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VOL. I. AN ANTIQUE. Queer scr' of theme for a poet’s rhyme, Warped and worn by Its hundred years, Besprinkled over with stains of tears From waxen tapers of olden time, Walnut well carved by a master’s hand, My great-great-grandmother’s candle stand. Gloss all gone, like the days now dead, The polish dimmed like thejustrous eyes That once looked merry, or slid, or wise, As this by the huge four-posted bed Stood bearing the light in stick japanned, My great-great-grandmother’s candle stand. Shaky somewhat on its griffin feet. Spindled decidedly as to Its legs— The funniest set of twisted pegs— Parted at center, In base to meet, Like a sort of Hermes’ snaky wand. My groat-great-grandmother’s candle stand. Lights It held for a dauntless race, To dock for the duel, dance or ball, ■ And maidens merry and withal, Slender-waisted and fair of face, For mirror’s aid would Its help demand, My great great-grandmother’s candle stand. Dreams of the j ears long past and flown, When hood and hoop and painted fan Were snares to allure the heart of man, yust ns to-day is the tennis gown, All flit around, from the shadow land, Wy great-great-grandmother’s candle stand. |And clothed In a robe of spotless white, Bonny and blithe as to the bloom ol haw, The dame's greal-great-granddaughter-ln law, Stands by It now, a winsome sight. What sweet surprise has my lady planned W.lh great-great-grandmother’s candle stand! And why from Its cherished pride of place, The chimney nook, has It sought the hall? Alas! Pride goeth before the fall; To an antique dealer, for duchcsse lace, She’s bartered It straightway out of baud. My great-great-grandmother’s candle stand. —B. T. W. Duke, Jr., in Llpplncott's. if Mi/’ IJIA Rvery winter ff T T when 1 go Vpa ri jL the I ' wolves’ den in —•n#’*-'*"’—'the Central Park Zoo on my way to the skating lake I cannot help thinking how those fierce beasts once gave me my severest lesson in skating. It was away up in the northern part of Wisconsin one bleak December day, years ago, that I went out to a friend’s house some miles from the little town where I lived. I was only fourteen years old then, but, like every other boy in that cold cli mate, where ice begins in October and lasts until April, I had skated ever since I was six years old. I took my skates along, as my friend lived near a lake, and there had as yet been no snow, which every boy knows spoils the ice. We had great fun skat ing for several days. One Thursday afternoon about three 0 clock I started to walk home, some six milts. Dear old Mrs. B , Char lie's mother, carefully warned me not to leave the main road, and I prom ised, but I soon forgot my promise, so when I came to a path which “cut across” through the woods and which 1 knew would shorten my walk a mile or shr I took it, and had not left the main road many minutes when it be gan to snow, so softly at first that I did not see how necessary it was to go back to the main road. Deeper into the woods I went, and faster fell the snow. My path was rapidly getting harder to follow. At last I stepped on its hard surface into the soft mass off each side. 1 floundered about till I got turned around. Then I tried to find the path again. It was gone! Every part seemed equally soft to my tired feet. The sun had gone down and darkness came on as I -kept pushing through the ever-deepening snow. 1 thought every now and then to strike the again, but no trace of it ap peared. It must have been six o'clock when the snow ceased to fall. I leaned against a tree and tried to think which way home was. I began to get drowsy and would no doubt have gradually slid down into the snow and a sleep that would have ended in death had not a sound come that lifted me to my feet, erect and trembling. It was only a bark, and to a city boy might have been mistaken for the bay of a distant deer hound. Hut to me, a boy of the frontier, it meant the bark of a wolf—and it told me that the beasts had smelled me out. Almost before I had time to realize my danger the noise had ceased to be the howling of a single wolf. The cries were caught up and repeated from dif ferent parts of the forest as the ani mals gathered on the trail. I was getting weaker and weaker with the fright and the advance of night, but I plunged forward until, rising over the crest of a little hill, I saw a lake be low. To cross was to be wholly at the mercy of the wolves, whose howling by this time seemed so near that 1 fancied I could see them jump from be hind the trees upon me. Should I climb into a tree? What good would that do? In the first place, benumbed with cold as I was, how could I get up, and then how could I keep awake through the night, and a nod might mean falling to the ground? All this shot like n flash through my mind. No, I said, I'll stay on the ground. Hut what to do? Oh, those awful howls, how near they are. Ah! what was that dark spot on the Jake? In a sheltered cove the wind eddies had blown the snow to one side, leav ing