Crystal River current. [volume], August 27, 1887, Image 2

About Crystal River current. [volume] (Crystal, Colo.) 1886-18??

Image provided by: History Colorado

                
“AND THIS IS FATE”
New OHefwui Tiiuen-Domocrat
jf(' About fifty miles east of San Anto
nio is the little town of San Marcot.
Thelow-!ying hills hug it close on
the north, the south wind, with ‘‘the
odor of the brine” yet on her breath,
fans its face, and, so watched and ten
ded, it lies like a lazy child asleep be
side the crystal waters of its river—
its river that a poet once described as
A Prin«M« roused from slumber by the
k Us
Of balmy Southern skies, who springs
From her rocky bed, and hastens on,
Fnrdownthe vale, to give her royal han d
to the waiting Guadalupe.
A half-mile below the head of the
stream, where the “royal” skirts have
brushed past an old mill and set the
wheels a whirling, a road leads up
ward mto the town.
Down this road one afternoon in the
early Spring came a man and a wom
an.
In the air was that vague, delicious
thrill that marks the birth-time of the
year, and over the earth the sunshine
lay warm and bright like a golden sea.
The girl, slim and strait as a young
magnolia tree, was walking rapidly,
the kiltings of her blue flannel dress
flying out from either side with every
step, as if in ecstasy of motion.
The man kept pace with her, but
with slower movement, there being
less of vitality in his slight, well-built
figure, but more of nervous force..
As they reached th,e«*i ver'ancl start
ed up the slope toward the mill the
girl stopped suddenly.
“O, l forgot my dream. I must go
back home.”
She turned her eyes full on him as
she spoke, with'a lmlf-frightened gaze, j
Thej' were of that indescribable j
shade called violet or pansy,but which i
is really blue, burned dark by south- j
ern suns, and the effect of their purple j
light against the clear olive of her skin !
was startling at times and gave ape- j
culiai fascination to the small, some- ;
what irregular face.
“Your dream! What dream?” he i
asked.
“Why,” very earnestly, “don’t you ‘
know the legend of the San Marcos !
Rival*? Well, old people say if you 1
dream of that Indian maiden who
drowned herself here, and the wa
ter dark and disturb**'! wh<*re she
plunged in, you will meet trouble be
fore the day is over, and last night I
dreamed of her three times.”
He looked at her with an irritating
smile, and then answered, teasingly:
‘‘Why, Miss Lucia, are you really so
childish, and doyou fancy that if you
stay locked in your room you will
outwit destiny?” Here he laughed
outright. “Why, the fates an* like love !
—they lauch at bolts and bars, ihr !
come on; I’ll see the the' im isters’
don’t dip you in 1 1n river, anyway. 1 |
don’t know whether I can avert ai’ithe j
rest of their malicious designs or not, :
but I’ll promise to do my best.”
“You may make fun of mo if you j
want to, but if lam iperit ions J j
can’t help it. Am Ire sponsible tor an j
Irish grandfather and an old Creole
nurse?” *|
Her voice trembled, and she turned j
her flushed face away.
Ik* came nearer*—all the levity gone
out of ids manner.
“J did nor mean to wound you, |
Miss Lucia. You <an be just as you j
want, if if you will only say you for
give my foolish jesting, and—won’t go !
home.”
“Well,” offer a pause and with a j
charming smile, “ I will formveyou be
cause you are a man, and they are all |
more or less inhuman, you know; ami |
1 don’t believe I will go home either.” |
—looking dreamily around — “the j
evening is too fine to waste.”
“Thank you! And honestly, I don’t
care how much you abuse my sex—so
you are kind to me,” he added men
tally, give the little ear turned to
ward him such a passionate look that
/if -drfimb things could interpret the
' birds, and the running water would
/ have guessed his carefully guarded
secret.
Lncia Grey, watching the changing i
shadows on the hills, was unconsious
of this gaze.
After climbing the slope they follow
ed the river, close to the edge, past the
“Lovers Nook,” a natural sofa in the
sheltered side of a hk»h cliff, which
probably received its name in primi
tive days, as it was now given over to
the family parties and the general
public; up the rocky steep beyond to
a quiet, shaded spot, whme the high
banks overhung the water, and cue,
leaning over, might catch a glympse
ot that wondrous undergrowth that
filis the bed of this stream and makes
it seem like the reflection or some gar
den of heaven, held forever in a crys
tal case. There they stopped to rest.
