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VOL IX. BENTON, ONTAA SATURDAY AUGUST 25, 1883. NO.5.
V:OL IX. BENTON, MOiNTANA :SATURDAY AUGUST 25, 1883..O.5 POETRV. TILE AMIENDE HONORABLE. I)I:\NVER, July 31.-Osmond Tearle, the Ie:.lil.g tman of Wallack's company, wai marriel this morning to Minn'e Conway, the well-known stage beauty, Tearle's wife recently procured a divorce from hin in New York, and Miss Conway was also recenttly divorced from her husband, Julei Levy. tthe famouscornetist. )Oh. how could you, Osmond Tearle, Mas this too-conflding"gyurl" She of Brookl3 n, once the pearl, 'E "e from London You had brought your blooming h'eys, TtHa'. rolled up in Wa lack's"flies," ("' iit the gal ery b ye surpries You are undone! .l u' th nk of it ! One divorce May be proper; two, of course, L,,k somniewlhat like a "dark horse"' With most people; WV, o the married rtatae thke on That is, speaking of the ton, Not the poor lookers-on Yrum life's steeple! Are you sure you're in your senses? 'lhnk you of the consequences? Look oi i well to your dofenses. From that "tooter," .JuleS L.cv, may call 'round. On "ber-lhd" and revenge bound, A td may plant you in the ground WVih a ;.hooter; or, 1b, horrid, horrid thought lie hii ornet may have brought, Andl your life make terror-fraught With its blaring, Amn your ears at night assail: With a B flat's dreary wail, ill your frightened. bride grows pale At your swearing. Separation you had better Make u to the very letter And your vyt unbroken fetter Keep inta: t; An-l by way of staring well, Got your late wife and J. I.. To rcpea 'ne a Ih ma! riage bell, Your rash "act!" -Am-I: 4 " Iter. THIE MAJOR'S SECRET. [CONCLUDED.] So It went on for years. There was al ways a strong smell of cigars and printer's ink in the air the child breathed and no doubt when she came to be a young lady she learned to think in a scrappy, iteiniz ing newspaper way; but Madeline's life was in fact as cleanly, and sweet and ten der among those men as if she had been one of any rosebud garden of girls, per haps more so. Whatever garment of lies the Major chose to put on as armour, or to perk and vaunt himself in out among other men. lie never wore itinto the "cock loft." Nob a.y could account for thealmost path etic tenderness of his love for the girl. It was more than seemed due for her father's sake or even her own. Once, howNever, lie said to her: "You catlec to take the place of a child that I lost." That was the only time he had hinted at the secret of his former life. lie kept it hidden even from himself. I t came to hitnto-day, and would not be thrust aside. In a few hours it would be known to all the world. John Proctor was his son. lie remembered well now the last day when he had called called the boy by that name. It was a dreary, rainy season in November, three or four years before he took Madeline. He sat by a hotel window with Jack on his knee. It was a week since he had come from TRichmond, leaving the child's moth er dead there. lie had spent the week go ing from one newspaper office to another, vaunting and vaporing and drinking hard, but with a still cold consciousness all the time of standing by her grave, on which the rain pattered, with her child's life left In his hands to do with it what he would. Mary's boy would have grown into a truthful, God-fearing man if she had lived; a gentleman, too---the class which Standish, with all his tawdry bragging, watched far off with jealous awe. Now what could lie make of the boy? He took the little chap's hand in his, and pulled him closer, trying with his bleared eyes to pene trate the future. Like father, like son; it was so always. For himself, whether it was the taint of the butcher shop, or some flaw in the making up, he did not know, but he was labelled everywhere for contenipt. Even here, where he was a stranger, lie was marked already, he saw, as a disreputable, vulgar, frothly bubble of a man. lie was sore and galled by the snubs lie had met with to-day. Ile sat quiet in the gaudy hotel parlor holding .lack close while the servants lighted the lamps and people came and went. He looked steadily at the cost of what he meant to do. "I'll take the weight of your old father off of you, Jack," he said, at last, stoop ing to kiss the fat, red little face. Good bye, my son. lie did take it off. He entered the boy under the name of Proctor at a fashion able boarding school, setting aside the en tire sum lie had saved to start a newspa per in Philadelphia. "I can scratch for myself,' lie said. "Let the lad have everything he wants, lie