a large circle of clear black ice, the joy of a skater’s heart. As I stood trembling with anew shiver at every fresh bark of the rapid ly nearing wolves a passage from a lesson in natural history rose before me: “Wolves are afraid of Are and many persons have saved their lives by its aid.” I felt in my - pocket and found some matches. That heap of brush over there! Under the top there must be some dry branches. I tore off the snow-covered limbs and beneath I could see dry leaves and twigs. I gathered up an armful and made for the shining circle of ice, tearing out some leaves from a book in my pocket. I fixed the best “start” for a fire that experience in the woods had taught me to make. The first match set it ablaze, and, fanning it with my hat, I soon heard the twigs crackling. But the little fire would soon be out and the wolves would then be upon me. Enough wood must be gathered to keep the fire going till daylight To get it I must go back to the shore. Oh! how I dreaded leaving the cheerful lit tle blaze! Back in the woods the howls were growing sharper and clearer. But no time was to be lost. Four times I ran breathless to the shore and came back with great armfuls of brush and branches. The fifth time I had gono about fifty feet from the fire when I saw a dark body jump out from among the trees. I fled back to the blaze and, fascinated with terror, gazed at the leaping forms. In a moment another appeared, an.d then another, until a dozen were howling and dancing about a few feet away. I piled more brush on the blaze. As it flared up the wolves backed off, and sat on their haunches. So it went on for an hour or two. Then I began to get drowsy again. Once I caught myself dozing, and on waking found the fire had died down a great deal. If I sleep, I thought, the fire will go out and the wolves will then pounce upon me. Oh! I was so sleepy! I just wanted to lie down for a few minutes, that was all. I must sit down, anyway. I could use that bundle slung over my shoulder for a seat. I took i# down and threw it on the ice. It rang out sharp and loud as it struck. On my half-numb senses it dawned that it was my skates which I had brought along. “If I put them on I can keep awake,’' was the happy thought that came like a flash from the fire. In a moment al most I had strapped them on. I glided around the fire, which was in the cen ter of the circle, several times before I could get warmed up. Then my passion for skating awoke. I was just on the edge of learning the most diffi cult motions on skates, such as the “grapevine, single and double,” “the scissors,” “the outer edge,” “the Dutch roll, backward and forward, sin gle and double,” and “figure eights” of various kinds. One after the other 1 went over them. When tired by one I WENT CIRCLING AROUND THE BLAZE. I would try another, and so rest my self. An houv passed thus and the wolves came no nearer than at first Then I knew I would probably get through the night and I breathed more easily. 1 knew I had wood enough to last till daylight if I could only keep awake. So hour after hour I went circling about the little blaze. The ring of steel, echoing among the trees, mingled with the disappointed barking of the hun gry watchers squatted on the snow. At last the faint streaks of dawn broke over the east and I could see a curl of white smoke arising from a hunter’s camp away down the lake. Half an hour later it was daylight. The sharp crack of an early hunler’s gun came from near by. The wolves had been slowly backing off into the woods as the day dawned and at the sound of the gun they disappeared en tirely. I waited another halt hour and then took off my skates and walked down to the curl of smoke. I, rested at the camp several hours and went home. When next I went out skating I sur prised all my playmates by the progress I had made. “Where have you been practicing?” they all asked. They had reason for asking, for on that night of desperate .practice I had changed from a novice into an expert—N. Y. World. —“lt turns out that the supposed robbery of the Oonnup bank was no robbery after all.” “So?” “U was a mere business transaction. The cashier stood in with the robbers. Indinnap* oils Journal, BAY ST. LOUIS, MISS., SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1892. ADVANTAGES OF OLD AGE. foets, Philosophers, and Statesmen Who Have Lived Long and Well. Sir James Crichton-Browne lias enumerated instances of long-lived per sons possessing all their faculties un impared, and opened up a subject full of Interest, and even the large space occupied by his address did not allow him fully to develop. It seems a phy siological law that the functions of the body must be kept in exercise in order to maintain their efficiencies, and it is true of the body as of the mill or any other machine that will rust out from disuse sooner than wear out by employ ment. The fact is constantly observed in persons engaged in commercial pur suits, who retire at the age of sixty, and then fall into rapid decay, while