John stood for a few moments as if turned into stone, his face blanched, hi3 muscles tense. Then a ray of hope seemed to come to him. "There is no signature it is not hers." He looked again. How could he doubt it? He knew too well the turn of every letter. He was alternately livid with rage and choking with grief. His dream of hap piness Vanished. Something like a curse came from between his closed teeth. "She loves this man, and she meets him and teils him so, and only yesterday. Oh, it is too horrible! too horrible!" He buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I shall go away I shall never—" At that mo ment the telephone bell rang. He took no notice of it. "Ishall never—" Again it rang long and loud. What should he do? There was no one else to answer it he must go. So he said huskily, "Hello!" Mildred's silvery voice replied, "John, is that you?" The situation was shocking. How could he reply?—but—there to as no time for reflestion. He knew that the Central Office would share all his con fidences through that infernal piece oi black walnut and ebony. So he said: "Yes." "Why do you not come? Dinner is waiting for you." How well he knew the pretty inflex ion of that voice! "I wish no dinner—I am going away —good-bye." It might have been the conventional telephonic "good-bye," or it might contain a profounder meaning. The effect at the other end of the line cannot be described. Ten min utes later a cab drove luriously up to the door of the Apartment House, and Mildred, with white face and fast beating heart, rushed into the room, and would have rushed into John's arms if he had let her. "You are going away?" she said breathlessly. "You are a clever actress," said 4 wiiatr'santthe, amazed.' hj rthat's the—" "A very clever actress/' said1 quite AS i! she had not spoked, ''but hereafter we will have a* more perfect understanding and you need npt, trouble yourself." "Why, John," said she, "have you lost your senses?" "No on tho contrary, I have recov ered them. I am no longer a dupe. I was fool enough to think you— "John, for God's sake tell me what this means!" "Oh, Mildred! Mildrefl!" sad he breaking down utterly. "Why did you not tell me like an honest woman that you loved some one else?" "John, you know. I—" "Stop!" said he. "Stop! do not stain your soul with any more false hood." "You need not have married me," went on the wretched man. "God knows I wish you had not." She tried to put her arms about him as he paced to and fro in rapid strides, but he pushed her away angrily. "No, no' more of that. That has lost its charm." Mildred burst into toars. "I never—would—have—believed— you would be—so—cruel," sobbed she, "What—have I done?" "Done?" shouted the exasperated man, "done? Why, you have spoiled the life of an honest man, who doted on you, believed in you—like a trust ing fool—who would have risked his life on your honesty—" "Stop," said Mildred, and she gath ered herself up to a fuller height than John's eyes had ever before beheld in her. She too was angry now. "If you have charges to make I de mand that they be definite, and not in base innuendo. You are very cruel and also very insulting to me. I shall' not remain in this house to-night nor return to it until you have apologiz ed." And she swept from the room and from John's astonished sight. A moment later he heard the mes senger call, then heard his wife give an order for a cab, then saw her packing a handbag. Ho intended doingthesame things himself. But somehow having her do them was infinitely harder to bear. Mildred was very angry. "Not a thing of his," shs said to herself as she stripped off herrings and gathered her trinkets. "My purse, too," she thought and went to the desk to find it. Her husband had been watching for this. He knew she would try to secure that letter. "Ah," said he, "you are a little too late. You should have thought of that before." These, to his unmeaning words, ut tered with much concentrated bitter ness, made her seriously doubt his sanity. She looked at him curiously. How else could she construe this in comprehensible fury? She pursued, the thought had calmed her resent ment. She went to his side, placed her hand kindly on his arm. '"'My dear John," saidshe, "will you explain to me what all this means?" He felt touched, and oh, how he longed to take her to his heart but that could never be again. "Will you first explain to me," he answered, trying to be hard and cold "explain to me where you were yester day?" "Certainly he is mad," she thought, and she tried to be very calm. "Ah, yes," he went on. "You can look very innocent, but, woman, look at that," and with tragic gesture he held up the paper. Mildred looked at it bewildered then she read, "Dear Frank." A gleam of light first came into lier face, and gradually deepened into an expression of interest and amusement. She un derstood it all. I John looked to see her crushed, de spairing and penitent and instead hd witnessed this unaccustomed, this ex traordinary, change and laughter— peal after peal of silvery laughter— rang through the rooms. She tried to speak, but could not. John in his turn began to think shq was mad. At last, with tears rolling down her. cheeks, not from grief this time, she said: "Oh, you dear silly—silly