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JAME:s 11KC.D BON, Prop'.
asiitaiuxa; 1 i OHIO. IN THE PLOWING. Catttf. the furrow, rut It oven, ,J'nrvt' the fin-row, brosd and clean; 'Neath the smiling snininor lieavon Turn tliu hcrbatfo (resu and groutl. Gee , my beauties, haw, my Ren ties, I'ntlent bend lMmuM.h the yoke; "lifm the violet's elr mantles Cut a bioud mid eveu stroke. Brown as pools n twilight meadows Are your eyes, my faithful Bright. Like the mnou I hroiiKli purple shadows Gleams your descent pure ami white. How ynur comrade, Dunk, In bending llows bin fulr and noble nnl, And fbe tlcwlups, low descending, Sweep the sinews of lila breast. And hi muscles swell In sloping-, As spring torrents rise mid flow, W hon they ceue their downward groping From a mountain aideol snow. Drop your fetlocks sink, my beauty, In tbe solt mill louiiiy will. All, you do onr honest duty. Yours Is good and Christian toll. And your ImMitli Is like to clover, When tbe di-w lies thick lit morn, Willi, I turn the turrnw ov,'r, Thinking ol lliu yield of cum. Or pcrrhnnco nf how she wandered liown tliH lime that sunny dav; And of bow 1 ilnshed and pond'orod, When she Joked iu accents gay. And, old nrlglit, she stroked your shoulder, 1'rniM'd our wott and gentle eyes, But you scsrcely did behold her, Gazing Willi bovine surprise. Bhe is betlrr tbnn the oxen. Fuller than the .iky or around; Though she Is u little vlen, Her young chock is red and round. And she seems tn flit before me, slockili-' when I tnin would speak; Anil ii lniiitne.-s stciircth o'er loe And my heiirl is woman-weak. How run men of bone nnd muscle l.oe their niiitihood neiir agirl? Ah ! It costs a tiiichty tussle To brcuk the lucslies ot a curl. Vet Nliomitrht lie tinned with lovlnff, Wildest colts arc broke to bund; These the thougnts my soul is proving As 1 stride across the land. All the dny I dream of kneeling; Would she spurn me from her patb, With a heightened color stealing, Kill me with a little laugh? Ah, the tongue so keen nnd tripping, Could 1 win it for a while, 1 would venture without slipping Thus to lutu her and beguile. I am slow, and sadly stammer. All my w ays sre country-bred ; And that city chap's line grammar tr-uru has turned her little head. How enn I endure It lontrer? lu my homespun 1 will go, And in words sincere. If stronger, All my licm-t to her I'll show. .Stand there, Bright, within the furrow While 1 venture on my luck ; etcudy, you must share mv sorrow 11 1 tail, my gentle Uuck.' Hnill we tread tbe path together, I me in heart, in taltli utihroke ; (lad in bj-iirht and stormy weather Mill to pull within onu yoke? O'er my labors of the roughest 1 have ui' cr whined nor cried, Bui this job it is the toughest 1'hut a plowman over tried. Aityusta .timed, tn X. Y. Evening Post. A CLEVER DOCTOR. Aiiout twenty years ago the Honor able and Reverend Edward Lambert, a clergyman of the Church of England, found that his health was growing in firm, a moral and physical languor seemed to take possession of him ; that English melancholy which comes, no one knows why or. wherefore, and he could not shake it off. Young, rich, handsome, eloquent, sure of preferment in the Church what was the matter with the Honorable and Reverend Ed ward Lambert P He did what all Englishmen do when other remedies fail he crossed the Channel. He thought he would seek the rays of the sun, that luminary, so scarce in England. Perhaps it was the sun that he needed. So one fine day he sailed for France, and soon found himself at Rouen, where he stayed for some days, taking every morning a walk around the Cathedral, carrying a volume of Dante under his arm. One afternoon he walked up the Mont St. Catherine, and seating himself on the grass gravely devoted himself to the Divine Comedy. He had scarcely lost himself in Dante's stately measure when a stranger approached and with the most perfect courtesy addressed him, asking if he were an Englishman, and, if so, if he would permit a few minutes' conversation. "I wish to perfect myself in your language," said the stranger, smiling, ' and 1 always sei.e every opportunity to talk to an Englishman.'' ".You already speak the language fluently," said Mr. Lambert, poutely; "sit down, Monsieur." Resting on the turf, with a glorious view before them, the two young men soon found themselves talking glibly of the news of the day, of Dante, of reli- fion, politics and the weather. Tbe renchman was very agreeable, well educated and up to the times on all points; he immediately told Mr. Lambert that he was a Doctor and practicing his profession at Rouen. It was natural that the young clergy man should speak to him of his own case, which he did freely, asking the Doctor's advice. The Doctor became extremely Inter ested, and, upon examining Mr. Lam bert's tongue and pulse, gave him a prescription. They walked together to