urged the governess one day. His father had the best blood in Virginia in his veins, madame, and teach him religion. His mother- ;" but he broke down here. "She's yonder," he said quietly, at last, glancing up. The governess nod ded and understood hiom. So the feint succeeded. Of what it cost himself, he said nothing;. it had lifted the boy at once, he thought, into a pure region of fashion, and retinement andsaltation. The glories of the Proctors in course ofyearsgrew and multiplied readllyin the MaIjor's handalng. There were times when he became con fused himself, so real had Jack's lUns-% trious family grown. "Remember your father, the general, Jack," he would cry, I when urging the boy to manliness or cour- i age. "Noblisse obligee !" 1 "Damned if I know whether there was a i General Proctor or not," he would mutter, perplexed, to himself afterwards. Well, there was an end to it all now. The lie had been. played successfully for years, yet, now all Jack's world was to know it was a lie. Sitting t by the fire, in his shirt sleeves, tapping c his knees with his clumsy fingers, the f Major went over it this afternoon. "There's N nobody who knew me in Virginia, and a knows my name is Richard and not Dan, a who can't tell about the boy." He saw p no way of escape. "If to call himself my 1 friend was ruin to the lad, what will be- 1 come ot him as my son?" And to-day a Jack's fate stood in the balance, as M'Mnr ray had said. Again and again the Major reasioned round the dreary circle. t "On one side the charge of a great d church, wealth, and the woman he loves; a on the other-me. There was nothing be- t yond that. To-night must end it one way i or the other. The drumming of his fing- c ers grew slower and slower on his knees, I till he sat like a block staring into the fire. t The knawing hunger tearing at his flesh c made his brain clearer. Hie was to be hung I on his boy like a millstone to drag him. down, till one or the other of them died. What if he weie (lead now? Great gain d would follow, and as for loss-. The Major rose mechanically, the eyes d uidler his grizzly brows growing strongly a keen and glitiz.ring. I don't know that I am of much account if one took stock in f me." lie passcd his hand with a queer t chuckle over his big, hungry,' rheumatic c body, tlhen glanced hastily towards the pile of MSS., on which no publisher had 1 drawn for months t Proudly co!iscious for a moment of the i genius which had been his birthright. I never made my mark though, he mutter ed. He rel.pated that once or twice. 1 The stock was taken. He stool quiet a moment, and then lap- I ped his face with his ragged white hand kerchief. lie was strangely composed and grave. Hie went to a closet and took down i from the orderly shelves a bottle full of l dark brown liquid, from which he half tilled a goblet which lie placed ready on s the mantel shelf; then, as though doubt- ! ing its efficacy, hs took out a tiny vial i full of white powder and hid it in his t pocket. Unlocking a desk he took out an 1 Ald leather covered bible, yellow with age, t and began turning over the leaves te find the famlily record. 1 the family record. Born, January 31st, John, only child of Richard and Mary Standish. lie read it over as he had done every day since he gave the boy up. He fancied God came to him in those words as he could in no others in the book. It was the only page he ever read. She had written them there. "She knows whether I have loved her and you. Jack," stooping to kiss the faded writing. Your old fatler shall never be a weight on you, boy. lie opened a knife and cut the leaf. It was loose now; he held it in his hand and stooped over the fire irresolute. After all his real hold on life for a good many years had been thlough that page; as it began to crisp he glanced up quickly at the goblet and then out of the square dormer window. Lights were beginning to gleam in the houses across the Schuylkill. The sky warmed red as cinnabar on the frosty sunset, while wisps of feathery smoke from some pas sing steamer waved across it. The world gave him a friendly look for the last. He threw the paper in the fire, put out his hand for the goblet-when there was a sudden, soft flurry behind him, and two nervous little hands were clapped over his eyes. The next thing was a hearty kiss right on the mouth. "Why, Madeline! child! is it you? "Of course it is not me! There are so many pretty girls stealing in to kiss you without leave! "Oh, dear, I'm quite fro zen, U ncle Dan !" She looked as if she were. Her chub by, dimpled face was quite blue, and