thing. Oh, you dear goose—that's my story —and I was going to surprise you— and bring you ever—ever so much money—and now you have gone— and spoiled—"and here she began to cry in earnest. "And—you—have— said—sucft—cruel—cruel—" Her sobs, together with John's great enfolding arms, stifled the rest. "Oh, my angel, iny angel, I have been such a brute. Can you ever forgive me?" That was what John said, but this pen refuses to attempt the portrayal of what he felt. He had been a will ing and a loving slave before, and now he was in addition a penitent and crest-fallen one besides. And so his chains were riveted anew. As hinted before, John had a pro fessional character quite distinct from his domestic one. This duality affords a much needed outlet to perturbed spirits: hence as he turned towards his office the next morning an ominously stern look came into his face. The unfortunate man whose first book he reviewed that day never sus pected that the savage criticism which very nearly threw him into a nervous fever, and quite into despair, was al most entirely inspired by the misad ventures just related. H. A. Our Wealth and Our Army, As regards wealth the United States ranks first among the nations of the world. In revenue France, Great Britain and Ireland and Germany are ahead of her, placing this country fourth. In expenditure she ranks eight. In the amount of debt France, the United Kingdom, Russia and Italy are far ahead of this country. In re gard to commerce only three nations, the United Kingdom, Germany and France are ahead of us. The United States have more miles of rail road and telegraph lines than any other nation and the value of American manufactures is greater than that of any other nation. The army of the United States if placed on a war footing would be excelled in numbers by only one nation in the world, France. On a peace footing the army of this country ranks below Russia, Italy, China, France,Germany, Austria, India, the United Kingdom, Turkey, Spain, Switzerland, Holland, Mexico, Belgium, Sweden, Japan, Den mark, Portugal, the Dutch East In dies and Persia. This by a singular anomaly, the richest country in the world, keeps a smaller standing army than the Dutch Eest Indies and many impoverished and unimportant coun tries. She has no effective coast fortifi cations and only three modern ships of war. f' :i ft •.} !. \1 j- —l I .. i.i iji. I 'V* VrH?*M .'Jiiifciie bo the day ,i. Wit roundelay, vK With varol gifee,a*6d laughter May sweets entice, 'l Ana all that's nice Come plentifully after. Now do we buy In purchase Bly Our tributes to the-season As friend to friend The gil ts we send. Or, maybe—love's the reason. Then loving hearts With careful arts Strive to be undetected, And check surmise With frigid guise, So gifts come unexpected. Or just below The mistletoe The lad his lass has captured And Irom the miss He steals a kiss— She startled—he enraptured. Or in retreats Exchange of sweets, And privileges tender Tho blushing maid Yields, half afraid, In roseate surrender. And trembling age Turns back the page, The eye has transient twinkles And to their wills Add codicils For knaves who kiss their wrinkles. Hail! merry tiino Of song and chime, Joy speed each flying minute Each moment dear, Because the year Has but one Christmas in it. The Rascality of Deacon Mills. New York Sun. There is a queer little buryingground near the White Bridge on the shores of the Sound. It is in a nook and is bounded by bowlders against which the sea beats drearily in winter though the salt mists keep the grass green !ong after the distant hills and woods have become gray and bleak. Here some days ago they carried a little casket. It was so light that tho body it contained might have been thatofachild, but old age, whitehairs, and the silent dust of a feeble gentle man were enclosed therein. There were no mourning friends, save one stern man of middle age. The grave received its own. The bended gate at the entrance of the lictle place of the dead was closed, and will never again be opened to a funeral. The burying ground is tenanted with all who will ever rest there, for it is a family plot, and therein has now been gathered the last one of the Dows. Strangely enough, on the same day that Deacon Dow was buried, hi3 old playmate, business associate and fellow church officer, the late Deacon Mills, was placed to rest in the beauti ful cemetery, whose lofty monoliths and quaint monuments may be seen by the sailors as they skim along the waters of the Sound. The great brick church had been thronged by those who wished to pay their last respects to Deacon Mills' memory, and along line of slowly, solemnly mov ing carriages followed the body to the grave. There, amid costly stones erect ed to the memory of those of his family who had preceded him, was dug the grave of Deacon Mills, and men will not for many years forget that this strong man lived once among them. For Deacon Mills was strong and stern and firm willed, and great were his riches. He bad built a chapel, had given abed to the hospital, had endowed a theological professorship and had created many business enter- EusinessAll rises. that he had touched in life seemed to have turned to gold. You may read in the sectarian newspapers the account of