Rouen, and Mr. Lambert then noticed that the Doc tor had a beautiful white dog, a point er, which gamboled around his master's heels. They separated as they reached the city, the Doctor to go and see his pa tients, the clergyman to seek an apotne cary, where he got his prescription pre pared. The next morning the Honorable and Reverend Mr. Lambert was better. The Doctor's prescription had made him sleep. It had given him strength, he felt an appetite for breakfast. Months of treatment in London at the hands of the best physicians had not done this for nun. He wished to thank and to remuner ate the Doctor, when he remembered that he did not know his name. Instinct told him, however, that he might meet him again on the Mont St. Catherine. So with renewed hope, health, energy,he walked again to the top of the hill. In five minutes he was joined by the. French Doctor and his dog, who came bounding along with his-pointer nose in the grass. The two men greeted each other with (miles, and shook hands cordially. " You have saved my life, Doctor," said Mr. Lambert, with unusual enthu siasm. " Mot at all, not at all, my dear friend," said the Doctor; "I only gave you a tonic, which al so made you sleep. I found out (what none of my English brethren in medicine seem to have found out) that you have nothing the matter with youl Your system needs a little jogging, that If all. Railroad travel, my dear friend, will soon set you up. Now I dare say you have been lea-ling a very easy and scnemary me; now, haven't your" " H is true, I haw." "Take my advloe, travel, ride day and night; take no medicine, excepting these simps, which I will giv you; seek adventure, lead a more varied ex istence, and lny friend you are all right!" Now came the delicate question ef money, and the Englishman felt for the proverbial guinea. He toooVnrcd it to the French Doctor, who laughingly pushed it away, with a very ft well-formed hand. 'Never never," said he; "for so slight a service, permit me to make my advice a return for ' a lesson In English conversation I ' " It was gracefully done, and the em barrassed Englishman put his gold back into his pocket. "Doctor," said he, in a low voice, hesitatingly, " I am an Englishman, and I hate to be under an obligation ; you have lifted a load off my heart, which has hung there for six months; you have made a new man of me. Now al low me to be of some service to you. I leave here by rail, at one o'clock to morrow morning, for l'aris ; until then I am at your service and forever after. Can I do anything for youP" Tho Doctor reflected a moment, and looked at his dog. "I don't know, indeed; and yet I do happen to think of one thing. You might save me a Journey to Paris, which, with my engagements, is just now in convenient. But it is asking too much, perhaps." "What how too muchP" said the clergyman. " Well, I have a number of sick peo ple under my charge, whom I treat for diseases of the bruin. One of these is a very rich woman, who is slightly de ranged. I hoped to have cured her. Unhappily she has determined to return to Paris, and I have no authoritv to de tain her. I perceive that she will frot until tins caprice is gratilictl. 1 must go with her to place her in charge of her friends, and I have been putting off from day to day, becauso I can not leave my other patients, the duty of taking her home. Now, if you would oscort her, it would be a real service," said the Doctor. " My dear sir, a crazy young woman, at one o'clock at night, and I a clergy man of tho Church of England," said Mr. Lambert, forgetting his late grati tude. " Oh, she is forty-six, my dear sir, and her mania is a very quietone. She looks and acts like a sheep, poor wom an, and she will scarcely speak to a stranger. I do not know that she will go with you. The hour is rather early one in the morning but still, I might ask her, and it will be a real favor to me." " Bring her along. Doctor!" said the clergyman, ashamed of his own reluct ance: " bring iior along a sheep and forty-six; I will take care of your pa tient to Paris!" Talking in this way they reached the gates of the city. Before separating, the Doctor gave his card to Mr. Lam bert. " Au revoir," said ho, " and perhaps adieu, my dear sir. Let me hear from you from time to time ; and I hope if we ever moot again, that you will retain, as I shall do, an agreeable recollection of our acquaintance. I may not see you again, as my friend may not be willing to go with you allien ! Mr. Lambert glanced at the Doctor's card, feeling anew the embarrassment of the possible night journey with an insane woman, and regretting his prom ise, in spito of his gratitude. He read on the card " Dr. de La Belle, rue Antoine ; No. Eleven." Mr T.Ambort. wnllraif thmimh tliA ma Antoine and stopped at No. Eleven. It was a large, bandsome bouse, with the Announcement in black letters on a brass plate, Doctcur