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Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, November 01, 1896, Image 9

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn86092523/1896-11-01/ed-1/seq-9/

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. lRe. by the Kachellcr Syndi- I
.1 March morn in? in Dutoh
jvtssersby noted with great
. •methlng was going on ut
v i p ace. The doors were open
iousehould furniture was
, - i . >,t the door on the scant
\ , •* of women with 6klrts
1 !.,! ••..Weis on their heads were
. ...-fly, coming and going
t •-••• ways like bees.
• r d the courage to pull
, .ut for the satisfaction of his
■ „ toward the road. "Why! how
u it s yoo, is it. SerryT
• Ye ;fs me -what t»- * o! me;
1 .. n here si ce i* o'clock 1 nt e- tm
th- h
Hark was bus * to Kmma.
the si. • i".
Sarah Cl “I ’• n't know ir.d care
1. .. if tr but I
I. you
k ow lk. H rk y. ti 1< ; though
,r w • ui>iri t melt in hi- mouth, but I
“Well, wo mu : be movin'. L spose
you'd move right in?"
y. . Just soon this thing's set
*m;kaki- : IT? - said a quick, jovial voiced
■‘U 1 me down.
a heavy, good-n. a: i wo
• hat n asoii her unci* had
>u.se, which was large and
A.-> she stood look.' g down
of . t,rls came out to
• v .us u plump. strong creat
girl v. no had voiunteor
' s going the other
she cduld carry the
c. but all the morn
mderful power of
i risen incredibly
t the south and
ir of Ice in the
was like winter
the land. The
";.l cows shook
I attempts to
vth the year nls
v- tore th> wute. it :r lhd
it musieni. tiiikl ug :rgie, -id
•f ducks II.U In . t.\. . < kling
!y as tiie.- uarted ; raij.. t into
u.ids! of this stood the hou . >,
nd cold, out of wld i it- qwti«t
' carried to a bed in the cold,
i; clay uf the little burying-grouud.
- and Sarah worked swiftly,
c auiug, setting a -ale, giving
lit to even the beauty of the
• tin h entered their biooa uncou
t it?” said a quick, jovial
e screams of affected
! You nearly scared the
was -mall, alert and
w et\- to scaring
i “Well, w ho s here?’*
• ; us and J .ck. my hired
• - a not ding o’ Hurkey?”
in -vat word he'd be oa
T*:i look around a lit
. round and kind o’ get things
i ' Vi id the lk aeon, tak
nr ».J , public functionary.
W li 1 ve everything ready
returned to work. dusting and
Tin uir . stroru and hand
in->c.pped animal vigor, en
tt'-e Innocent dt play of their bare
'■d in their banter with each other
-ih into the buck-ground as an
nd infrequvut Incident in old
tin stud! 1 the read down the
t! r* ' T s* .at- ■ n coming up the
1 iitt 1 wonder if it's Km my.”
c, ' < :jk« rally Gray's team.”
"i • • go s looking slyly at Sar
* -vito . re w very red.
- you’re too sharp. Dade Walker.”
v i- ^ Gray was Sarah s suitor, and it was 1
Perfectly ridicilous to the young people,
to si c these middle-aged lovers courting
like slxtc*>n-year-olds. They were merci
less In their attack on Sarah.
Bill drove up in his leisurely way, the
horses steaming, the wheels leaded with
mud. Mrs. Gray was with him, her jolly
face shining like the morning sun.
“Hello folks, are you all here?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Gray,” said the
Deacon, approaching to help her out.
"Hello. Bill, nice morning.”
Bill looked at Sarah for a moment. "Bul
ly good,” he said, leaving his mother to
scramble down the wagon-wheel alone—
at least so far as he was concerned, but
the Deacon stood below courageously.
Mrs. Gray cried out in her loud good hu
mor. "Look out Deacon, don't get too near
me—if 1 should fall on yeh there wouldn't
be a grease spot left. There! I'm all
right now,” she said, having reached
ground without accident. She shook her
dress and looked briskly around. 'Wal!
What you done any way? Emmy's folks
come yet?”
"No, but I guess that’s them cornin' now.
I hos>e Ike won't come, though."
Mrs. Gray started at the Deacon; "Why
' Well, he's just sure to make a fuss.”
> id Jack: “he s so afraid he won't get
his share.”
BUI chewed on a straw and looked at
Sarah abstractedly.
"Well, what s t' be done?” Inquired Mrs.
Gray after a pause.
"Can't do much till Emmy gets here.”
said Surah.