the rimy drops stood in her eyes. She perched herself up on the Major's chair, beating hands i:i their woolen gloves together. "If only you could unlace my boots. My feet haven't had a bit of feeling for an hour. Five miles (lid they tramp. I didn't want to break the note for car fare. It's the half-yearly pa:y-day, you know. Just look at it," fumbling in her bosom under her sack, and bringing out warm and crisp a bright new note. "I couldn't sleep until we had both seen it," winking with both eyes and laughing all over in the most ridiculous and affectionate way. The Major had taken off her shoes, and stood with them in his hands looking down on her. She was so alive with beauty, warm. blooded, and happy. She seemed to come to him like sudden youth or summerin his last desperate hour. There hung about her even the faint scent of roses. It seemed so easy to come back to sit down beside his little daughter, who loved him with ll her honest heart, and be happy, and jolly, and alive as always. But he knew what he had to do. "IIow long are you going to stay, Maddy ?" "Until to-morrow---unless -you would rather I should go to-night," qtilckly. "Yes, I would rather. I have some: business--there will be' some nen h re after awhilte--t wouldn't, be be. .i.f youi to stay." "Very well," IMaddy nodded, turning her stockilged: feet about before the ire. She never asked queations, but ihe gener ally found out all she wanted to know without them . , *'How long-can l- stay, Uncle DAM" taking off her bat..,- "In two hours wiU be tie em . oughi. t me have you as on as cn. * "Isn't that a lovely hat?" poising it on her little fat fist, and looking over it stead ily into his gaunt, changeless face. "The brown is just the shade of my hair. Been hard at work on the camera lately, dear?" "They've Leeded nothing for two weeks." "Oh," she was quiet a minute. "Just put that hat carefully away in my room, won't you ?" and bring me my slippers. They're in the lower drawer. You have the keys. She sat motionless until the door closed behind him, and then like a flash she was in the pantry cupboard, which was empty, as we know, and back again by the fire. She took up the goblet and smelled it. The Major coming back glanced at it jealously, but it stood where he left it, and Maddy was leaning lazily back in her own low chair. She was pale ard the water stood in her eyes. "You're not well; child?" "No, sit down by me, Uncle Dan. I'm tired and I am hungry, that's all. l or dered a miraculous little supper as I came along. It will be here presently. She took his big hand as he sat by her, finger ing it over, holding it now and then to her cheek. Something else than hunger has been to work with him. They were both too old soldiers to be beaten, as he was to day, by a little wholesome fasting. But what was the sore? She did not know where to thrust the probe. "They've raised my salary, Uncle Dan, did you notice." "No, I did not. 'I'm glad of it, my darling. You can go through the world alone pretty well now, Maddy?' " She made a grimace, "If one only comes for hard work and money-yes. But I'm tired of living alone. I mean to either 1 come home or you must come to me. Though a man of your talents would be wosted in a Jersey village like that. They have only one newspaper. You could not go there." "Only one newspaper, have they !" There was silence. "Jack is at home," he said, at last. "The cheek at which she had pressed 1 his lingers grew suddenly, fiercely hot. She got up and laid some woodlbn the I grate, sat down leisurely, her face turned = from him. 'Who did you say had come home-John? John Proctor? "Yes-Jack. The very nameof the boy I stabbed him like pain, yet he could not I keep it off his lips. He did not waver in z hisresolve. He would put himself out of the way to keep the shameful birth of the boy a secret. Yet as the clock ticked away the moments of this last hour, nature I grew almost too strong for him. He could I have cried out so all the world might hear, for his son-for his sou whose flesh and I blood was the same as his. lie heard the I girl speaking to him as in a dream. Her voice trembled in spite of herself. "TeJll me something about him, Uncle Dan. Is he much changed !" 