his life, and to his career business men already point when they wish to show the model man. But no one hears of Deacon Dow. He was a gen tie an. He went shr ink ingly, modestly through life. His last days were those of one dependent up on charity, and he had seen tho suc cessful career of his old playmate without other emotions than those of pleasure. They played in childhood together. Then William Dow was thought the more fortunate of the two. His father was well to do, while John Mills had heard early in the morning and late in the day the clang ing of his father's anvil. They had ?one to school together. Then Will iam's gentleness was misunderstood, so that the boys jeered him with de risive nicknames such as girl-boy while John, whose clothes were not so fine as William's, by his stub born will and imperious manner commanded respect and won his leadership. They had begun business life at the same time. William had a small capital and became a book seller. John had no capital but his own hands and head, so he pegged away industriously on a shoemaker's bench. William's purpose in bnsiness life was simplv to earn a living. John, as he sat on his bench with awl and hammer, was fired with energy and en thusiasm because he had bent his will to getting riches. Everything subserv ed to that. He pegged away from dawn to bed time, and his savings ac cumulated. He owed none,and suffer ed none to owe him. He prospered and within five years had quit the bench and surveyed with business pride his handsome store. Will iam, gentle, unsuspecting, sweet dispositioned man, was no better off in five years time than when he first began. Men liked him but they pitied him. Men trusted his word. They knew he would not lie nor cheat, but they made him trust them, knowing that he would never clamor for pay. They said he was too good natured to succeed. They sent tiresome beg gars to him, knowing that William never refused an alms. They borrow ed money of him, and got it, if he had it, without security. John Mills sometimes made loans, but only after the careful scrutiny of a bank teller. William's heart melted at every tale of distress. John's never. As years rolled on they both were chosen deacons in the church of which they had long been members, but Dea con William modestly sat in one of the rear pews in the side isle, while Deacon John was seated in the center aisle, about half the distance down. There was organized in that town a building association, whose ostensi ble purpose was to assist deserving men to ouild a home. John Mills made the single error of his life in placing :Ujs, had never'lost it, dollar yet fcy b&iv,investment, and he would not! suffer loss now. He thought of the matter over night, and by morning had decided. That afternoon Deacon Mills stepped into Deacon Dow's bookstore. "Come, Brother Dow, let us take a boat and go fishing this afternoon," he 3aid. Fishing of an afternoon in the sound was the only recreation that the mer chants of that time took, and Deacon Dow consented. When they had sat in the boat a while twitching the lines that they might see whether the fish had been hooked or not, Deacon Mills said "Brother Dow, why haven't you put some money into the Building Asscoiation?" "I never thought of it, BrothtrMills." "Never thought of it! Why, there isn't any better way of doing good with your money. You help our wor thy young mechanics to get a home. That makes them good citizens, and you get six per ce:it on your money." "You know, Brother Mills, that am always anxious to extend any help I can to our young men. I have got a little money. It represents all my profits since I've been in business. I shouldn't want to lose it. It's all I have. But if the investment is safe, I'd be glad. Is it safe, do you think, Deacon Mills?" "Why, I put a thousand dollars in." "Then it must be safe. You're a prudent, far-seeing man, Brother Mills. Yes, yes. If you think it safe, I'll make the investment. I have some twelve hundred dollars in the bank, and I was thinking of buying a home." Shall I tell the Secretary to put you down for a thousand dollars?" Yes. I rely upon you, Brother Mills, for the safety of it." "My money is there." The next morning at 10 gentle lit tle Deacon Dow drew his money from the hank, and stepping across the street, paid it in to the Secretary of the Building Association and received his certificate. A half hour later Deacon Mills entered the office. "One of our rules provides that any investor may withdraw his money at any time without notice by forfeiting interest. I believe I will withdraw mine now." The Secretary delivered to Deacon Mills the identical thousand dollars which Deacon Dow had deposited. Two days later the Building Associa tion went up. Without any manner but that ol sorrow Deacon Dow sought Deacon Mills in his handsome place of busi ness. "Brother Mills,' he said, "you and I are old playfellows. We played to gether, we slept together, and we ate together often. We united with the Church together, we entered business at the same time, and we were made Deacons together. I want to ask if you think it was a Christian action to induce me to put all the money I have into a place that you might draw it out? Is.it a Christain action? "Oh, Brother