“Oh, 1 guess we can. Bill, put out y'r
team, we won't get away 'fore dinner.”
The men drove off to the barn, leaving
the women to pick their way on chips and
strips of board laid in the mud. on the
safety of the chip-pile, and thence to the
k;- hen. which was dump, and desolately
littered with utensils.
Deacon assumed command with the
same alertuess, and with the same sunny
«!• am In his eyes, with which he dii
ed the funeral a few days before.
\'>w. Hill, you git them harrows out
and uncover the mower, and Jack and I
v II pen them hogs. Women folks 'll git |
things out o' the house.”
Emma came at last, driven by Harkey's
brother and his iiirvd man. They were
both bruwney fellows, rude and irritable,
and the ' •. lifted hu* eyebrows and
whistled when lie saw them drive in with
the lumber wagon.
The women swarmed to the wagon to
greet Emma, who was a thin. Irritable,
feeble woman.
"Hett- r late than never. Where’s Ike?”
inquired Mrs. Gray.
"W*dl, he—couldn't get away very well
—he's got t' clean tip some seed-oats,” she \
answered nervously. After the men drove
off. however, she added, "He thought he
hadn't ought to come, he didn't want to i
cause no uigewise feelin's, so he thought
he hadn't better come—he'd just leave it
to you. Deacon.”
The Deacon said: “All right, all right!
We'll fix it up!” but he didn't feel so sure
of it after all. though he set to work
The sun. growing warmer, fell with
pi-.txint gleam around the kitchen door,
• 1 around the chip-pile where the hens
■ w. re burrowing. The men worked in their
! shirt sleeves.
"Well, now, we’ll share tho furniture
stuff tirst,” said the Deacon, looking
■ • 1 upon his little interested semi-cir
e •' "f sih-< tutors. “Now, i>ut Emmy’s
t : over there and Sorrv's things over
l>ei i. i n van- , m and, if thoy's no ob
J* ■ • n. you girls can pass 'cm over.
He et. tr.-d his throat and began in tho
voice of one in authority.
Thin. puns, six to Emmy, seven to
Serr> ." th.n hastened to add. "I’ll bai
' s;vi:i-_, the biggest of the two
kit: • - to Emmy, Rollin' pin and cake
beard to Surry, two t'ut-irons to Emmy,
small tub to Emmy, large one to Sorry,
1 ;eiod by the tin water pail. Dozen
! elo'es plus. Half an' half, fi 0'1 to. half
j do/.i i t’other, he said with a smile at his
\ own joke, while the others actively placed
the articles in separate piles.
"Stove to Serry, because she has Hie
house, bureau to Emmy.”
At this point Mrs. Gray said, *‘I guess
that ain't quite even Deacon, the bureau
ain’t worth much.”
"Oh. no, no. that's all right! Let her
have It. Emma protested nervously.
"Give tur an extra tick, anyway.” said
Sarah, not to be outdone in magnanimity.
“Settle that between ye‘.”
The Deacon warmed up to his worn now.
ar ! towels, pans, crockery, brooms, mir
ws and bedtlcks were rapidly set
aside in the two groups of unmitigated
stuff on the soft soil. The poverty of the
home could be best seen in the display of
its pitiful furniture.
The two nieces looked on lmpnssivelv
standing side by side. The men came to
mow the bureau and other heavy tilings
and looked on. while the lieb’er things
were being handed by Mrs. Gray and the
At noon they sat down in tha empty}
kitchen ami ate a cold snack—at least, the
women took seats the mei stood around
and lunched on hunks of boiled beef ami
slices of bread. There was an air of con
straint upon the male portion of the party
not shared by Mrs. Gray and the girls.
“Well, that settles things in the house,”
the women trailing behind him, “an' now
in about two jerks of a dead >amb's tail,
we'll git at the things out in the barn."
“Wall, we don’t know much about ma
chines and tilings, but I guess we'd bet
ter go out ami keep you men from fight
in'." said Mrs. Gray, shaking with fun:
“Ike didn't come because he dtdn t want to
make any trouble, but I guess he might
just as well ‘a’ come as send two such
criters as Jim 'n Hank.”
Tho women laughed at her frankness,
and in very good humo; they all went out
to the barn yard.
“Now these things can't be laid out fast
as I call ’em off, but we'll do the best
wo can.”
"liet’s try the stawk first,” said Jim.
The women stood amund with shawls
/' -
pinned over their heaus while the *.!ivis
ion of the stoi'k wont forward. l'>o >oung
men came often within dialling distance
of the girls.
There were nine shotes nearly of a size,
and the Deacon said, “I’ll give Sorry the
odd shote.”