de La Belle. On arriving at his hotel he asked the landlord if be knew of Dr. de La Belle. "I believe, sir," said the man, civilly, " that ho is the best physician in Rouen." At one o'clock In the morning Mr. Lambert waited with some anxiety in the depot the arrival of the train. Dr. de La Belle had not arrived. The English clerervman rubbed his hands with great satisfaction for he did not care for this particular responsibility wnen some one toucnea mm sugntiy on the shoulder. It was the Doctor. Seated on a bench was a lady in black, witb her veil tightly drawn over her face. " I have taken a coupe," said the Doctor, " so you will not be incommoded by other travelers. Here is Mademoi selle's purse, ticket, and little traveling satchel; perhaps she will need some thing. Have tho kindness to show her ticket to the oonduotor. I have tele graphed to Paris to her friends, who will meet her at the station. She is as quiet as a dove. Should you find her agitated, give her a drop of this essenoe on sugar ; here is the bottle. Monsieur Lambert, Mademoiselle!" He then helped along the invalid lady, and put her in the corner of the coupe. He then, after arranging her with great kindness, stepped out, held Mr. Lam bert by the hands and talked with French effnsion, as the officials hurried passengers out and in. "I trust you will have no trouble, adieu," said he, giving a Aral word of kindness to his fair patient, and arrang ing her footstool. " Oh, no! I dare sav not." said Mr. Lambert, bowing to the lady, and taking his seat by her side. " But what a powerful oaor tbere is in the coupi will it not disturb the ladvP" "Oh, no! I think not," said Dr. de La. Belle: " I broke a bottle of cologne, as I was helping her in. It will all dis appear in a lew moments." The train departed; and Mr. Lam bert, who felt exceedingly wide-awake, and who found Dr. de La Belle's co logne very strong, tried to draw his fair friend into conversation. She was sepa rated from him by a high basket of flowers, tbe Doctor's last attention. The poor insane woman would not answer a word, and from her immova able calm the Doctor concluded that she was asleep. When they arrived at Paris, he deter mined that she should speak. "Mademoiselle," said he, in aloud voice, "do awake and listen tome; I must leave you for a moment to go find your friends." He sought a long time but could not find anybody who wanted a lady from Rouen. He eame back to the carriage very discontentedly, when, to his intense as tonishment, he found a orowd around the compartment where the lady still sat. He went forward to see what was the cause of the excitement. "Are you the man who traveled from Rouen in this coupe P" said a policeman. "Yes." " Do you know that this lady is deadl You have poisoned her with prussic ild! Bhe has been dead four honral" and the popitlaoa groaned. The clergyman was speechless wlta horror. Hti tried to elear himself with all the earnestness of an innocent man, but bis story was a most Improbable one. The police found on bim the parse of the poor woman, and a bottls con taining pnistin aeidt It was the little bottle whir Dr. de La Belle had forced upon him in the train. Mr. Lambert, stunned, hah? dead, al lowed himself to be carried to prison without resist ones he was past that. A day later he said : " Take me to Rouen; I will unmask the villain ; he can never face me I" Two Sergeants de Ville, with other employees of the police in plain clothes, attended this dangerous criminal to Rouen in the railway, and drove to the house of Dr. de La belle. Mr. Lambert was sure that at the sight of his face the assassin Doctor would confess all. Dr. de La Belle was engaged at tbe moment, and kept them some time wait ing. When at last the police began to be troubled, the head Sergeant bade them be calm. " The house is guard ed," said he, "he can not escape." Presently there entered a calm, elderly gentloman, with spectacles, which he removed as he looked at them. " I beg pardon for keeping you wait ing," said he, " but did you want meP I am Dr. do La Belle." Mr. Lambert trembled from head to foot. An abyss opened before him, of which he could not see the bottom. This was not at all the man whom he hod met on Mont St. Catherine. " You are not Dr. do La Belle at all ! " said the unhappy man. " I think that I can prove thatl am," said the suave old Doctor, smiling. Alas! everything was against him. The English clergyman had fallen into the most terrible snare, laid by a most accomplished villain. They returned to Paris. " I wish I could meet him again with his white dog," said Mr. Lambert, throwing his hands in air. "White dog, did you sayP" asked the Sergeant de Ville. Some weeks passed, and the police became convinced that Mr. Lambert was innocent, but they were yet waiting for the real villain. Mr. Lambert was taken blindfolded, and in the night, to a house, he