Lucia, in trying to reach an old fall
en tree, which offered a very luxurious
lounging place, caught her dress on a
thorny aguarite bush and was held so
tightly that a bit of the pretty ruffle
had to be sacrificed before she could
be released.
They laughed merrily over this dis
aster, and, after much slipping and
scrambling, finally arranged them
selves to their satisfaction; she on the
old log with her head against a moss
covered stump, and ho on a flat rock
a few feet below.
Lawrence Holt was called a homely
man, but his dork face, with clear-cut
outlines and the sensitive, boyish col
or in the cheeks, had something fine
about it, and in the sunlight was al
most handsome, for it was a face that
needed the rays of the sun to bring
out its best tints.
The eyes, a dull brown in shade,
became brilliant in the light, with that
imbued radiance that seems to warm
without bunding you. as a rich East>
ero color warms, although it lias no
beat.
They had a tired, unsatisfied look in
them this afternoon, and, despite the
WftW lIMSUM fit tfia spsna. li#
M«a«d rttttes Mid mstiittdi H« *M
in one of what Lucia called his “com
plex moods,” when every opposite
force in his nature seemed to be at
work at one and the same time.
His friendship had always been a
perplexity to her.
Sometimes he would be genial, mer
ry, a most charming ‘‘good comrade,”
and then again cold, sad, and more or
less strange.
A struggling young physician, proud
and poor, fighting down for honor’s
sake a passionate, hopeless love.
Small wonder that he sometimes
moved as if m .a dream, for these con
flirts of the heart—all the sharper for
being noiseless—are bound to leave
their scars upon the brain.
But Lucia did not guess any of this
as a more widely-experienced woman
might have done, and only wondered
that her friend—for he did seem that
to her—should be at times so unfriend
like.
Among men he passed for a light of
heart, careless kind of fellow, gener
ous, is a little cold, but always ready
I to lift a burden for another, though
never letting any one come too near
his own. They sat without talking
for a while feeling silence was the best
in that lovely spot where one was so
c lose to nature he could almost feel
her warm, odorous breath on his
cheek.
Dr. Holt was first to speak:
“Miss Lucia, I wonder what you are
thinking about? Do you know, your
thoughts seem to float in your eyes
like fish in a stream, always there
just below the surface, but not al
ways easy to seize.
“It is very tantalizing in you. You
look as if you had something to im
part, and a body' dels to wondering
and vrtindc’ring what it is, until he
finds himself doing nothing else.”
“i really think you ought to stop it,
or else gratify a very blameless curios
ity.”
She opened her purple eyes wide,
and giving him one of her long, inclus
ive looks, which seemed to adopt one
into her thoughts along with the
j beautiful things already there, answer
j ed slowly:
"Would you really like to know?
Why, I was just thinking if I were rich,
; what great things 1 would do for this
j river. Jt is terrible to be poor, isn’t
! it? There are so few things you can
j do.”
He leaned forward, picked up a
j stone, and threw it into the water.
| "Yes, it is terrible to be poor. I
j sometimes wonder what good excuse
a poor man can oiler for living.”
■ 1 Lis tone was so hitter that the girl
! made haste to say:
“You should not talk that way; it
is wicked/'
“Shouldn’t I? Well, perhaps not.
Somebody does say that poverty
comes by Divine gift ns well as riches,
and I suppose it is intended as a sorb
of grist-mill for one’s superfluous
pride; but when everything in a man’s
nature seems to run into that there is
not much of tliepooriellow left by the
time the grinding is over. There is
! one thing, however,” straightening
| himself up and looking across t he riv
| < r, “that is unpardonable, and that
i is for a man without money or pros*
i peels of money to indulge himself m
: 5 hat madness of the heart called love.
I He must keep that organ empty un
i fil his pockets are filled, for a full
■ heart and a slim purse are an ill
-1 mated pair. Any other course is
1 sheer lunacy, and should be plea suf
.( licient for imprisonment in the asylum
i lor idiots.”
| He paused a moment for Lucia to
j answer, but as she did not speak he
j continued in the same strain with
whimsical persistence, jeering at love
j and lovers, and especially at those
I silly folk who “married for a senti
! ment, with nothing substantial to
; feed it on, or themselves either, for
i t hat matter.”
| Still Lucia did not interrupt him.