“W'liy so?” asked Jim Harkey, a sullen
faced man of thirty.
“Decause a shote is hard to carry oiT and
1 can balance-”
“Well.I guess you can balance f'r Emma
’bout as well as f’r Sorry-"
The Deacon was willing to yield a point.
“Any objection, i’-ili.’ '• not. why
“Nope, let her go," said Bill.
“What 'ave you got to say 'bout it?”
asked Jim insolently.
I’.ill turned his slow bulk. "I gu< >s I've
a good ’cal to say—ain’t I. Sorry?"
b.irah reddened, but stood beside him
bravely. "1 guess you have. Bill, about as
much as I have.” There was a moment of
dramatic tension and the girls tingled with
I.ct ’or go.” said Bill, splitting a straw
with his knife. He had not proposed to
Sa rn h before and lie felt an unusual ex
When it came to the cattlo, Jim objected
to striking a balance with a farrer cow,
and threw the Deacon's nice calculation
all out of joint.
“l.et it go. Jim,” pleaded Emma.
“1 won't do it! Ike said—I mean I know
he don't want no farrer cow, he's got two
The Deacon was a little nettled. “I
pess that's going t' stand,” he said sharp
Jim swore a little and gave it up. but
came back with an access of ill-humor on
a division of the horses.
••Bui I’ve give you the four heavy hor
ses to balance the four others and the two
year-old,” said the Deacon.
“I'll be-if I stand that.” said Jim.
“I guess you'll have to,” said tho Dea
Emma pleaded, “Let It go, Jim; don t
make a fuss.”
Jim raged on, 'Til be cawn-demraed if
I'll stand it. 1 don't—Ike, don't want
them spavined old crows; they re all ring
boned and got the heaves.” Ilis long re
pressed ill nature broke out.
"Toh, toll!" said the Deacon. “Don't
kick over the traces now. We'll lix it up
some way.”
Ernma tried to stop Jim, but he shook
her oft and continued to walk back and*
forth behind-the horses who munched on
quietly, unconscious o? any dispute about
their value.
Bill sat on the oak box in his hulking
way. his heels thumping a tune, his small
grey eyes watching tne angry man.
"Don’t make a darned fool of yourself,
ie said placidly.
Jim turned, glad of the chance for a
ow. "You better keep out of this.”
Bill thumped on, the palms of his big
lands resting on the edge of the box.
I'm in it." he said conclusively.
“Well, you git out of it! I aln t goin
o be bulldozed—that ain't what I como
iere for.”
-No I see it ain’t," said Bill. “If you re
ftcr a row you can have it right here,
-ou won’t find a better place.”
“There, there." urged the Deacon.
'What's the use. Keep cool and don t
car vour shirts."
Mrs. Grady went up to Jim and took him
v the arm. "You need a good spankin’ to
'ke you good-natured." she said. I
Mnk the Deacon has done lirst rate and
y°^et po o' me.” he snarled, raising his
hand as if to strike her.
rnrs big foot lunged out catching Har
®. the ribs, and if the Deacon had not
k° 11 hi* assistance Jim would have
•» !*•'•« w 8oarf?
vb?r*e under whose feet he found himself.
Ho was wild with dizzy, breathless rage.
••Who hit me?” he demanded.
eV t,Hdess hulk straightened up
stoo In'side him as if his flesh had
^nedTuddenly to oak. Out of his fat
cheeks his grey eyes glared.
• I did. Want another?
The Deacon and Jake came between and
nrTvented the encounter which would hate
ItKtelv followed. Bill went on.
,m^y cL„'t no mon Tny hnnd on my
mother and live long after it. He W3S
thoroughly awake now ™ere^ ™
slouch to his action, and J.m wassecrotiy
d!eased to have the encounter go by.
sriS'SE »*•* .0 ^ .no
square thing, and Serry’s kep' quiet, but
| you’ve been sour and ugly the whole time,
and now it’s goln’ to stop.”
“This hain’t the last o£ this thing,” said
"You never’ll have a better time,” said
Mrs. Gray and the Deacon turned in now
to quiet Bill, and the settlement went on.
Jim kept close watch on the proceedings
and muttered his dissent to his friends,
but was careful not to provoke BUI fur
In dividing the harness they came upon
a cow bell hanging on a naiL Tho Dea
con jingled it as ho passed. “Goes with
the bell cow,” he said, and nothing fur.
ther was said of it. Jim apparently did
not consider It worth quarrolling about.