knew not in what stroet, where he, however, was well lodged, and where he wa9 al lowed to read and write, but was strictly watched. Shortly after his new Incarceration, a valet arrived with his clothes, and asked him respectfully to make his toi let. A Sergeant escorted him to a close carriage, and drove toward the Champs Elyscos. "Look at every body who passes," said he. Mr. Lambert looked at everybody, but saw nothing. The next day the Sergeant, elegantly dressed, came again, in an open oar ringo, and, by the side of the coachman, sat a white pointer dog. Mr. Lambert turned pale. " You have seen that dog beforeP" said the Sergeant. "It is tin dog," said Mr. Lambert. " Keep calm, and look about you," said the policeman. But they looked in vain. They saw no master for the dog. " On the night that crime was com mitted this dog was fonnd in Rouen, without a master," said the Sergeant de Ville. Later, the prisoner wns requested to make an evening toilet, and was es corted to a grand ball in a magnifi cent house in one of the best parts of Paris. " You are serving the ends of jus tice," said the Sergeant, to him. "Be patient and observe the guests." He was presented to the lady of the house, who received him very gracious ly, and who introduced him to her young daughter. He talked with her and looked at the guests, but saw noth ing. Another week passed. He went to another ball, in the same company ; his young host, Monsieur de F., seated him self beside him, and drew carelessly be fore them the curtains of a large win dow, which filled half the room. It was not not long before Mr. Lam bert heard the well known voice of the Sergeant of Police (who, in the most ir reproachable of black coats and white ties, looked like a Conde or a Mont morenci) talking to a gentleman near him, of hunting. " It is a long time since I have fol lowed the hounds," answered the gen tleman. Mr. Lambert darted from his seat. " It is he ! " said he. " It is Dr. de La Belle." "Be silont," said Monsieur de F., " be silent," and he held him iu his seat by main force. In a moment they were rejoined by the Sergeant de Ville. " I have heard bim! it is his voice," said Mr. Lambert, trembling all over. " Perhaps we are still wrong," said that imperturbable individual: " Stay here without moving. I will draw the curtain; look at every one who enters with a lady on his arm ; when the sus pected passes, press my arruyvithout a word." " Is it Monsieur de BocageP" asked the host, in a low voice of the oflioer. " Probably," said the policeman ; " he was the lover of the unfortunate Blanche Villiers." At this moment poor Lambert, peep ing from behind the curtain, saw the well-known smiling face and jaunty figure of the Doctor of Rouen pass, with a young lady on his arm. He gripped the arm of the officer. "It is he," said he, ehoking. The Ser geant de Ville drew the curtain quick ly. " The chain is complete," said he ; " we only wait for the clog. Mr. Lam bert, your imprisonment will be short. One visit more, and you are free!" The next day a close carriage with the white pointer tied under the seat, called for Mr. Lambert. " I shall conduct you to his door, but you must enter alone," said the friendly Sergeant. " You are not afraid P" 'Afraid!" said the Englishman. "I only desire to kill him." " No, no personal violence, please. You would spoil a very pretty job I" said the officer. "Coachman, drive to the house of Monsieur de Bocage, Ave nue Josephine." When Mr. Lambert, pale as death, rang the bell of the inner door, M. de Booage, a Parisian swell, just putting on his gloves, opened it himself. He started back, horrified, but soon composed himself. "You wish to see me, sirP" said he. "Yes, you wretched murderer!" said the Honorable and Reverend Lambert. " I do wish to see you .'" ' Monsieur de Booage retreated several steps. "You are mad," said he. "I have come to unmask you, villain ! " "You are deceived, my brave gentle man," said M. de Bocage, and reaching behind him he caught up a pistol and discharged It full in the face of the Englishman. At this noise, and the fall of the clergyman, wh- was stunned and blind ed for a moment, the two Sergeants and several pulieamsn entered the room, accompanied by a white pointer, who leaped up and caressed Monsieur de Bocage. "Down, Thanor, down!" said the murderer, forgetting himself. "The chain is complete," said the Sergeant, Joyfully. " Monsieur de Bocage, alias Dr. de La Belle, you stand charged with the mur der of Mademoiselle Blanche Villiers, in a coupe of the railwav, which lft Itouen at one o'clock at nigliton the l.'lth Inst., a crime which you sought to allix to this gentleman. (Throw a pitcher of water in bis face ; the pistol ball was drawn this morning, whilst Monsieur de Booage took his chocolate ha is not hnrt.)" So saying, the Sergeant revived the Englishman, and took Monsieur de Bocage from hie