He kept his eyes fixed on the fields
| to tire south, and seemed unconscious
iof the vehemence of his ords.
“A man commits a wrong when he
j asksagirlto marry him and has noth
ing to give her but his love. It is des
picable in him, and sinfully weak in
Her to permit it. It is her simple
duty to refuse him, as she would a
confirmed drunkard or any other in
curable.
"This ‘bread and cheese and kisses’
sentiment will do very well for a
novelist to use as a peg on which to
1 hang a lot of sentimental twaddle,
but it will not do for practical life.
And in this world we have to be
practical.
“A girl ought to marry a man who
can provide for her, and if she has
choice between a rich suitor and a
poor one, she will be very silly indeed
t o let a foolish fancy that anybody
ran out live stand in the way of her
fure—well, comfort, or whatever the
modern name for happiness is.”
There was a curious strain in his
voice toward the last, and he tried to
loosen it by a forced laugh, adding,
as if to himself: “God must have
been intended exclusively for the poor,
for they can love him, at any rate,
without committing a sin.”
Lucie rose. There was a faint flush
on her dark cheeks now.
“If you have quite finished we will
go home. You recited your iesson
well, and I hope, feel the pfeasurethat
arises from a consciousness of
having done one’s duty. It was just
a trifle superfluous, though, to waste
so much strong rhetoric on me, for I
never had the slightest intention of
marrying a poor man.”
She gathered her dress round her as
she spoke, and proceeded to climb up
the bank, disdaining his proffered as
sistance, and, alas! not seeing the
pained and weary look in his eyes—a
look as of one worn out in life’s strug
gle. And he could not guess that the
proud little heart was almost burst
ing, and that tears were falling silently
one by one, or the slim young figure
was carried as erect as ever, and the
head never once drooped as she walk
ed on before him.
And so these two ( went home
through the March wood*, with a
mountain of misunderstanding be
tween them.
The sun covered up his head behind
the hills, and the air grew chill, As
ttwy fmwl twflte’n !t«8» itoey
John wen m.
He was a good-looking man, tall
and well put together, but with a cer
tain patronizing manner which was
very exasperating at times. A fine
town house, large interests in railroad
companies, banks, etc., in connection
with his thirty-five years of confirmed
bachelorhood, made him quite a lion
in rural society.
While very general, however, in his
choice of feminine friends and ac
quaintances, he seemed fastidious
enough in the selection of a wife, no
one seeming to meet the requirements
so well as Lucia Grey, whose repeated
refusals only made him more deter
mined.
He had cultivated persistence to
that fine point attained only, as a
general rule, by the widowed of his
sex, but had, as yet, failed of success.
He passed them with a bow and a
broad, bland smile.
Lucia’s brother was waiting for her
a’t the door of their small home, and
I>r. Holt declining to enter they ex
changed a few careless words on the
steps before he bade them good-bye.
He held Lucia’s hand a moment at
parting, and she remembered long af
terward how dry and feverish his was;
but what a firm true clasp his fingers
gave.
The next evening Mr. Terrell came
for her to drive. She did not want to
go, but let herself be persuaded, feeling
too heartsick ior anything to matter
much.
Once again he offered her the “pur
ple and fine linen” of life, and seemed
slow to understand that she could so
obstinately refuse what some women
angled for.
Poor fellow! There was a kind of
pathos about the way he put his
wealth before himself.
If he had read women better he
would have known that if he were
once loved for himself it would not
matter whether he counted his money
by the thousands or by the tens—by
dollars or cents.
While she was nervous and flushed
with annoyance, they met Dr. Holt
on his way to see some country pa
tient.
lie attributed her unusual color to
another cause, and, fancying he caught
a look of triumph in John Terrell's
cold blue eyes, accepted the possible
for the actual—as men of his sensi
tive self-distrustful nature are apt
to do—and concluded she had follow
ed his advice and taken “the man
who could provide for her.”
Stange heart of man! He had told
her to doit, and had thought he want
ed her to do it.
And now?
lie certainly wanted her to be hap
py, and bethought he could not make
her so himself. And yet he was con
scious of a terrible pain somewhere in
his breast and a burning desire to
bury John Terrell’s blonde beauty
under a heap of his own shining coin.
Lucia and her brother Joe had
lived a happy life together, and in his
fond, unselfish love she had never
missed the father and mother who,
dying during her infancy, had left her
to the tender care of the crippled boy,
now a sad-eyed, middle-aged man.