At last the work was done, a terribly
hard day's work. The machines and uten
sils were plied In separate places, the cat
tle separated and the grain measured. As
they wore about to leave, tho Deacon said
"Now. if there's rfny complaint to make.
I let’s have it ripht now. T want this set
tlemont to ho a settlement. Is everybody
‘•I am,” said Emmy. “Ain’t you. Sorry?”
• Why, of course,” said Sorry, who was
a littlo slower of speech. “I thinls the
Deacon has done first, rate, 1 ain t a woid
of fault to find, have you. Bill?”
“Xope, not an loty,” said Bill readily.
jlm did not an roe in so many words, but,
as hi* said nothin-t. the Deacon ended.
“Wi ll, that settles it. It ain’t poin’ to
■ rain, so you ear ’ avr those thinps riph,
hero till Monday. 1 press I’ll he peltin’
out for homo, fiood-oveninp. everybody.
Emma drove ; s-iy dov n the road with
Jim. htsi S •.mb remained to straighten up
th hou . H rk< s hirded band wot t
home with Dade Walker who considered
that walk the pleasant finish to a very
lnt< res day s work. She sympathized
. for the time with the Karkey faction.
Sundry forenoon, when Bill and Sarah
drove up to th«' farm to put thinps in or
der in the house, they found Ike iiarkoy
; walking around with that queer udo
i glance he had. studying the piles of fur
: niture and mentally weighing the pigs.
lie greeted them smoothly. •'Ye;;, yes.
I’m purrilckly satisfied, purrflckly! Not a
word to say—better’ll 1 expected,’’ tie add
Hill was not quite keen enough to per
ceive the insult which lay in (hat tinal
clause, and Sarah dared no*, .nform him
for fear of trouble.
As Ilarkey drove away, however. ]*;:i
had a dim feeling of dissatisfaction with
{ him.
“He’s too gol-dang polite, that feller is;
| I don’t like such butter-mouth chaps—
they'd steal the cents offn a dead nig
ger’s eyes.”
The second Sunday after the partition
of goods tiie entire Ooule’ turned out to
church in spite of the muddy road. The
men, after driving up to the door of the
little white church and helping the women
to alight, drove out to the sheds along the
fence and gathered in knots beside their
wagons in the warm spring sun. It was
very pleasant there and the men leaned
with relaxed muscles upon the wagons, or
sat on tlie fence with jack-knives in hand.
The horses slept with closed eyes and
drooping lips. Generally tho talk was
upon seeding, each man bragging of tho
number of acres ho had sown during the
week, but this morning the talk was all
about the division which had come be
tween the nieces of “deceased Williams.”
They discussed It largely as one might eat
a choice pudding in order to extract the
llavor from each spoonful.
"What Is it all about, any how?” asked
Jim Granby. “I ain't heard nothing about
It." He had stood m open-mouthed per
plexity trying to catch a clue. Coming
late he found it baffling.
“That shows where he lives; a man
might as well live in a well as up there,”
said one of the younger men, pointing up
to the Coule'. “Why, Ike Ilarkey is kick
ing about the six shotes the Deacon put
off on him.”
“N'o. it wasn't the shotes. it was a far
rer cow.” put in Clint Stone.
“Well. I heard It was a shote.”
“So did I." said another.
“Well, I heard Biii Gray said Ike had
stole a cow bell that belonged to the black
farrer cow.” said another late comer.
“Stole a cow bell.” and they all drew
closer together. This was really worth
while. . .
“Yes sir: Jinks told me he heard Rill
say so yesterday. That's tho way I heard
t“Weil I'll be cussed, if that ain’t small
business for Ike Ilarkey.
‘ How did it happen?” asked Granby wltn
sharpened appetite.
“Well# I didn’t hear no particulars, but
it seems the bell was hangin* on a peg In
the barn, and when they got home from
church It was gone hide and hair. Bill is
dead sure Ike took it.”
“Say, there’ll be fun over that yet,
won't they?” said one of the fellow’s with
a gTin.
“Well, Ike better keep out of Bill’s way,
that’s all.”
"Well. I ain’t takin’ sides. Some young
’un may have took it.”
“Well, let’s go in boys. I see the el
der’s come. By gum, there’s Harkey.”
They all looked to-ward Harkey, who had
just driven out with his team.
Harkey came into the church, holding
his smooth, serious face a little one sjde,
in his usual way, quiet and dignified as if
he were living up to his Sunday suit of
clothes. He seemed to be conscious of the
attitude in which he stood toward most of
his neighbors.
Bill and Sarah were not present and
that gave additional colot- to the story of
trouble between the sisters.