professional men remaining at work preserve their vigor, often for another twenty years. It is a sad thing to see the nerve centers decay with a corre sponding weakness of body and mind, but it is still sadder to witness, with a wrinkling of the skin, a corresponding shrinking of the brain, allowing vanity and some of the weakly passions, which had been kept in suppression, to come again to the fore. How different is the spectacle when the organ is kept in its integrity by constant use and the mental faculties preserved in all their prestine force. We have only to look around and to see our poets, bishops, judges, ministers of state and medical men long-lived and still in mental vigor while working at their respective avocations. Very re markable, too, is it that, as Sir James Crichton-Browne observed, the freedom of language will remain as good as ever; an example of this was observed but lately in a discussion on the Lon don university questions, when two of the most logical and well -expressed speeches were made by octogenarians. We can at the present time point to statesmen and lawyers of great age still before the public, as not long ago we could see Lord Palmerston, Lord Brougham, Lord Lyndhurstand others. In former times we may remember Newton living to be eighty-five, while Sophocles is said to have lived to be ninety, and Plato not much short of this. It is clear that hard work does not kill. The toil, however, must be genial and diversified. The man of business often has no occupation be sides his breadwinning, whereas a medical man has a variety of subjects to interest him. A speaker at the recent international congress showed by experiments upon school children when three or four sums of arithmetic were given in suc cession, that each sum showed an in feriority to the previous one, both in correctness and regards the time in which it was completed. The one faculty employed was gradually ex hausted, a fresh piece of evidence show ing a necessity for diversity of work. In the treatment of persons with men tal trouble or worry the very worst method is to rely too much on wkat is called rest, meaning thereby leaving the patient without other employment than to brood over his sorrows. True rest to the mind is only obtained by the occupation of other faculties roused into action by new surroundings. There is no reason why old age should not boas happy and as enjoyable as any other period of life. If old persons be asked as to their consciousness of age they will all with one consent de clare that there exists nothing of the kind. An old person has a knowledge of his age in the same way as his friends; he sees it by looking in the mirror, by remembrance of past events, or the loss of contemporaries, but he is not constantly carrying about with him the conviction or feeling that he is old; he is thus still able to occupy himself in the business and pleasures of life. Buffon spoke of his green old age as one of the" happiest periods of his life, although the kind of pleasures then ex perienced are, of course, different from those of youth; aud when decay comes, and a man is becoming free from the remembrances of all earthly things, then, as Sir James Paget says (and no better example could be found of full mental activity by continued work), it may be so ordered on purpose that the spirit may be invigorated and undis turbed in the contemplation of the brightening future. Another writer, speaking of old age in reference to the decease of an eminent barrister, also maintained that the highest faculties are kept keen by constant exercise, and the brain vigorous by constant action and renewal. The understanding has often been in the highest perfection in quite ad vanced old age, and that has been the best period of human life. It is the time when the rage and storm of pas sion have died away, when the jeal ousies and cares of a career have ceased and been forgotten, when memory lingers upon all that is bright and charming in the past, and when hope scatters her most glowing tints over fast approaching future; or, in the words of Sir J. Crichton-Browne him self: “We are able to see in old age glimpses of the truth that its chief glory consists not in the remembrances of feats of prowess, nor in the egotistic exercise of power, but in the conquest of peevish weakness, in the brightness of hope, and in the discrimination of happiness around. “Depend upon it, the best antiseptic against senile decay is an active inter est in human affairs, and that those keep young longest who love most.” In ths same key did Oliver Wendell Holmes, tin? laureate of old age, sing “FEAnijESS IN AXjXi THINGS.” when sora* young ladies presented him with a loving cup in his eightieth year: Better love’s perfume In the empty bowl Than wine's nopontho for the aching soul! Sweeter than song that ever pool sung, It makes an old heart young! —British Medical Journal. YOUTHFUL LOVERS. Work as a Remedy for Premature Love Affairs. A correspondent, who says she has a son eighteen years old and