Dow," promptly an swers BrDther Mills, "that's business.. That's business." And so the gentle little man went away in more'sorrow than he came. By and by the Sheriff sold him out, and when his hair was turning gray and John Mills was gain ing respect for great business success, little William Dow received a clerk's pittance by keeping books, and then when he became too old for that a relative supported him until his life went out. But John Mills grew richer and of more and more repute, and when he died there was a great gap in the busi ness and social life of that communi- ty' Women Fascinated by Uni forms. Everybody knows what an irresisti ble fascination a uniform has tor a. woman, and when there's a man in it—well, the dictionary is a useless adjunct in expressing the-feminine con dition under such circumstances. In' Washington army and navy officers are in their glory, and when in uniform are in a double* glory. A correspond ent writes: I know one naval officer, young in years, strong in mind and brave as they make them, who withal loves to have his fun. In the hotel where he lives are many pretty girls, and they are naturally very fond of him, even in. his Gitizens' clothes. They had: never seen him in uniform and insisted that he put it on so they could have "just one look." Herefused for a longtime* but finally agreed upon one condition, and that was that they each pay a quarter for the show, the "pot" to go to some charitable institution. It struck them, as a good thing, and the officer decked himself out in all his bri ny finery, put a high government offi cial on the door, posed himself in. a most graceful attitude in the arm chair in his room and rang the cur tain up. Each girl paid her quarter and thecompany filed in, pretty niuch as people do when a corpse is lying in state, aud each gazed upon him in his beauty and sighed for the impossible.. A sign "Hands Off" was put up over him, and he sat under it grand, gloomy and peculiar, a sight once seen never forgotten, lie never moved,but sat there like- patience on a monument smiling at grief, and the girls passed on around and out again into the cold, cold halls, where uniforms were only a memory. Total receipts, $3.75- An Exciting Railroad Ride*. The following thrilling account of a trip on the wildcat train between the Rocky mountains is told by William Tillie, a traveler, who has just arrived at Toronto, by the Canadian Pacific railway from British Columbia: Two cars of a passenger train, while being hauled up a steep grade in Kick ing Horse Pass, which is one inch to the foot for nearly two miles, broke loose from the locomotive and com menced a mad career down the mountain sid©v The brakes were frozen and could not be applied with effect. Some of the twenty occupants in the cars tried to rise, but the speed was so great lhat they could not stir from their seats. The cars reached a safety switch, a distance of two miles from the place where they broke loose from the locomotive, in one minute. The passenger car caught the safety switch and was piled on the opposite inctine, a complete wr?ck. Tne baggage car, which did not con tain any passengers, went on down the main line and did not leave the track. A number of passengers were killed and others received probably fatal injuries. From Harper's Weekly. In his speech at Cooper-Union, Mr. Abram S. Hewitt, then a candidate for-mayor, now mayor-elect, gave a sketch of his own life as an answer to .some attacks made upon him as a "rich man." In the course of these remarks he said: "I became nearly blind, and was compelled to pass a year in Europe, for which I paid out ot the earnings which I had laid up from the lessons I had given. On my way home another accident occurred—the ship on which I was went to the bottom, and I was saved by another accident in one of the boats of that ship in company with a man who has been mayor of this city, who was and is my friend and brother, and will be to the end of my life. I landed in midwinter in a borrowed suit of sailor's clothes—not a thing of my own—and I had three silver dollars in my pocket, which constituted my entire worldly wealth. I was 22 years of age." Let the captain of the rescuing ship tell the story as he he did a few years ago to a little circle of friends at a New York club: "In 1844 I was commanding the ship Atlanta, and in the month of December of that year was making a voyage from Liverpool to New York. On the 11th I was crossing the Gulf stream, and had got well over it, when, near evening, I saw a ship under full sail several miles to windward, end evidently heading for New York, like myself. My barometer had been falling rapidly, and as I always re garded it with great care and obeyed its orders, I shortened sail. But I noticed the stranger kept everything spread, and when night came on and hid her from sight she was far off- on the horizon, and didn't appear tO' have taken in a stitch of canvas. During the'night it came on to- blow heavily—a regular cyclone, in fact— and you may be sure I was glad had taken in sail. It only lasted a couple of hours or so, but was very tough as long as it was on us. "About 9 in the forenoon the watch reported pieces of wreck floating on the water, and an hour later we sighted a boat and bore