After the sermon Deacon Harkey led
the Sunday school, and the critics of his
action were more than usually impressed
with Ills smooth and quiet utterance.
Emma seemed more than ordinarily worn
and dispirited.
(To be continued.)
According to Bab, Some Are Fearfully
i'Tom uur itPffUiar < orresponaeiu.
New York, October 29.—II came about
through a letter, at. least through the
signature at the oml of a letter. After
telling me, on four pages of rose-colored
paper, carefully lined with pale blue,
exactly the style of beauty possessed by ,
the, writer and her great grief, which
she felt a trtio Indy could understand,
because of some tiny spots that came on
her nose and its inclination to get red
and to swell, she asked ray advice, and
ended up by being “Mine very lovingly,
Maymye Opal Jones.” I grasped tho
"Jones,” and I did not struggle with
the "Opa!,” but I looted a long time at
tiie “Maymye” beforo i realized that it
was j» new way of spelling “Mamie.”
To what base usts may we come at last!
Fancy anybody starting with a beautiful
Hebrew name of “Mary,” which, pro
| tnounced correctly, is the loveliest name
; in the world* and degenerating into
“MaymyeAbout “Mollie” there is
something whole-souled and affection
ate;you tliinkof '■Mollie” with a dimple
' in her chin and with blue cye3 and blond
hair, v i <• hi fori-a woman i an
Mary for permitting herself to be called
Molly by those she. loves and while she
is young. 1 can even understand a girl
| allowing herseiP to be called Mamie,
i which i's, of comae, the French for "My
! Soul,* but what sore of a girl is It who
I signs herself "Maymye Opal Jones? ’!
j Not itr baptb tn, I am suro. The future,
of “Maymye Op.il Jon».->” is the variety
stage; that name must appear on a pro-;
gramme, and i;s wearer will sing i:i a
husky voice those knowing ballads I
i -'j nr© •light of a certain, kind
of music hall.
It’s curious how seme people rise su
perior to their names, while others are j
absolutely crushed under them. To
my way of thinking, there ore no
names so beautiful as those taken from j
the Bible. There is dignity and wo- j
manliness in Miriam, Lean, aalome, i
Rachel. Ruth, Deborah, Elizabeth and
Magdalen; but when you call Sarah j
“Sadie.” when Rachel is lowered into;
one syllable, when any of them are do-;
graded into nick name?. I e.in imagine j
t;>o old prophets arising and calling
down all sorts of bad fortune on the fool
j i.'ii women. It is said that Mr. Penny- i
con is responsible for the influx of Saxon
iititne3 tbti', came to us at one time.
Mind. Mabel, Gwendoline, Eieanore, j
: Ethelind, and ever so many others that j
! were as dignified as they were sweet- j
I sounding. For mysrlf. 1 like a name i
| with a meaning—Constance, which toils
i jt., wrory of faithfulness at once: Aina-j
i be!, from which Mabel comes, and which ;
is after all only a twisting around of the
word “amiable;” then.there is Penelope,
•i weav r; Susanne, fl lily; Hilary, a
cheerful spirit; Emma, a gem; Angelina,
u little angel; Beatrice, a blessing; Ada,
a princess, and Agatha, gracious.
There are hundreds of others, and each
one tells its own story.
Did you ever trouble yourself to follow
a name through the different languages?
T k > the name Rose, which is of Latin
birth, and means, of course, the queen
of flowers: in Italian, it becomes Rosa
bella, which means a fair rose; in
French, it is Rosalie, which means rosy;
and in German It is Rosamond, which
means rosy lip3. Now, there would be
some sense in a grandmother named
Rose, with granddaughters each having
the name in its pretty changes. Vis
iting in the Highlands once, I met a.
small girl who was named Vida^ and
until she educated me I never realized
how ignorant I was. Eager to m?ike
e talk, I asked her for whom she was
■named; she said, after her father, for
his name was David; tcid. it was only
when a lit *le search had been made that
I disco\ ered that, in the Galic. Vida is
Vhe feminine of David. Speaking of
names influenein 'J people,the most abom
;nable gossip 1 ever knew was called by
tier intimate friends “Angie.” Curios
ity prompted me to ask her her full
name; she told mo it was Evangeline,
and, of course, that means the hringer
of good tidings! Query: Had she de
praved the name, or had the same in
fluenced her?