luxurious chamber, to ward twenty years of the galleys. The wretch looked back. " It was you, Thanor, after all," said he, carousing the white pointer. " Yes," said tho Sergeant, encour agingly. " Had you but remembered to give the poor thing a pill of strych nine!" The Honorable and Reverend Mr. Lambert returned home much better. Ho had certainly taken the advice of his unknown medical adviser, and hail va ried his usual life considerably. He never traveled in a coupe at night again with veiled ladies, nor did he ever quite get over the horror of having ridden from Rouen to Paris with a corpse. He had tho curiosity to take the Doc tor's prescription to an apothecary in London, who analyzed it. " A powerful stimulant, sir," said he ; "we should not recommend you to use It very frequently. Still, in extreme canes of depression, it might bo well." Mr. Lambert never lost his admiration of the French police. They were, he thought, a very accomplished set of ac tors. TransItiUd from the French for the Boston Traveller. How to be Weatherwise. John H. Tick, tho weather prophet of St. Ixiuis, gives the following direc tions to those who aspire to be weather wise : As everybody is interested in tho weathor so each one should qualify him self or herself to read the sky, and to interpret tho meaning of the winds, sky and clouds. An intensely blue and serene sky In dicates heavy rains and severe storms in from twelve to forty-eight hours. A gray, hazy sky indicates a continuous dry and generally hot weather. A southeast wind indicates the exist ence of a low barometer, if not a storm center in the northwest. The aspects of tho sky and clouds will tell whether it means mischief or not. An almost im mediate cessation of rain may be ex pected as soon as the northwest wind sets in. It matters not what the aspects of the sky are when the west wind sets in, fair weather will ensue it, and con tinue from three to four days. The pas sago of a storm t enter from the gulf and southeastward of our locality is a par tial exception only so far that it clears off more tardily. There are really but two primary kinds of clouds, namely, (1) those that float at a great height above the earth's surface, and (2) those that float low. Those that float high, say from six to nine miles, are of a fibrous and gauzy structure; they are hence called cirrus, that is, hair or tuft clouds. The clouds that form In the lower strata of the at mosphere, say from one to three miles above the earth, are irregular in struc ture, and of a more or less nodular form. They are called the cumulus, that is the heap or pile cloud. .While the cirrus remains nebular in structure and indistinctly defined against the sky no ruin need be expected. Un der the low barometer, however, they develop by accretion, become smooth and compact in structure and much en larged in volume. They now sink lower and become sharply denned against the blue sky. Rain may now be expected, especially if they unite with the cumu lus forming the nimbus or rain cloud. It the cirrus, instead of forming the nim bus, reascends, it dissipates, and no rain need be expected until it lowers again, which generally is in twenty-four hours. Concerning Clover. While a large class of the farming community hold to the opinion that clover is better and more surely sown in the spring, this work is much of it done during the late summer and autumn. A considerable proportion of the clover sown at all seasons is mixed with timo thy and other grasses. When thus asso ciated on mowing lots the full benent of the clover is not realized in the majority of cases, because care was no,t observed to sow with it varieties which blossom at about the same time. The clover iu consequence goes to seed before the later grasses are ready for the mowing machine. Even under these conditions the clover has not been without value. Its long tap roots have put the ground in condition to be readily acted upon by air and moisture. They have also ad ded to its fertility. Among grasses which blossom simultaneously witb clover, and therefore adapted to seeding with it on meadow lands, are meadow fescue, pe rennial rye gross, Kentucky blue grass and Italian rye grass. Clover makes an excellent crop when sown alone, especially on light sandy soils. The practice of sowing olover with a grain crop is, however, a very common one. Concerning the desira bility of this general custom there exists a wide diversity of opinion. Some cul tivators contend that clover sown in the spring with grain suoceeds better than that which is sown alono, because the grain grows quickly and shades the ten der plants from the sun. Opponents to the practice contend with equal energy that the clover crop is liable to a greater risk of being lost when the grain is cut and the plants are exposed. Dr. Harlan recommends sowing buckwheat with clover when it is desired