a daughter nearly sixteen, requests us “to tell her some way to keep them from falling in love too young.” She says they are both very bright and good children, but also “very susceptible.” She is afraid her son will “fall in love with a pretty face before he is twenty years old, and mar his fortune.” She is still more solicitous as to what may come of her daughter’s “susceptibility,” because “she is of a romantic and dreaming na ture.” This anxious mother is the represen tative of a class which numbers thou sands. There are not many things which cause more material solicitude than the fear that a son or daughter will be led, while young, into a foolish or disastrous marriage. Among the most prolific provocatives of such youth ful folly are idleness, lack of mental occupation, and the restlessness and dissatisfaction which are usually in duced by such stagnant conditions. Therefore, we say to any mother who does not want her son to fall in love with a pretty face before the beard grows on his own: Give him something to do. Let his mind be occupied. Em ployment is one of the best safeguards as well as one of the best remedies for that intermittentyouthful fever mis takenly called love. Furthermore, try to inspire your son with noble ambi tions, which will lift him above his petty desires, and make him eager to achieve a manly and useful career. As for your daughter, as soon as she leaves school, give her something to do, also; something useful and elevating. She will miss the daily routine of school life, with its exercise and occupation and discipline of mind. Undoubtedly she will fancy that the change is de lightful; but she will soon become dis satisfied. Her life will be full of rest lessness, her heart full of longing, and before you are aware she will fall des perately in love with some mustached boy; possibly a harmless, probably a worthless, perhaps a villainous fellow, who, like herself, had nothing to do. Satan not only “finds some mischief still for idle hands to do, ” but he also provides many ways for idle young peo ple to commit sad and sometimes irre trievable blunders. One of his most effective lures is that kind of affection, erroneously called love, which is gen erated by the restlessness and dissatis faction caused by idleness and vacuity of mind. Therefore, those parents who wish to save their sons and daughters from the evils that come of falling in love too young, should give them plen ty to do, so they may “not rust in idle ness, but shine in use.” —N. Y. Ledger. TO MEND WOOLEN DRESSES. A Little Time anil Fatlence Will Effect Wonders. When a dress tears, it is nine times out of ten a zigzag line that is made, to try the mender. Haste under this a piece of the new goods, pulling the rag ged edge close together, and running a line of long stitches close to the tear, and a second one two inches beyond Ravel long threads from a bit of the goods; if you have none, use fine sew ing silk, and darn with them over the unsightly gap, making even stitches over and under the work, running them certainly half to an inch beyond the hole. When done, apply a damp cloth to the wrong side, and press with a warm iron, first pulling out the basting threads, or the marks will be pressed in the goods. If the tear takes a piece out of the cashmere, or whatever it may be, then bajte anew piece, as before, under the torn edges, and use ravelings in a fine darning needle. This time make three small stitches over the edge on to the new or inserted piece. Darn all around in this manner, pulling the thread evenly, and keeping the patch perfectly smooth over the palm of the left hand. In this manner the center of the new piece is not covered with stitches. When done, lay a cloth over the right side of the patch and press it with a warm iron. 1 have seen this kind of a patch made by French nuns so beautifully that it could hardly be found. Do not hurry with mending, and do not begin a difficult or long task when tired.—Ladies’ Home Journal. Happy Unions. Of the unhappy marriages of two people of equal talent and mental pow er, there are, unfortunately numerous examples, but these, in every case upon record, have resulted from some vital defect in the spirit of the compact. A womanlike Jane Welsh Carlyle, who marries one man while loving another, deserves to be as unhappy as was that unfortunate woman, but the life of Al fred Tennyson and his gifted wife, who is a composer, who has set her hus band's song to music, a woman of the broadest culture. Gladstone and his wife, and the domestic life of other emi nent men with intellectual wives con trovert the theory that men of brains must marry nonentities in order to be happy and that wives and mothers can neither keep pace with the intellectual development of their husbands nor oc cupy high places in the world of litera ture ami urt.