1 "I see no change in him." He caugl sightof her face, and through all his du absorption, it startled him; it was F 1 strangely fresh, and dewy and young. "I suppose John has been successfu then ? she said at last, with an effort. I told me once that he.would never retur or write u:til he could do a man's woi and make all his friends proud of hin Ie thought they would forget him. I3 need not be very much afraid of that. She was talking half to herself, stoopin as she sa: on her stool, her brown eyi fixed on the fire, her hands pressed on h4 breast. I always knew he would fin some little home in the West, and the come back. I knewhe would." i "Maddy!" "Yes, Uncle Dan." "I'll tell you about Jack," in an unna urally loud, harsh voice. "He is a man ; mark now-a leader in his sect. They'j called him to the first church here. H companions are not yours or mine and h ways are not ours. They would look ui on him as tainted if he made friends 4 shiftless Bohemians like us. He's in world, the door of which is shut to yc and me. It will be the same way whe we are dead. He will be inside, but whe I come the door will be shut-shut. A sudden comprehension brol through her face. Dimpled, kissablelitt face that it was. There w's a latent ni f bility in it, great steadiaess and strengtl L "I think you're unjust to us and to Jack, she said, firmly, standing before him. t "I tell you the boy is on the road to su, cess, and he must go on," he cried. "N< , body shall stand in his way to hinder his r I mean to stand out of his way. It wi a be quite easy for me to do its-quite easy. I Some suspicions of years ago were con ' ing back to her. "I think I understand, t she said. "Is Jack willing that yc e should give him up?" 1 "What could it matter to him? 1 shabby old liar and braggart, as M'Mu 1 ray called me. I saw his church to-da e and the house where he will live. s grandly furnished, Maddy." t 'Churches and furniture!" with a col I temptutea shrug. "What are they e Jack?" 1 "I saw the woman he is to marry." "Ah I the woman!" "A daughter of M'Murray's; a delica white -rosebud -of a girl. He has ever thing now the world can give, Jack ha There's but one obstacle in his way, as I that won't be there long." But Madeline had turned to the windo' e her face' to the sun going down, It w e sometime -beforheshe s c ba back. W u she did, she stood by. te mantle shei f some tl te looking down onb h. ' o 4 the woar love& Nitar "I thought so; It was In her face." - "Sheonly has known him alittle while v "Withrow Vold m `tb'e met last tao in Chicago. The match was arrang there." - - t She lo d her ha.n4d. There w thin goldl o one fingers .ebqahit trifle, such as a schoolboy would give. It had been there so many years that it burned and pained the woman's full-grown finger. It had done so for many years. "One month !" she said to herself again and again. The sun was down, but the reflection from the snow on the roofs threw a pleas ant brightness into the many windows, while the clock ticked cheerfully the last hour of daylight away. A noise below broke the silence into which they had fallen. The stairs were long and rickety, and steps could be heard creaking from one flight to another. "It's Jack!" The Major spoke hoarse ly, standing up. lie had been thinking it over while he sat. However false and dis reputable his course had been since he was a man, he at least was right, he thought, at its close. "Nothing in his life so be eame him as the ending of it." he quoted to himself. "But M'Murray would call it a theatrical trick." Jack was at the street door. Il a few i.oments it would be too late. He thrust his fingers into his pocket and secreted the little vial in his palm. He went to the door as if to close it. At that moment Maddy caught sight of a yellow bit of writing on the hearth, stooped, picked it up. She nodded as she read it, without sur prise. "His son?" and Jack wants the old man now to deny it. Not to stand in his way. The first hint about that poor white rab bit Clara had turned her blood to gall. She was suddenly bitter and unjust to Jack to whom she had given her whole life of patient, sweet-tempered trust. The steps came nearer. The poor old Major backward toward the inner door, his uncouth face white and wet. I'm not well. I'm going to lie down on your bed. Take him away with you, Maddy. I can't see either of you to-night. Yet even then it gave him a vague pleasure to hear how light and gay and resolute the 1,'..' Maddy came quietly between him andl e the door. "No, we will both see this I Jack, who puts you out of his way." e The door opened. There was the old, I short, stout-built Jack. The old sturdy, t honest face, under the same fur cap, the t twitch in the mouth ready to make a joke I 3 at anybody or at himself. f "Why, Maddy ! I did not hope to find t B you here, little woman," giving her a v brotherly shake of the hand, an4so figu e ratively setting her aside. frw the 11ull, 1 morbid shadows that had filled the room e crept aside before him! Maddy felt that s hetr lite had been but a passionate dream. I e Practical, common-sense people on the s r same plane of society saw each other a month ago in Chicago and married ration ally. And why should a pr}ctical, ration al man encumber himself with this lately t t discovered father. With his undoubtedly t unwholesome fancies and stagey habits? t "Major Standish." Jack, with all his i hearty manners, was embarrassed. I came I to speak to you on business of importance. c e You have no secrets from Maddy ? I "Don't speak, boy ! For God's sake. c In a li.tle while I will set it all right. 