A sufficient sum had been left for
their support, and a kind aunt gave
them a home until the little sister was
old enough to keep house for “Broth
er Joe.”
Since then they had never been sep
arated. As the days passed on and
Laurence Holt never came again to
the little cottage with the yellow roses
by the gate, Joe noticed how sad and
listless Lucia grew, although she tried
so bravely to be merry and gay as of
old.
He asked no questions, for he knew
that, while we can sometimes rest
weary limbs, it is hard to know what
to do with tired hearts.
One day some one mentioned,
among other gossip, the departure of
Dr. Holt for New Mexico, and added,
by ways of comment: “He was al
way a restless sort of fellow—didn’t
seem to care for anybody in the world,
not even himself. They say he has
gone for good.”
For weeks after this Lucia went
about the house witiftl stunned, help
less look in her eyes like a hurt ani
mal that does not uderstand why it
has been wounded.
The summer passed, and with the
early autumn days she grew
restless. Coming to Joe one evening
she put her arms around his neck as
in her baby days, and told him that
she wanted some work to do, some
thing to keep her busy all the time.
“Couldn’t she gather around her a
little kindergarten class of children
and try to fill up her life with duties?”
He knew that duties were cold, un
satisfactory things when the heart
was crying out for something alive
and warm, but he let her have her
way, and as day after day she stud
ied deeper into child-life, and saw
how in ministering to these little
ones we are in turn ministered to, she
grew more content arid less impatient
of life.
****** •
One bright spring morning, two
years later, the brother and sister sat
on their porch, “watching the flowers
grow,” Lucia said.
Presently Joe got up and limped to
the steps. “Lucia, do you see that
peculiar little cloud youaer,? I should
not be surprised if we had a storm of
some kina to-day.”
“Oh, Joe, the idea! Why, the sun
never did shine so bright. I feel al
most like a little child again this
morning, and I know it is this deli
cious sunshine.”
“I hope nothing will come to shut it
out, then, dear, if it makes you hap
py.” And he looked at her with a
tender little smile.
The girl jumped up impulsively and
kissed his worn cheek, whispering,
“You make me happy all the time,
Joe.”
Before the day was over his pro
phecy came true. A wild storm cam.e
up, one of those sudden furies of light
ning, wind and rain peculiar to our
Texas climAte* that interrupts the sun
for a few moments, strikes the earth
a single passionate blow and returns
to its boms among ths clouds, leav
ing nature bruised and smarting from
naSfcAsgNr&n:
and a few hours later a message was
brought to Lucia Grey. ;
But one passenger had left the ears,
and as he stepped across the platform
he stopped one moment to gaze up at
the frowning heavens. As he looked a
fiery, zigzag line cut the sullen blue of
the sky, gathered itself into a lurid
ball of dancing, purplish flame-lights
and burst amid a grand discord of
thunder, wind and rain. When the
clamor of the elements ceased those
inside the depot rushed out to see
where the bolt had tallen. **
They found some of the men who
had been grouped outside thrown to
the ground, a few stunned, and one,
the passenger from the southbound
train, struck dead.
When carried to the hotel he was re
cognized as Laurence llolt.
In his pocket was a letter with the
address, “To be given, in case of my
death, to Miss Lucia Grey, San
Marcos, Tex.”
They sent it to her, and with it a
sealed packet bearing the same direc
tion, which was found with the letter.
Lucia listened to it all, with now
and then a low moan, such as the
dumb make when in distress, and
asked Joe to take her to him and let
her be alone with him for a little
while.
Alone in the room with the dear
form, so unfamiliar in itj strange,
white silence, she opened the letter and
the packet.
The former told of so much love and
happiness that had been coming on
flying feet to meet her, that at first
she could not take this cold clay as
sole answer.
Laurence Holt had met John Ter
rell a few days before in some Western
city, and, learning from chance re
marks of the latter (who had not yet
recovered from his surprise at a wom
an’s refusing, not him, but his wealth)
what had act ually occurred that even
ing long ago, ho started home at once.
He was not much richer in pocket
than then, but his heart was full of joy
and bright hopes, and clean-swept of
all those sickening doubts and fears
which he now knew were the creations
ot a distorted fancy.
Sometimes people die of a rush of
happiness to the heart, as well as a
rush of blood to the brain.