Who, that ever read David copper
field,” could think of
as anything else but meek, foolish, in
deed, absolutely silly, though entirely
lovable? And who that ever read
“Middlemarch” could think of a woman
named •‘Dorothea,’’ except as one eager
to do right, eager for wisdom, and yet
with heart and brain battling against
each other? Could Becky Sharp been
called by any other name? When you
say “Becky." don’t you seem to hear
the sound of gold, and don’t you think
simply of the good things of this world
and how they are to be gained? And
doesn’t Amelia sound like buttered
toast? Soft and adapted to any diges
tion. It seems to me that the people
who name us have much to answer for.
There is the body who is slender of
build, weak of mind, vain and inclined
to be talkative, weighted down by Reg
inald or Oliver, or even Hector. Any
clerk in a haberdasher shop could down
him. There are men who, all their
lives long, are known by initials, be
cause they realize the folly of having
been given a fashionable name. I raci
er like the Southern fashion of giving
to the oldest daughter her mother’s j
maiden name; it doesn't imbue her with
any masculine instincts, and it seems,!
in a pretty way, to make her cling U>
the girlhood of the past.
A hunt through a dictionary of names
has proven to me that Barbara means
“a foreigner” or somebody who is
strange; I don't believe in that diction
I have heard people say that Barbara
reminded them of unripe persimmons,
but they were people who didn’t like
somebody named Barbara. I like the
name ouite as well as If my godfather's
had asked my advice beforo bestowing
it upon me. By-the-bye, its funny hov:
litMe the average godfather thinks of
his duties: a silver mug, a case con
taining a knife and fork and spoon,
either of silver or silver gilt, and be
hold! the gentleman who has promised
to stand between you and the devil
thinks he has done all that is necessary.
I wonder if he expects you to prod all
emissaries of his Satanic Majesty with
your fork? Perhaps he concludes that
his duty is done in offering you the
weapon necessary for conflict and that
he is not required to stand by you as
an active second. It would seem to
mo that a godfather or mother. If he
thought about it ut all, promised a good
many things, and that it is a position
that Is roally of great importance.
But there! Have you any doubt of
It may be that he is not known In the
flesh, to whatever ologlsts would natur
ally hunt him up. but It is very certain
tl^'t commercially, he has an existence.
A piece of him, his skin, made into a
bag mounted in silver gilt, was offered
to me by a talkative salesman for the
moderate 9um of twenty-five dollars. I (
asked the glib young man who exhibit
ed- this bag if he was sure that it was
made of sea-serpant’s skin, and he said
he was Just as sure as if be had skinned
the serpent himself by the sad sea
waves. The leather looked like ordi
nary snake, skin, but as truth-tellers
alone are hehlud counters, I gazed with
admiration at the piece of the sea-ser
pent, so degraded, although I did not
purchase him. My reason was that I
thought if I waited long enough (he
same young rann would show me a bag
made of the skiu of a mermaid, aud*
that would bo. something rather unique.
The unique rules in all the small be
longings. Jewelers are showing, as tho
latest in cuff links—that is, the r/mdon:
jewelers, for 1 don’t believe th°se links
have reached New York yet—what ara
known ns tho
1 They are oval, ami on them is enam
the easy ways by which frt follow I
the rake's progress. Cn on© link 13 a
champagne bottle, opposite It la a ballet
girl. The ether pair shows on one sido
a court, card, and on the other the h^sil
of a horse*. So you have offered to yod,
in a picturesque way, win*, women, hor
des and cards. Any one of them is cal
culated, if enough Is taken, to ruin the
average man. but all four of them, in
dulged In to eveess, meons quick rain.
1 wonder if ‘he cuff links will teach any
body a lesson? I am afraid not. The
ITdtiigal Son is usually so well satisfied
with himself that lie thinks ho could
learn nothing.
By the by. the advanced woman who
wants to ride a- horse or her bicycle in
man fashion, doesn't realize that h r di
vided skirt, about which she likes to
talk, is almost as oM as the hills.
As far back as 1381>. the devantlere,
which is in reality the divided skirl,
was worn by the women of the Court
o fFranc\ to whom the side-saddle, un
til it was introduced by Catherine do
.Medici, was unknown. Many JadiQA
til 1 not care to^fbar trousers, and so the
divide L skirt was arranged for them.
S. ver it fur-tr'mmcd devantiprerr am
found in the wardrobe list of Isabel of
Bavaria, the wife of Charles VI. I tell
you them Is absolutely nothing new',
in those da vs of long ago men might not
have cultivat- & tlieir brains quite os
mUch from the book standpoint as they
do now; but how shey dij know ;>u
;i illy! What diplomats they were!