1 Wait one minute, retreating towards the c door. I "But I won't wait." Jack had his f hands on the Major's shoulders and forced r a him down on a chair. His faced flushed 3 r as he spoke, and his voice grew unsteady. I "Look at this old man, Madaline. Twenty r I years ago he came here, a healthy, middle aged man with a comfortable living and a s son-a boy that he could have educated e plainly and had to work for him and be a r - companion as he grew old. But what I f does he do? Puts the boy where he will e be tended like a prince, be clothed in pur- 1 s ple and fine linen, gives up his income to I g him, while he-look at this cockloft, a - Maddy! Look--here. He put his hand f on the old man's head and drew it through N p the thin white hair. Once or twice he a 1 began to speak, but stopped. At last he e 1 said: I know the shifts you have made to t n live, the insults you bore, that I might c sleep soft and live warm. It's well I do a e know them all. You will never want the g e care of a son again; so help me, God." r S"Yes, yes;" I knew you would say t that, cried the Major. "But of what use ? was it all ? You have ruined yourself. I t know what I am, who told you this? i S "A man who came from Virginia to c - find you." "What does he want?" 1 "He would not tell me." Proctor's face clouded. The Major's quick eyes l - marked it. "He has a warrant for me I suppose?" I u sullen and dogged . "I do not know. He refused to give me I . any hint." I "There were several little affairs- g there's no use stirring up muddy water, I o that I can see, peevishly. `"But if itgs criminal-let me alone, Jjek," catching t - the young man's sleeve: yo" shall not drag o yoarself down for me.` I'll not have my whole life thwarted," fiercely. "Jack's answer was to glance around the poverty-stricken garret, and at his e own costly quiet dress. The tears were in his eyes. We're one now, come what . iv ill, father, he said, quietly. That is the i man at the door." The Major went to open it. "'l balk r, them yet," he muatered. "i11 *ot :drag i Jack down." i e ame rbackil a.oment, a a huge yellow envelpe tn his hand. "He r senta it in a letter.-4 :Amanu iL't be art s rested by letter? It may 1be----turning It over. "WhaLf's this?-ble my s30oul, what's this? P Vhy, it ~no warr..et. ' Thank heaven for. ttait! mu4trdtd Proc , utteg over a pchmetnthee. "I hacni ely. ck a whom he had time to notice now, was en gaged in tying up some drawings of her's which she was going to take away with her. She would not leave one vestige of herself in her old home, she thought, The old man would go with his son to the delicate little rosebud of a girl. As for her, what did it matter that she had no home, nobody on earth but them ? that her life had held nothing but them ? The drawings looked like masterpieces of art to Jack; he had heard of Maddy's genius. How cold and still she had grown in these two years ! It might be devotion to art and to work. She looked as impas sive and obstructive as if she had gone in to some height, unknown to him, from whence she would look down on all his fancies and his- . Jack never remained long in doubt about anything. "Maddy." He crossed the hearth rug to the corner where she stood and took up her hand. "The ring? It's gone!" Maddy glanced down carelessly. "Ring" Yes. I remember now. That ring was too small for me. I took it off long ago." Jack's eyes twinkled; he held her wrist tight. "IIow long ago ? Within thehour? S.e how red and bruised the poor little hand is!" The pity was too much for heroic little Maddy. She gave a sob, but held the tears back in her wet, miserable eyes. Jack never knew in all his life how deep the bruise went when that ring came off. Hlie looked at her steadily-closer, closer; lifted the hurt hand until his breath touched it, then kissed it, just as he had used to kiss her lips years ago, as no man had touched them since, as they never would