If he had been Scotch he would have
distrusted this overflush of joy, like
the consumptive’s sudden rise of
strength that is the prelude to death.
In the yellow, time-discolored paper
Lucia found a faded bunch of violets,
the words of an old song she had
copied, and two ragged bits of dark
flannel pinned together with the spiky
leaf of the aguarita.
Ah! he must, indeed, have distrust
ed his joy, or else what subtle presci
ence made him thus photograph his
heart for her.
Those last hours shall be sacred.
If she reproached herself—never him
—and moaned that she had not been
kinder in the days that were past,
had not listened more to love and less
to its rival, pride; if she wounded her
self with bitter words for her blind
ness, mocked her poor heart for its
dullness, and blame her poor lips for
their silence—why, all will understand.
And if she wondered, in strange
wistfulness, why God made His creat
ures to pass through so much of pain,
and why He gave them bodies to be
racked and spirits to be bruised —all
will understand this too.
********
Lucia Grey went home to take up
the dropped stitches of her sweet,
patient life and interweave with them
the beauty and pathos of other lives
—bright-colored threads from the
hands of little children; blues and
reds that lovers brought, and purple
strands, drawn here and there from
sin-stained fingers; all to mingle lov
ingly in the spotless web of her own
sorrow-crowned existence.
Remembering how Laurence had al
ways loved violets, calling them little
lost children from the Garden ot Eden
still laden with the perfume of God’s,
breath, she and Joe planted them in
profusion about his gt-ave, tending
them carefully, so that every Spring
the earth above him should be fra
grant with the lovely purple blooms,
“fit emblems of hope and of constarfo,
too.”
And two shall walk some narrow way of
life,
So nearly side by side that should one
turn
Evlr so little spaco from left or right
They needs must stand acknowledged face
to face—
And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet,
W;th groping hands that never ela6p,
and lips
Calling In vain to ears that never hear,
They seak each other all their weary days,
And die unsatisfied—and this is Fate.
Names of Young Ladies.
Eugene Field of the Chicago News
has been examining the list of names
of young ladies who took part in the
recent Easter festival in Boston, with
a view to ascertain what sort of Chris
tian names are.in vogue nowadays in
New England, and ho thus finds and
reports: “Among fifty-four young
lady representatives of Massachusetts
society,” he says, “we find but one
Mary! and not one Ruth, nor a Mercy,
nor a Charity, nor a Faith! Of course
we did not look for such good old
names as Prudence, Thankful and
God-Be-Glorified, but neither did we
expect to find the representative girls
of Boston wearing the very same
names that abound in the West and
in the other crude parts of our coun
try. Boston appears neither to have
progressed nor to have abided by the
good old times. What has become of
the Margarets, the Nancys, the Julias,
the Cornelias, the Elizabeths, the
Janes, the Augustas, the Eleanors,
the Joans, the Matildas and the rest of
those dear, noble creatures who, some
way or other, are associated in our
minds with history or squash pies?”
Mr. Field did not find them in this
list, says the Buffalo Commercial,
and instead of them four Mauds, four
Mabels, three Lillians three Georgies,
three Berthas, three Florences, two
Daisies, two .Ellas, with Sadie and
ttfid Mftwlfj iMid «* Uifc me?* to
A Home of Our Own.
Zen as Dane, in Good housekeeping,
describes an experience not unknown
to some of our readers:
I write this from under my own vine
and fig tree, from beneath a roof of
my own. lam a landed proprietor,
a taxpayer, the owner of a bit of
ground and a house in the freshness
and beauty of its first painting and
papering and polishing. Ever since
our marriage, seven years ago, my
wite and I have longed for this day to
some. We have saved and “scrimp
ed,” and hoped and prayed for it,and
at last it has come to pass. We have
paid out hundreds of dollars in rent,
and have been moved and hustled
around from house to house, and
place to place, in the romanic manner
too common among young married
people in America.
No one can know with what a
breath of infinite relief I said last
week to Mrs. Dane, at the close of a
wearisome moving day. “Well, my
dear, thank the fates this is our last
move.”
“Well, Ihopeso, forgoodness’ sake,”
said Mrs. Dane, with marked force.
And when our two cherished Brus
sels carpets were being slashed into
so recklessly to fit the parlor and sit
ting-room, Mrs. Dane said gratefully:
“Well, it’s the last time they will
have to be cut, for they are down to
stay nowjthats one consolation.”