How they grew to read tho meaning of
• MI^h, i,f a smile, of a frown, and how
th* y colli 1 talk and never fliu-h. while
they handled, a poisoned sweetmeat', or
realized that an assassin* was waiting
in the corridor to kill thonf. Those were
the days when men bad to keep their
wits about them and sharpened by use.
The man of to-dav, who understands
many Dnguages, who count* hlmse.t
very wise, laughs at the courtier who
played with a cup and ball; but he lit
tle knows how the man’s mind wa*
working as ho tossed the ebony ball up
and strived to catch It as It fell. The
game may have seemed a child s play,
but life in those days needed not on.y
the. trained mind, the wits ever on the
alert, hut they needed a perfect knowl
edge of _
THE ART QI< DU i<' >•
atul to-duy diplomacy la almost an un
known art. Some one said it died out with
Benjamin Disraeli. Thera Is not half as
much In knowing people and their minds,
for the hook is always the same, but the
people change from day to day anil he
whom vou thought you understood yester
day may he a wonderful puzzle to you to
day’ And lhe great book of the world nev
er fails to interest that reader who takes
the time to study It. The whys and tho
wherefores, the everlasting cluuiges. the
fall of the eurtln when sleep domes, and
.. t-. rfuintv that you r< vttreau count on
the climax being reached until death ap
^.,r m.Ke ll a book that demands a
wondrous knowledge in reading. There
must be an appreciation of Influences. an
understanding of the emotions, a compre
hension of the physical, mental and spir
itual side, before you can understand even
the least of humanity.
You think you ha*e no trouble In under
standing "Maymye Opal Jones." That de
pends. If she continues, ns her name has
marked her out. she will b« as easily read
the alphabet, but across her path there
may come something that will influence
her strongly. She may be taken away
from the people who have ™ade her life
what it is and she may surprise the bear
er of a greater name by a heretofore hid
den keenness of wit, and. growing more
ambitious - very day. learning from the
world every day. she may suddenly to
come "Wary Jones" and Influence the
Czar of all the Russia*, or be the power
behind the throne in India, in England, in
Germany or in France. .Nothing to Im
possible when one is a woman. V, omen
have made history. Tho I-ranchman*
advice. "Chercbez la fernmo, la Just as
true when you ara seeking the answer to
a riddle to-day as It was In the Garden of
Fden The woman la behind the throne,
behind the book, behind the music, behind
the pa behind the song. Always
she Is the influence. Sometimes, too often,
she la an undesirable one. Sometimes,
very often, she Is an extremely good ouo.
But she is always there, and even behind
this pen, a big. coarse ouill one. as cer
tain as you are you, ia a woman—U
1 "A cable could be constructed for as© to
telephoning: across the Atlantic)**' re
marked F. A. Pickernoll, chlefi engineer
In charge- of the long distance telepbona
construction depa remen t ot the American
^Telegraph and Telephone Company, “but
all tbe ships of the I^rUiala Navy would
not hh able to carry it. It 'Would be as
big round aa a hogshead, and tht> ilnaaclaJ
resources of any three of the greafc Pou
ers would be taxed to their utmo&t to paj
for It. And if it were raid the cost of
ing it would discount Its utility. Th^cost
of ono minute’s conversation over such u
submarine system would be close to *S0.“
Mr. Plckernell discussing the feas
i lbDlty of submarine telephony, sud his
remark above quoted vas lu reply to a
question as to the probaMo utility of the
report^ iuvention of a Russian electric
ian, M» Klldlschewsky by name, who, as
reported by cablo from Odessa, has m d<
an Improvement In the telephone by w hlc!;
I "distance has no effect upon the here ring."
whatever that may mean. The Inference
is. according to the experts, that the Rus
sian with a name which mpst Americans
are shy of pronouncing, has Invented
what he considers an improve (ktr >.nsmlt
ter. Tho cablo dispat* h went on u» an
nounce that In an exp< rimental test, made
between Moscow an 1 Restcff, a distance of
SHO'mllcs, talking ami mu.de, bo.th Instru
mental and vocal, wore hoard with per
fect distinctness, and for the purpose of
the experiment an ordinary telegraph wire
was used.
In this there Is nothing unusual, as ex
pert electricians agr*in fact it is only
an episode In Lho development of the tel
ephone on tho other sldo of tho ocean,
which Is almost ancient history on this
side of tho water, whero tho telephone of
long distance pattern is In dally use for
commercial purpose* from boston to
Memphis, a distance of 1,M0 miles. This
Is tho longest circuit In use In America.