to rrrow onlv the latter. The buckwheat will afford shade while the clover is feoble. and if cut when in blossom and permitted to remain on the land will also mulch the clover and prove of great advantage to the crop. Whenever and however clover may be sown it is important that there exist considerable moisture in the sur face soil at the time of sowing. N. Y. World. Apple Dumplimus. Good, sour, juicy apples; pare, core, and halve. Make dough as for Soda biscuits, adding a little more lard; then roll out, put in your apple halves, sweeten to taste ; then cover apple and sugar with dough, lay the dumpling in the bread-pan smooth side up, first buttering your pan ; put a small bit of butter on the top of each dumpling and sprinkle a handful of sugar over all. Bake one hour. A gentleman never will Insult any one, and a loafer can not, Cost of Fences. Cronor. M. WiMTHiir.ii, in his lecture on " Neglm:t4)d Trifles," makes the fol lowing statement of faets concerning fences: In New Hampshire tbe original ont of tbe fences is equal t twice the value of all tbe stork in the State, in cluding horses, and the annual tax upon the farms for repairs of fences would nearly wipe out all the State tax In one year. The Connecticut farmers pay one mil lion dollars annually for the maintenance of fences, and farms are offered in mar ket for loss money than would lie re quired in building the fences which sur round and divide them. With such facts in view, people in many places are be ginning to see that fences are too costly, as well as frequently unnecessary, while their removal often improves the ap pearance of the town. One of the plcas anteat features of the landscape at the Massachusetts Agricultural College, is the entire absence of roadside fences against cultivated fields and mowing lands, and so well does the idea of dis pensing with fences take hold of the farmers in the immediate vicinity of the College, that many of them are follow ing the example set by the early found ers of that institution, and are laving their own grounds open to the highwav, thus adding much to the beauty of the landscape, besides saving a great bill of expense to themselves. One of the first thinirs which the rich feel is neces sary for their country homes is, that the view should extend over the landscape without the ugly interruption of a fence. This natural feeling is shared also by those who are not rich, but, like many other things which exist simply from the prejudices of habit, it has hereto fore been considered impossible to real ize. To-day, however, by the slow Erocess of generations, civilized men ave become so imbued with a love of order and law, that the fence should dis appear from tbe landscape as the draw bridge and moat have disappeared from the modern mansion. Alluding to the little patches of green frequently seen at the centers of our country towns and designated as the "oommon," he says: "But what is more incongruous than to see a small freen surrounded by a glaring white telt of timber solid enough for a fortifi cation, tho most showy foature in the prospect when it should have been the least? It shows as poor taste as it would be to attach an elephant to a trotting sulky. I do not believe the Almighty ever created the delicate tints of the grass to play second fiddle to a great coarse fence. Green roadsides, neat flower gardens, well kept shrubbery and shatle trees are infinitely pre ferable, in the way of village decoration to pine pickets. But if fences must be maintained along the village street, let them be built to correspond with the surroundings. A row of rough boards in front of a nice cottage, a line of posts in all degrees of rectitude, a gate that refuses to fit the place intended for it, a picket or two counted out, the paint worn off, nre among the little things that give the stranger a feeling that there is a something that is repulsive about the village he is visiting." While we hold on to our fence system let us keep those which we have in good re pair, and tidy. New England Farmer. An Apache Arrow. The following story of an Apache arrow, which made itself felt sixteen years after striking its victim, is told by the Virginia City (Ncv.) Chronicle: In the year 1864 George Peasland was a member of the California Volunteers, a cavalry regiment commanded by Col. Cremony, who commanded a campaign against the Apaches in Arizona. Dur ing one of the numerous fights with these murderous savages, Peasland was struck in the abdomen by a poison ar row and very nearly lost his life, which was saved only by the immediate ap plication of remedies learned by Cre mony during bis long intercourse witb the Indians. The effects of the poison remained in his system, however, mani festing themselves most disagreeably at times, and causing him intense suffer ing. Peasland is now employed as night watchman at the Virginia and Truckee depot in this city. Last night, while walking along the track near Union Street, he was suddenly seized with a terrible pain in the side and ab domen, which bad the effect of com pletely paralyzing his lower extremities and causing him to fall between the rails. He was utterly unable to move from the spot, and was in danger of perishing from cold. But he finally summoned suflicient strength to gather some stones that lay within reach and throw them against the depot saloon on the corner, thus attracting the attention of persons inside, who came to his as sistance and removed him to the rail road depot. He was found there this morning, on tbe floor, writhing with pain and in a state bordering on insani ty. Dr.