down for her. Itwa^ as I feared the stranger had founder ed in the gale, and this was one of her boats. "She proved! to be or to have been the American ship Alabamian, Capt. Hitchcock, from Leghorn to New York, and besides her officers and crew she had two passengers in the cabin. She was under full* sail when the wind struck her, and in a very short time she was an unseaworthy wreck. She had two, boats, one a staunch life boat and the other an old and. rotten long-boat. Lots were drawn for places and the life-boat fell to. the first officer, while the long-boat went to the captain. The two cabin passengers went to the long-beat, and also nine of the crew. It was the life-boat that I picked up, with'the first officer in com mand, and he said they left the ship at 2 in the morning, and lost sight of the long-boat soon after. She was nearer the ship than they, as the cap tain had been the last to leave her. "The weather was cold, and they suffered considerably from their cramped positions, but in a little while after coming on board they were warmed up and all right. Nothing could be seen- of the long-boat, and it was not certain whether she was still afloat. I: determined to save her if possible to dodt, and the great ques tion was to determine what course to steer to find her. I reasoned that Capt. Hitchcook would try to get out of the Gulf stream as soon as he could, in order to find smoother water, and after carefully, studying the situation I chanced my course in accordance with this theory. I sent men: aloft to keep a sharp lookout, and report the' least sign of a boat, and to watch for anything that would indicate she had. gone down and was past all help. "Noon came.and then 1 o'clock,and then. 2, and no signs of the boat. I went to-the cabin^with my first officer and the officer of the Alabamian, and we held a council. One of them thought I ought to run on another course, and he gave his reasons for it, and then the other, who had been wavering on. the subject, joined: him. I persisted in my belief, and stood alone in it. Somehow I could not see their reasons as they did, andt if the' captain of the Alabamian had dbne what I should do under similar cir cumstances,he would be exactly in. the track I was running. "The afternoon went on, and* about an hour before sunset I went into tho cross-trees to have a look on.my own account. I swept the hori/on with: my glass over and over again, but saw. nothing, and felt what a" terrible re sponsibility rested on me, and what would be said of me for holding my course against the advice of the others if I should not find the boat. Just as the sun was within a hand! spike's length of the horizon I saw a speck on. the crest of a wave. It went down as the wave fell, and: I believe my heart stopped beating till, the speck came up again and showed itself. There it was and no mistake, andi iifc was exactly dead ahead, as near as you could draw a line. "I hailed the deck, and sent the fiirsfc officer to take the wheel. I told him not to vary the breadth of a hair from the course w.e were running. Then I came down, and sent a man up to take my place. Have you seen anything?' evesy body asked as I reached the dieck. ^Nothing I'm, certain of,' I an swered 'but we may have develop ments presently.' I. don't know if my heart was beaticg then, but presume it was. "In a little w&ile—it may have been a quarter of arx hour, and just as the sun was dipping into the horizon—the man in the rigging called out, 'Sail ho!' 'Where away?' I asked. 'Dead ahead, sir. I think it's the boat.' "My heart went »pin my month, but I tried to appear as cool as an iceberg. Of course everybody else was all ex citement* and that was the more rea son why I should not be. Besides, I was captain, and nobody else was, as I had shown them by sticking to my course. "The night came on clear and beau tiful, and we kept straight on. We lost sight of the boat as the daylight faded, but in half an hour or so we saw her again, and we still had her right in line. As we neared her I kept the ship up a little so as to bring the boat under our lee, and I put men in the fore chains and along the sides liiiwSii chilled with the cold that they would be nearly helpless, and whatever warf to be done would have to be done by ourselves. "We got them out all right, and it was as I had surmised,' they were most of them too benumbed to cliinb up the sides, and had to be helped. When we were all safe on board we tried to hoist the boat in, and she broke in two with her own weight how she ever lived as long as she did is a mystery. "Capt. Hitchcock told told me they rowed as long as they could after! leaving the ship, with the intention, of getting into smoother water beyond the gulf stream, and he had thought, that in case I fell in with the other, boat I would do just as I had done. The two cabin passengers took their share of the labor with the rest. Theyf were both'young men with a differ-r ence of perhaps five or six years in) their ages, and had been traveling in! Europe, tho elder ot the. two baicg tu tor for the younger, who was the son of a prominent citizen of New York. They took passage at Leghorn for New York, and when their turn eame to enter the long-boat they had done so without complaint, and had borne the privations of the night and day as cheerfully as anyone else. "All day they had watched and hoped, hoped and watched, but there was no sign of a sail. The niuht threatened to be cold, and there was little expectation that any of the par ry would live till morning, even if the' boat continued to float. As the sun neared the horizon the younger mam was lying in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in his overcoat and a blank et, while the elder sat in the stern with the captain. "Just as the sun was dipping into the waves, the elder'of'the twain said to Capt. Hitchcock, that with his permission, he would offer a prayer. Of course if was given at once. 