The home we are so happy in is not
all paid for, but we see our way clear
to pay for it in time, and any kind of
a home is preferable to a life-long pay
ing of rent. Young married people
should start out in life with the fixed
determination of putting a roof over
their heads that they can call theirown;
and this is not such a hard thing to
do in these days of loan and building
associations and cheap rates of in
terest. My interest and taxes are
not much more than half the amount
I have been paying in rents.
It is difficult to define the feeling one
has in a home of one’s own. There is
something in being a “landed proprie
tor” that tones up wonderfully and
adds dignity and earnestness to life.
You literally feel that you are some
body. Life takes on a new meaning
and new joys; you have something to
live lor and work for. I actually felt
a positive pleasure in paying my taxes
yesterday, and felt sorry ior the poor
fellows who haven’t any taxes to pay.
I set out some rose bushes last
week, exulting in the thought that
they were mine, and neither they nor
I were subject to the whim or the in
terests of some reaiestate agent, who
could give us thirty days’ notice and
then turn us adrift.
No longer am I a member of the
mighty and miserable army of house
hunters. My rent days are done. I
drive nails and tacks, and hammer
and pound when and where I please.
When I come home from my office at
night, it is home indeed to me.
And when one has children it is more
necessary than ever that there be a
place for them that they can call home;
a place that they can love and remem
ber as homo throughout all their lives.
1 hope to see the children of my 8-
months-old baby playing in this house
some day. We have bought a good
house because we think we shall live
in this city all our lives, and we never
want to go through the miseries of
another family move.
A home of your own is. I insist, the
very best investment a young couple
can make. It is something worth
saving and working and living for.
Remarks by an English Head-
master.
From th« London Athena urn.
Dr. Jessop, himself an old head
master, makes some remarks as good
as they arc true: “I once caught some
melancholy children at a certain
elementary school engaged in a gram
mar lesson, and, shocked at the morne
and sombre aspect of affairs, I des
perately interpolated an altogether
extraneous question, ‘Littlegirl, that’s
all right,—but wlmt do you know of
Admiral Nelson?’ ‘Please, sir, we only
do nouns and adjectives,’ was the
prompt reply. ‘We have not got into
verbs.’ She actually lived within a
stone’s throw of a house which be
longed to Nelson’s farther, and in
which some believe that the Norfolk
hero was born; but my lords en
courage adverbs and discourage Ad
mirals. ‘lf I were to draw up a
history of my parish in words of not
more than three syllables, and to
weave in a number of interesting facts
about the general history of England,
and tell them little Btories to make
their little flesh creep, woulb my lords
let it pass as a reading book? I asked
of an authority. ‘N—n—no! I don,t
think they would,’ was the cautious
answer. ‘Because, you see,’ etc., etc.,
etc. —I was too crushed to give due
attention to the rest.”
Was the authority of the East
Anglian school inspector who, delight
ing in “common-sense questions, pro
pounded this: “If I met you coming
down the village street and said ‘Ani
mal! animal!’ what would you sayl”
The right answer remains a mystery;
the real one ran: ‘Saa! I shud eaa yeow
was aiule.’ Undaunted, the examiner
next asked why the sea is salt. He
got three answers: One, “Because of
Yarmouth bloaters;” one, “To keep
the drownded folks sweet;” and one
from a pious little maiden, “Because
God made it so.”
First Omaha Dame—“Are you still
boarding?” Second Omaha Dame—
“ Yes, but it is a great trial; my room
is never half attended to.” “It isn’t?”
“No; and the halls are dirty and the
parlors always coated with dust, and
you ean hardly see through the win
dows.” “Indeed?” “And nothing is
ever cooked right; half the things are
burned and the other half nearly raw.”
“Well, J declare? Why you are al*
WOit on badly off HU t< you kMpfeWM
•M hftiUnirl,"
He Remembered too Much for
Peace Sales.
They were celebrating their silver
wedding and the friends were admiring
them as people always do other peo
ple when they are getting a lot of pres
ents. You have noticed, of course,,
how people look at you when you
show them something somebody, baa
given you. They are surprised ana
they envy you. They always wonder,
however, in themselves what on earth
anybody could see in you to give you
anything so handsome. Unless it is
your husband. Then they smile and
wonder what he has been doing that *
his conscience needs rest. But if you’ll;
notice, you’ll find that people who get
many presents have many friends.