—Ghigago Graphic, ON A “MIXED” TRAIN. It Was So Slow the Boy Had Outgrow* His Ticket. The particular point of the following I have heard in different ways, but the incident I have in mind, coming under my own observation, was too good to pass, and we will consider it fresh and new, for I am very sure that the dis gusted grandmother of ray story had not the remotest idea that she was lay ing herself liable to the accusation of plagiarism. Dear reader, did you ever ride for any considerable distance on a “mixed” railroad train —that is, a train made up of passenger coaches and freight cars? If you never have, then you know not how steam-power can be insulted; you know not what weary, wretched wait ing on a railroad really means. Years ago, when the Western Dela ware and Reading railroad was first opened to public travel,' I purchased a ticket at Wilmington, Del., for Read ing, Pa., a distance of somewhere about sixty miles; when I came to enter my car, 1 found myself on board one of those mixed trains. There was vast ly more freight than there were passen gers. For myself, however, I did not par ticularly suffer. The road ran for its whole distance through the beautiful valley of the historic Brandywine, and as I was not driven for time, I found plenty of enjoyment in the picturesque scenery that was continually opening to my view. Much of it was grandly magnificent, and all of it interesting; and, what was very favorable to sight seeing, I lost no pictures of the pano rama through rapidity of transit. But it was not so with others. Many were in a hurry, and the grumbling and growling was general. At nearly every stopping-place there was freight to be left, and freight to be taken on. The regular hands of the train were not paid, they declared, to handle freight, and they worked charily; and, more over, those stopping-places were many and frequent You can, perhaps, im agine the speed of that train. We left Wilmington at 7:30 a. m. At noon we had made not more than half the distance to the end of or.r route. At 4:30 p. m. we arrived at the junction of the Philadelphia and Reading rail road, about five miles distant from the latter city, nine mortal hours on the road thus far! As we approached this place, where we were to strike on to the other road, our conductor came along to take up the tickets of the passengers. Very near to me sat an elderly lady, accom panied by a boy, who, during the long and tedious trip, had called her grand ma. When the conductor came to her, she gave him two tickets, one of which had a corner cut off, signifying only half a ticket The official looked at the ticket, then at the strapping boy, and then he looked back upon the elderly lady. “Say, my good woman, d’ye call that boy of yours the kind of a boy to ride on a half-ticket?” Never did a human face express more of disgust—more of bitter repugnance and dudgeon, than did the face of that woman —and the face had been so mild and so benignant at times in prattle with her grandson. She looked into the man’s face; and she answered him, in tones which you may imagine; “When I bought that ticket it was all that was required for this boy. If he’s outgrown it since, it isn’t my fault!” The conductor passed on without further remark; and, really, I thought he enjoyed it; for evidently he was not fond of running that mixed train.”—N. Y. Ledger. Was Columbus a DngoT “I don’t often laugh outright in the school-room,” said a down-town teacher, the other day, “but I have to struggle hard to suppress an audible smile sometimes. For instance, I was in structing my class one day last week in the events just preceding the Revo lutionary war, and after I had read and explained tye lesson, I began to ask questions about it. I asked one boy to name one of the causes that led to the revolt of the colonies against Great Britain. ‘Tea,’ he answered. That was all right, so I said to another, a colored boy, by the way, ‘Name another cause.’ After a pause, he re plied, ‘Coffee.’ On the same day I gave my boys a short talk about Columbus, and then asked, ‘Who can tell me the nationality of Columbus?’ A half dozen hands were raised, and selecting one of my brightest scholars, I told him to answer. Judge of my surprise when he said triumphantly, “Dago.”—Phila delphia Record. Retired Journalists. Seedy Stranger—Are you familiar with this section? Resident—Yes, sir. I’ve been print ing a country paper here for years. “Ah! glad 1 met you. lam a retired journalist, and I am hunting for a cheap place to live, where I can have rest and quiet for the remainder of my days.” “Take that road to the right, my friend. I shall probably join you iu a lew years.” “Where does that road lead?” “To the poor-house.”—N. Y. Weekly. The Big Tax-Payer. Mr. Furnlss Roome—Who is that portly man who makes such a bluster about being a tax-payer? Mr. E. Very May—He’s the owner of about forty houses, and raises his rent on each five dollars a month every time the tases gq pp fifty g*nts.