'And I never, in all mv life,' said Capt. Hitchcock,. 'heard" a more beautiful prayer from the lips of a mortal man. And as he said 'amen,' and I said 'amen' too, I raised my eyes and saw your sail.' "Perhaps," said Capt. ISaymond tc his group of listeners, "perhaps you'd like to know the names of those two passengers? They are familiar to you all, and you'll find them at the bottom of this letter, which I received, with a silver pitcher, a few daya after wa reached New York. I haven't seen it for some time, until it turned up to day while I was overhauling my desk. It is an old letter, you ean see, and was written before the envelope was invented." The letter was passed around and handled with great care. It was then read aloud, by one of the- group, and ran as follows: NEW YORK, December 28, 1844. Dear Sir—Desirous of testifyingour grate ful sense of the noble disinteredness with which you stood from your course on the 12 th of December last in search of the cap tain, passengers and crew of the ship Ala bamian, which foundered on tlkat day at setv and of the kindness we received at your hands while your guests, we beg your acceptance ot the accompanying piece o! plate. We know that no offering of ours can add to the proud feeling of satisfaction which must have animated your bosom when upon your own deck yousawthelS human beings whose lives you had saved but wish you to possess some slight token which in after days may serve to remind your children and your friends of bow nobly you did your duty to your God and your fellow men and we desire that other ship masters, incited as well by their own hu mane impulses as by the approbation whicb so noble an act never fails to call down-trom the public may "go and do like wise.-?' In conclusion, wa congratulate-you upon the opportunity you have enjoyed of grati fying the most generous promptings of the soul, we pray that Heaven may-shower its choicest blessings upon you audyoursland we beg you to be assured of the lasting gratitude of. very truly. Your Friends, I EDWARD „.L ABRAHAMCOOPER, to HEWITT, j^ftsaengera To'C*pt. George B. Raymond,1, ot the shn Atlanta, of New York. "A day or two after receiving and\ answering the letter," said Capt. Bay mond, "I received an invitation to go to Peter Cooper's house, a» the family wa» very desirous of meeting me. I was. so busy with the affairs of my ship* that I could not respond at once, but sent word that I would call on New Year's day. When Ii called, and my name was announced^, they did not wait for me to go into tlie parlor, but all came out into the hall to greet me the ladies pressed around me, and I assure you it was rather embarrass ing for a young sea-dog to receive so much attention. I had dbne nothing more than my duty, and somehow felt that I was being, thanked and praised a good deal beyond what I merited. I tried to tell! them so, but they wouldn't listen to* me, and all the time I was there they made such a hero of me that I didn't know what say, and wondered! how I would be able to escape. "None oi the Cooper or Hewitt family have ever forgotten me, but, em the contrary, they miss no oppor tunity of referring to.that incident of: the 12th of December. When the Lotos club gave a, dinner to Mayor Cooper I wanted to c®me as much as: lever wanted to doanything in all, my life, and I thought I would do so but I don't like tO'be- called up for a, speech and I knew that Hewitt OK Cooper would be-sure to have mo out and make me- say something so l' stayed away and saved the club from listening to the stciiy of the loss .of the Alabamiant." "Ii you haditoid! that story as you. have told it nom" said one of the- listeners, "yom woald have made one of the most effective speeches, ever made at a dinner party." "So say wfl all." Not "Walking. Jabe Mlathias was a uood soldtai but one day,. Jabe threw his musket on the ground, seated himself by th« roadsuJe, and exclaimed, with great vehemence*— "I eannot walk another step! Fro broke down!" "Git up man!" exclaimed the cap tain. "Don't you know the Yankees are following us? They'll git you, swre." "Can't help it," said Jabe. "I'm done for. I'll not walk another step!" In a moment there was a fresh rattle of musketry, and a renewed crash of shells. Suddenly Jabe ap- fike eared on the crest of the hill, moving a hurricane, and followed by a cloud of dust. As he dashed past his captain, that officer yelled,— "Hello, Jabe! Thought you wasn't going to walk." "Walk!" shrieked Jabe, as he hit the dust with increased vigor. "You. don't call this walking, do you?-™ Savannah News.