You may have many friends and pst
precious few presents. Presents make
friends; friends don’t make presents.
Married people increase the circle of
their friends with every anniversary
of their wedding, because the presents
get handsomer and more expensive.
You can work this paradox out for
yourself. 1 haven’t time. They were
celebrating their silver wedding,
and of course the people were very
happy and very affectionate.
I‘Yes,” said the husband, “this i*
the only woman I ever loved. I shall
never forget the first time I proposed
to her.”
“How did you do it,” burst out a
young man who had been squeezing a
pretty girl’s hand in the corner. They
all laughed and he blushed; but the
girl carried it off bravely.
“Well, 1 remember as well as if it
were yesterday. It was away back in
Maine. We had been out on a picnic,
and she and I got wandering alone.
Don’t you remember, my dear?”
The wife nodded and smiled.
“We sat on the trunk of an old tree.
You liavn’t forgotten, love, have
you?”
The wife nodded again.
“She began writing in the dust with
the point of her parasol. You recall
it, sweet.don’t you?”
The wite nodded again.
“She wrote her name, Minnie, and I
paid let me put the other name to it.
And I took the parasol and wrote my
name—Smith —after it.”
“How lovely!” broke out a little
maid who was beaming in a suspicious
way on a tall chap with a blond mous
stache.
“And she took back the parasol and.
wrote below it, ‘No, I won’t.’ And.
we went home. You remember it,,
darling? I see you do.”
Then he kissed her and thecompany
murmured sentimentally, wasn’t it
pretty.
The guests had all departed and the
happy couple were left alone.
“Wasn’t it nice, Minnie, to see all our
friends around us so happy?”
“Yes, it was. But, John, that rem
iniscence!”
“Ah, it seems as if it had been only
yesterday.”
“Yes, dear; there are only three
t hinge you’re wrong about in that
storv.”
“Wrong? Oh, nol’*
“John, I’m sorry you told that
story, because I never went to a
picnic with you before we were mar
ried; I was never in Maine in my life,
and 1 never refused you.”
“My darling, you must he wrong!”
“I’m not wrong, Mr. Smith, f have
an excellent memory, and although
we have been married twenty-five
years, I’d like to know who that
minx Minnie was. You never told me
about her before.”
I guess she’ll forgive him; butldon’t
know if she’ll forget.—San Francisco
Chronicle.
A Cause of Baldness.
A writer in the current Popular
Science Monthly maintains with great
plausibility that baldness is chiefly
caused by wearing of head-gear that
“constricts the blood-vessels which
nourish the hair-bulbs.” He cites the
fact that hairless heads are chiefly con
fined to men, women being compar
atively exempt from the affliction, and
mainly to members of the male sex
who are in good circumstances tfhd
who spend a larger portion of the day
out of doors and consequently have
their crowns covered more than in
door workers. The high hat and the
hard felt hat receive the brunt of the
criticism, inasmuch as they, especially,
exert such a pressure upon the arteries
passing upward over the sides of the
skull that the flow of blood to the
roots of the hair is restricted. As a
result the hair is starved and falls
out. Bald men are seldom without
hair around the base of the head,
which portion is exposed to the air,
and is below the line of pressure; and
baldness invariably begins on the top
ot the head, where the circulation is the
weakest. The writer asserts: “I have
never seen a person whose habitual
head-covering was soft and yield
ing suffer from baldness. The agri
culturist, whose habit it is to wear
the loosest head-coverings during the
greater part of his life, has usually
more hair than is conducive to com
fort; but his son who has taken to
city life may be bald at thirty.”
What this theorist propounds is enti
tled to consideration. The proofs
which he cites are open to observation
of every person; and others may be
easily supplied.
A Plea For The Fourth.
In no other country in the world
have the two opposing sides of a civil
conflict ever fraternized as they are
doing in this country to-day. The
various civil wars in England and on
European continent left wounds that
never fully healed, and made breaches
in the community that were never
closed. It cannot be said that the
scars of our own war have been en
tirely obliterated, but they are des
tined to be. Let the coming Fourth
of July be celebrated by all, at the
South as well as at ths North, with
this result in mind, and with a re
newed devotion to ths noble senti
ment, “Liberty and union, and
fowvsr, one And
York CflmnwlMl Admit**!