be kissed again. She drew back. "You have no right to play with me in that way." "At the first tone of her altered voice Jack stood startled and grave. "What do you mean, Madeline? You need notfeign that you d(id not know I loved you when I went away two years ago!" "You were under no promise to me, quickly, I have no right to reproach you." "No promise, but I loved you." "And now little Clara has taken my place," with icy composure. I do not think that strange." "That poor little creature! Oh, Made lile !" That touch ot contempt was worth a thousand arguments. "Do you mean to say you doni't love her, Jack?" catching hold of his coat lapels with both her hands. I have been so mis erable! I-" she dropped her head and said no more; but the little Burgundy rose had opened its heart to him with all its sweetness and spicy perfume, and Jack knew the flavor of it well. He had been waiting for it for many years. "They sat together in a shaded corner; the Major was por:ig over his parchment by firelight. After awhile Maddy referred to her rival again, patronizingly. "Clara is pretty, you must acknowledge, Jack. Though she is weak, as you say, poor child !i" "1 don't know," said Mr. Jack, whose conscience twinged him with certain moon light walks in Chicago. "She was very considerate and kind to me, Madeline. Her father was anxious for me to take the first church here. But I'd made up my mind to that little home in the west-if I you would go with me." "I always thought you would come for me," said honest Maddy. The Major was looking at them over his spectacles. "So? So?" he said in amaze ment. "Why, God bless you, my child ren. You plan better for yourselves than I did for you." Jack laughed and drew his chair over between them. "It will be hard work to live, at first, but we three are old comrades and know how to rough it." "This is a duplicate of Robert Standish's will," said the Major, trying to be legal and lucid, ''and by it I find certain dem esnes, messuages-well, I don't know, to tell the truth, if its a fortune or a mere 3 competency, Jack. But its enough for us all to give M'Murray and the Camera the go-by for life. We may start a national magazine with it," in his- old bragging tone. "There will be no more of this for you then, father, glancing around. The bare floors and pinched poverty, and the worn out old man with his white hair in the midst, chafed Jack, angry and sore contin- i ually. "And here is the supper, at last!" cried Maddy. "I had forgotten I was hungry; but it is long past my usual dinner hour," said the Major loftily. He rose with alacrity to help her spread the white cloth, and set the hot dainty dishes on it, managing as he lighted the lamp to empty a half-filled goblet into the ashes. "Such abominable wine as these fellows furnish me now I" he muttered, and then suddenly stopped, looking at Jack, a shamed, defeated look creeping all over his big body. He went to him. "My son," he said, humbly, "it would be better you left me behind, you and Maddy. I am a miserable, failty, old man." "And I am, a faulty young one," said Jack, hastily. "But there's that between you and me, father, which God will look to find in us all underneath these weeds that grow atop." M.addy came close to the two men., I think I know what you mean, and I, too," she said, with finnite loveatnd vary badr grammar, putting her hand soft.ly in theirs. wateruieloinVg I yietld as zndai g m yrigg - I ypsa g tf n1e Fashionable Ladies Hammering Brass. A number of ladies who were studying the latest fashionable handicraft of brass beating at one of the private shools in Philadelphia have made a new and practi cal departure by giving up the theories of books and book-learned teachers and pla cing themselves as apprentices under a regular brass-beater' in an establishment where it is carried on as a business. They had been getting their hammers and tra cing tools for a long time from a practical workman, who has been tracing and mod eling brass for over forty years. In visit ing the place, getting tools and brass and block, some of the ladies were struck with the thorough and practical way things were done and very soon found out that the school was, a great dealof it, child's play, and that if they wanted to make beautiful and lasting work they would have to take up the methods of the factory. Accordingly, for nearly a year the hercu lean and sardonic brass-beater has had un der his care a class comprising some of the best known ladies of Philadelphia, and has so instructed them in the way of using and holding their tools, and in