But there are conn* Lons running over
1,000 miles between Boston and Chicago,
und the long distance lines from New York
to Chicago, and from this city to St. Louis
and to Cincinnati simply multiply the fac
tors contributing to American supremacy
In electric science.
Another point fn this connection was
brought out in course of a conversation
with Herbert Laws Webb, an expert elec
trician, and for nine ’.ears connected with
the submarine cable service. The ditlleul
ties in tho way, Mr. W* bb remarked, are
not In the apparatus as it stands to-day,
but they fire Inher. • t in tin: submarine
cable itself. Telephone Jin-'^ar.* placed as
high in the air as p**., (Me, for burying
them In tho grout 1 destroys their con
ductive capacity tnu rially, because of
I tho Induction, whii* * m; .-s confusion
among tho electric wav* s in that conduct
and makes intellf_ri!(!o the sound waves
proceeding from the rpcaker through the
transmitter. The \ihr.itionfl become con
fusi-d and the. efl t is than of choking &
blur undoclph* tcblo noise at tho receiving
end of tho line.—N w York Tribune.
At high noon, a I rods {tCTdbs the wide
spread In:' pr iri< I halted at a squatter’s
eahlrt'nnd inqulr< '! of the man nit tin#? on
the doorstep if i roul<l get a bite to eat.
"1 don't skasy’y think you kin," ho re
plied as he looked me over.
'Til pay you for it.”
“u'it, i know; but that ain’t the quee
tion. Fustly, the olo woman ain't yere to
rook nothin’ and, secondly, nobody knows
jest wpo owns this claim."
"Isn't it yours?,, I asked.
"Wall, I sorter reckon to consider It
was, but ylsterday ;t feller cuius along
To jump md. Ho reckons to Con.-mcr that
he’s got the best rights.'r
"Theti It's a ease of law?”
"Oh, no. Thar’ won't ho no goln' to
law about it. No; neither one of Ub want
to go to law."'
"How will it bo derided?”
‘.‘Wall, ha was In a hurry yisterday and
didn't In v no gun along* but h« ’• * umh
t>ark to-day to h< v it out with me. That i
whj’ the ole woman has gone nu <y. if
he kin shoot mo outer tho khant
claim IS pool: if h* ran’t then I’m go in'
•to bury him r har’ In’ fell!”
“And you expect him to-day?”
"Till . 1 8
him down thar by the grove. If you want
to git into that I >lo out thar at l v tch
tlio scrimmage, f' itin r one of w v*.II el
Jeot.but you’d H»1 r keep yrr head down. ’
I thanked lifin kindly and rode on *• ho
was getting his rlllr and cartridges* Thrca
days later I returned that way, Unix as I
rode up he greeted rrnr with:
•’Wall, stranger, you kin hcv a bllo to
cat to-day.”
"Is your wife ljome?”
"ItlghJ to bOffi"* sail.”
1 "And how about tho claim?"
"I own her.”
"Yes he cum. but ho was a poor hot
That’s*Whar I plant* l him;
the hill. C«* do* ■ strai
and hcv a mark with us and feci yourself
to liorne!"
to an old rirn.
Old frienrl of night's musing,
Excuse my perusing,
You’re crusted* and thiHu '»
So -much that. I've sw-kem-. ,
or boding your ftuw m I < • *
When first time T met you,
I’ll never forget you;
Tied up “with ribbon <u - 'ue.
I kissed when I found :•
The *iJie wrapped wromid y
By dainties hand that I km*.
Our friendship ;h i •
Before we had ptred, ^
I blew the flr.-t ;hougn ? .n a cur
They were of y ur don
And not of your owur;
And>you colored just, Kko a g: •*
In gown I sat thinV imr
(And possibly dr'jki: A
Till dream in ; I
You spoiled a fa r vis.on.
And wrecked tr- • - on.
(By eoornfuliy burning my n
Another oern
J:i <!• ■;> a i
I'd really hav® publish- I my tov®.
If you hadn’t spoken.
When ki?s!''i b< ,,
“Whai a fur? about tin old g*ove.
For you threw in my eyo
A small cinder
That such thoughts were list wLh he
Again your confu. ion,
Broke up my delu-ion,
And stifled the words of my heart.
By meddling you ‘ taid m'',
And actually made mo
Defer my resblv® turn too late.
And urged me to use jou,
In fact to abuse you,
And sit long anA lat* & the Srale
Without Btrugg’e or si rife.
We have lived minus ft wife;
And Jealously you've held me far.
It seems to be fateful.
I’ll not prove ungraceful;
But smoke you as long as yon last
—Walter Lyttlo

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