-Bergstein was summoned and succeeded in quieting the unfortunate man by administering hypodermic in jections of morphine. The Charming Toilets of Saratoga Belles. Of the Saratoga toilets a correspond ent of the Chicago Times says : One could easily imagine himself living at one of the Trianons in the days of the famous Watteau himself, so beautifully made and so picturesque in their com binations are the toilets of the ladies who have come here, but the fabrics of their robings are not of the antique by any manner of means. One franc a meter instead of the hundred is about the cost of the majority of the pretty vanities seen upon the young and the youngish women of Saratogi. The pomps are left exclusively to the dowag ers, to whom in truth they really belong. Indeed many sets of young ladies must have made studies of the famous historic pictures at Versailles or they could nev er have so grouped themselves in the factors of their pretty kirtles and petti coats, hats and hosiery, fan and slippers. An immense, unwired soft straw hat, bent and pinched, or drooping into quaiut outline, is tied about with a Swiss muslin sash that is tipped at each end with a flounce of lace. A bunch of flowers, a gorgeous bird, a garland of Marguerites, violets, clover or poppies, illuminates the head of this lassie of to day, and she has a score or more of these head dresses to give variety to the gardens and to mark the days of the week, and perhaps of the month also. Fans, the new Japanese floriated ones in gold and bronze, and in silver and bronze, with fine lacquered sticks, and Japanese parasols, make the gardens, verandas and the streets to glow like a tropical paradise. Some of the ladies have betaken themselves to Alpine stocks with gay parasols upon them. The only actual relic of the frame of pleistocene man is a tooth found in a cave in Wales. The rest of the man has not been discovered. But the tooth re mains as a relic of prehistoric times, when men lived in caves. Religious. "BELOVED, THINK IT NOT STRANGE." 1. PETER IV. 12. "This- It not strana-." No. over all the land H'ps fsde. prsveis fstl, hearts break, An1 d ir urns o'r dV-atta'a lone and shadowy t I Mild Their silent pathway take. But when on us tbe blow di'Sceada, twin mlt Inr. We cannot help a rnoan As heart and nerya cry w Inir crva erf witb Uls pain of part- L's from our own. And strant It seems that o'er our happy olrcie The specter nand could irlide. And snatch th it one whose life, whose looks, whose tovliur. AU earth mi naught beside. 01 fiery trial that closely folds around us, O! fiirna-e of afflictions, bitter psln, 01 h'-art-slck watch beside our dead, who never Give love for kive ag-aln 1 And Maddest still of all the weary yearnlnr Tbroinrh the Ions', lonely months and yen's, Tne hearts that ache Uiouah Up may keep their sm lins. Eyes dim with unshed tears. flut still o'er broken hope and irravs fresh yawninir There s (Uicls, ftejolee. O heart !" ' Wherefore?" we cry. In blttern'-se of anaulsh. With Christ ye bear your part. A nd when. In the full splendor of His a-lorr. He stands herore you, Ssvl ir. Kins revuuie l. Ve may be ifliol with an eic-dina- joy And hnd your sorrow healed," O! wesry hesrt, take strenirth, throiifrh dark aftiicTinn Ve onlv '-nier on the path He trod. And "n' tith the crown of sorrow s licnMlotlon There waits the lull and perfect peace of O.sl. f.'uVi TlvimnA, in iTiridianal Work. Sunday-School Lessons. THIRD QUARTER. Aug. U Atiramand Melchize . ,. Oen.li:-5 nu.e jtun itdiimjj, wiut , ''"" Oea. :-! Aug-. 