— Ruck, TERMS: SI. OO Fer Annum In Advance, USEFUL AND SUGGESTIVE. —Before celery is used on the table it is a good plan to keep the roots, leaves and trimmings and put them in the oven when the fire is nearly out, to dry thoroughly. Then grate the roots and rub everything together through a sieve and use for seasoning. This bit of economy is recommended by a Frenchman who says'that in a well-reg ulated kitchen everything may be put to some good use, if a housekeeper is careful and “brainy.”—N. Y. Tribune. —Puree of Carrots. —Scrape and cut into very thin slices seven or eight car rots; slice a small onion and a turnip; put them into a stewpan with a bunch of parsley, a couple of bay leaves, and fry them in about a quarter of a pound of butter; then add the scraped carrots with a pint of water, and let all stew until tender; pour in the stock, with a little salt and two dessert spoonfuls of flour; stir it over the fire, and let it boil for twenty minutes; strain through a sieve, let it boil again for ten or twelve minutes, and serve with croutons of fried bread in the tureen.—Boston Her ald. —A list of plant stimulants will not come amiss to the busy housewife who amid her other cares brightens her ta ble and rooms with bits of living green and flowers for holiday occasions. The following will all help in lessening care and labor in keeping plants healthy and strong: Lime water for pinks and carnations, stable manure and slightly warm water for callas and powdered charcoal for roses. For most bulbs, when in flower, plenty of water, fresh air when possible and careful sponging of foliage, while all the beautiful fern asks is moisture, shade and a uniform temperature.—N. Y. Times. —Walnut Cake—One cup of milk; three-quarters of a cup of butter; two cups of granulated sugar; three cups of flour; three even tcaspoonfuL of bak ing powder; three eggs; not quite a cupful of broken-up English walnuts. Heat butter and sugar together: beat the milk in slowly; beat separately the whites and yolks of the eggs; sift the baking-powder into the flour; add all together, putting the broken nuts in after the batter is thoroughly beaten smooth. Bake in low, square pans. Ice both cakes, and put one cake on top of the other. Divide the icing into squares with the back of a knife, and garnish each nut with a half nut laid in its center. —Harper's Bazar. —Children’s Blum Budding.—One cup ful of black molasses, one cupful of suet, one teaspoonful of salt, one cup ful of sweet milk, three rounding cup fuls of flour, one teaspoonful of ground cinnamon, one teaspoonful of ground cloves, one-half teaspoonful each of allspice and nutmeg, one and one-half cupfuls of raisins, and one level tea spoonful of soda. Steam three and one half hours. Have the ingredients meas ured before commencing to put them together, and mix as speedily as possi ble. The soda should be dissolved in the molasses, the suet and salt added, then part of the flour, the spice, fruit and rem-’nder of flour mixed together. —N. Y. independent. SHE HAD A PASS, And She Took Fains to I,et Every One on the Car Know It. While a Republic reporter was chat ting with a well-known passenger agent on a street car the conductor came along for his nickels. A lady on the opposite side of the car handed him an annual pass. Now annual passes on street cars are not as easily obtained as they might be, or at any rate, the re porter does not remember that ha ever saw one before. This particular pass was offered to the conductor with a flourish of the hand, and an ostentatious ges ture which attracted the attention of two ladies who sat on either side of the one presenting it The passenger offi cial quickly but very quietly said to the reporter: “Watch the lady’s action for a mo ment and you will understand why rail road companies do not like to give passes to ladies.” The conductor looked at the pass and handed it back to the owner, who, peeping out of the corners of her eyes was closely watching if the ladies in either side had noticed that she was riding free. Indeed they had. Curios osity, surprise,and a little trace of envy was plainly visible on the faces of each lady who sat nearest, while further along the seat and across the aisle some half-dozen other ladies were looking curiously and earnestly at the woman with the pass. She took it all in in a moment, enjoyed her triumph, and then said to her nearest neighbor, whose eyes were plainly saying; “Dear me, ain't that nice, now; tell me about it, won’t you?” “Its nice to have a pass ’. That opened the conversation. The ladies were strangers a moment before, but they were not strangers now, and they chatted away briskly, both talking at the same time, but understanding each other perfectly, until every wom an and at least two of the men in that car knew all about the annual pass and how its fortunate holder obtained it. The passenger official laughed as he jumped off the car with the reporter and said: “Do you wonder now that we don’t like to give the ladies passes in these desperate interstate commerce days?’’ —St Louis Republic. I'nselHsli. “Your husband borrows a great deal of trouble, it seems to me, Mrs. Blue.”' ‘ "Yes, but he is unselfish with it. He always gharea it tyiUi me, V, Vma, " NO. 6.