the proper kind of stroke to make upon the steel dies, that some of them, who have had a good deal of practice, are enabled to make arti cles in repousse brass of which they are justly proud. The method is very simple and primitive. A sheet or plate of brass is fastened on a block of wood. The de sign is drawn upon it and the outline is hammered by a die, which has several dots in a row. Then there is a die that makes the groundwork have a frosted, mottled appearance, and other dies that make a variety of impressions. Everything de pends upon the skill of the hands that hold the tools. Out of apiece of brass costing a few dollars there can be made something that could not be purchased for less than $25 or $50. Card receivers are among the things most made, and all sorts of curious thintgs are made for wedding presents, the articles deriving a special value from be ing made by the giver's hand. The work develops the muscles, and is one of the best means of educating the hands in the mechanical arts. Ladies have become so fond of the work that they lay in supplies of brass and amuse themselves with it while away at the seaside and other resorts It is possible for any girl, with a little pa tience, to make two or three times as much as she would earn standing in a store. suore. Sorry he Had Ever Been Blessed With a Birthday. While Mr. Topnoody was taking break fast the other morning, he remarked to his wife: "My dear, this is my birthday." "Well," she answered, "it isn't your first one, is it?" "No, not exactly, but I thought I'd speak of it anyway, as a reminder, if you had anything to give me commemorative of the occasion." "I might give you a piece of my mind, for making me get up and build the kit chen fire this morning," "I don't think I want any. You'ye given me as much already as you can spare, I should think." "Don't get excited, Topnoody. Maybe you can tell me what you'd like to have me give you." "Well, my dear, I can easily do that," "You think you can do you?" "I know it, my dear, but I dont know whether you can give it to me or not." "I can if I want to, I reckon." I don't know about that, you never have given it to me yet, and the novelty of the gift, more than its intrinsic cash value, is what prompts me to ask it." "Don't beat around the bush. Topnoody what is it?" "Well, my dear, I would like to have you give me a rest." Before Topnoody could get out of the house he was sorry he had ever been blessed with a birthday. Mrs. Cheng ¶'saso Ju as Seen on a Street Car. Washington society has been trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the Chinese minister's wife, but a few ev. 'ugs since a reporter of the Post of that city saw her on a street car with her husband. She is thus described: "To an unaccustomed eye there is very little difference between the masculine and feminine attire of the Chinese, both being peculiar. But upon close observation it was seen that Mrs. Cheng Tsaso Ju's feet were beyond all Christian conception of smallness, and that there was really a great difference between her costume and that of her companion. Instead of the swathe of linen bound tightly about the ankles she wore loose pantalets, coming within an Inch of her shoes, and, while the skirt of her frock was similar to those worn by men, the yoke anad sleeves were made very differently.. The yoke was shirred, after the fashion of the 'Moth er Hubbards,' so popular now, and the sleeves looked more like ideal angel wings than anything else one could imagine, `The whole costume was made of plain black or very dark purple Chinese silk, Her features were delicately,` cut and re fined, but her pmplexion was quite dark, though clear. She wore nothing on bei head excep ing her hair, : as raven' which wa drawn, bakfro her forehead and done up in an elongatec roll at the bbik of herhead, wereit was apj~ not less interested with those about her than they did with her, and she sat with a peculiar childlike expression of curiosity and wonder upon her face." THE MAID OF THE MIST. How she Carried Three Persons Through the Whirlpool Rap ids Alive. A short sketch of the memorable trip of the "Maid of the Mists," on which were the only persons who ever went through the whirlpool rapids and whirpool itself and come out alive will be of interest, The boat that made this trip was built in 1854. For awhile she took passengers from both the American and Canadian shore. and ran up very close to the ,foot of the falls. Owing to some change in her ap pointments, which confined her to the Can adian shore for reception of her passengers, she became unprofitable. Her owner, wishing to leave the place, determined to sell her, and he received an offer of little more than her cost if he would deliver her at Niagara, opposite the fort. This he decided to do after consultation with Joel R. Robinson, who acted as captain and pilot under the falls. Mr. Robinson con sented ,to act as pilot for the fearful voy age, and the engineer, Mr. Jones, agreed to go with him. A machinist, Mr. Mc Intyre, volunteered to share the risk with them. The boat was put in complete trim, all superfluous articles being removed from the deck and hold. Notice was given of the time of starting, and a large crowd assembled to see the fearful plunge, no one expecting to see either boat or crew again after they a;hould leave the dock, which was just above the railway suspec tion bridge. About three o'clock in the afternoon of June 15th 1861, the engineer took his place in the hold, and knowing that their fitting trip would be short at the longest, set his steam valves at the proper gauge and waited the tinkling signal that should start them on their flying voyage. Robinson took his place at the wheel and gave the starting signal. With a shriek from her'whistle and a white puff from her escape pipe, the boat ran up the eddy a short dis tance cleared the smooth water and shot like an arrow into the rapid under the bridge. She took the outside curve of the rapid, and when a third of the way down it a jet of water struck against her rudder, a column dashed up under her starboard side, keeled her over, carried away her smoke stack, started her overhang on that side, threw Robinson on his back, and threw McIntyre against her starboard wheel-house with such a force as to break it through. Every looker-on breathed freer as she emerged, shook her wounded sides, slid into the whirlpool, and for a moment rode again on an even keel. Robinson rose at once seized the helm, set her to the right of the large pot in the pool, then turned her directly through the neck of it. Thence, after receiving an other drenching from the waves, she dash ed on without further accident to the quiet bosom of the river below Lewiston. The boat was seventy-two feet long, with seventeen feet breath of the beam, eight feet depth of hold, and carried an engine of 100 horse power. A Dinner of Death. A special cable from Paris says: Last evening about 8 o'clock the attention of crowds of promenaders in the Quartier des Pyramides- was attracted by a suicide ac complished in a manner very eccentric, even for a great city like Paris. A gen tleman neatly and respectably dressed en tered the restaurant of John Bull, at the corner of the Rue des Pyramides and the place Jeanne d'Arc, and ordered an elab orate dinner. lie consumed the delica cies set before him with evident relish, and after each dish or glass of wine he jotted down a few observations in a note book. He completed his repast very leisurely with the satisfaction of a man who had. achieved a thoroughly first-rate dinner. He then called for a glass of fine cham pagne and an excellent Havanna cigar. He sipped the former and lighted the lat ter, and finally told the waiter to bring his bill. The waiter turned his back, and the gentleman who had dined so agreeably re moved the cigar from his lips and inserted in his mouth the muzzle of a revolver. He fired four bullets through his brain. A doctor was called and the dead man was searched. They found absolutely nothing in his pockets except the note book. On the first page of this were written in large bold characters the words, "A Dinner o. Death, My Last Impressions." Then fol lowed a critique on each dish, conceived in the style and unity of idea of a connoiseur. In the end he expressed regret that he, an ex-ofilcer of the French Army, and dec orated at that, should die as a disgraced man, after having striven during the war to fall by a Prussian bullet. vice he attended at Chester: "The day was dull and showery, In the Psalter lesson for the morning occurred the verse 'And there were thunderings and light nings.' Precisely at the instant when those werebeing chanted And the organ tones were fowing free and strong, there. broke and rolled over the.cathedral roof two distinct peals of thunder. The effect was indescribably solemn." i:artis F' Tupper has confessed to .a t porter ihat be undertook his "Piv~rll Philosophy'" at the ages of 17 years, for the purpose of instructing his future wife. She baneful habit has many ttiles recult ed untimely, but never before has it pro duced nansea in, such miltitudes of~ ~ "i + ,,,