23 Ab-aaam Intercea- . Sinn OmlISi IS-.H Kept. frLot's Kscape from - to lorn Gen. 19: 12-2) Pcpt. 12 Trill of Abraham Faith .... Oea. St 1-14 Sept. IS-Keviownf the Lesxma. bept. t Lest'iD select"! by the School. No God-No Hope. As iiivKit polish pebbles into cver-ln- creasing brightness, so the stream of Time keeps common truths attractive' by polishing them into newness, givinc to trite things a perpetual novelty? This sentiment is illustrated by the effect of time upon the apostolic truism inai to De without God is to be without hope in the world. When the world was young, and, therefore, fresh in its faith, this was an accepted fact which no skepticism cared to deny. If any daringly surrendered God, they there by also, and consciously, cave up those hopes of which God is the source. It has been reserved for these davs to claim the possibility of a religion without a God and n hope without its divine inspiration. And yet, however practically useful Mr. Mill may think a religion without God would'be, he is not so absurd as to claim for it any value as to that which may be beyond. His God of humanity can give no hope for any possibility which may lie be yond the grave. From the very con ception of Christian hope, as being the expectation of religious good in this world aud tbe next, he who has no God can have no such hone. For the ol,. jects of hope, if not divinely revealed, may De a iancy or a sentiment, but nothing more. 'Only Columbus could tell the court of Isabella of tbe beauties of the new world. He alone had been there. Only God who is in the eternal light can tell us of the landscape on which it falls. The hopelessness of skepticism is, therefore, essential to it. Longfellow, in opening "Hyperion," says: "The setting of a great hope is like the 6ct ting of the sun. It leaves darkness be hind." Of course those who have stricken the sun from the heavens of their thought, have darkness as the re sult. When Clifford, the great math ematician, lay a-dying, he said: " I have lived to Bee the sun shining out of an empty sky. The great compan ion is dead." Who can fail to see tbe hopelessness apparent in these frank words? Or in these of the world wearied Byron: " I have no conception of any existance which duration would not make tiresome." The visions of Olympus which the old Greeks en joyed brought them no hope of any personal share in that splendid dream of immortality, or supplied it with such conditions as took away its glory and desirability. The inscriptions on heathen tombs are in marked and wonderful contrast with those in the catacombs. The former breathe only of death and sorrow in such words as these: "My heart is broken;" "my life has gone out." The latter breathe triumph in every word and every rude ly carved symbol. The moat remarkable of modern at tempts to revive somewhat of the poet ic beauty of a heathen religion is to be found in Edwin Arnold's brilliant poem, " The Light of Asia." But through it even as it is colored by the Christian atmosphere falls tho same dreary shadow. In speaking of Nirvana the Buddhist heaven which however, is nothing but extinction, the poet puts it sadly thus: "The dew Is on the lotus, Hiae flreat Sunl And lift my lent and mix me with the wave. The suni'tse comes. The dew-drop slips lntu the Ihlning- sea," How perfectly the gloom of these words accords with the last results of skeptical science. Strauss affirmed he was going into darkness. A great Frenchman dying said he was going in to the great " Perhaps," and a recent philosopher, resigning himself apathet ically to a godless philosophy, finds consolation in the thought that the time will oome when the idea of im mortallity will be a burdensome thought for which we will cease to long! Over against such words let the great apos tle's triumph be rung, "I know whom I have believed." and " Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown," and it becomes apparent that a godless sys tem carries hope down with it as the sinking of a boat quenches all her lights, and that faith and hope together, like twin eagles, soar high above every earthly dis-.tstcr. Those, then, who have God should have hope. That means more than a preparation for death. It means a preparation for life. He who has God Las always reason for hopefulness. De spondency is alien to the spirit of re ligion. As if God could not compensate us for all earthly losses or trials. A great many people trust they have Christian hope enough to die by, who have not enough to live by. The de mands of eternity oxhaust all their stock of hope. They have none to till time with u sweet trust and coutent. When Christian was sinking into the deep waters of Jordan, and was crying out that the waves were going over him. Hopeful sustained him by tailing out, " Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the bottom and it is goad." The bottom is always firm to, those who havs God, and their lives snd words and faces should show It. "The joy of the Iird is your strenirlh." What cneer the prophetic light of a Christina hope diffuses. In no way can we so well commend the Gospel as by show ing it transfigured In our faoes by the light of a good hope. Let skeptics live and die in gloom. It Is the inevitable outcome of their logic. But a gloomy Christian dishonors the fountain of hope. All Heaven and earth are his, and the combined beauty of both should flood his life and well to his lips and beam in his countenance. Interior (Vhiiago). Leisure in Life. , i i i ' I I 1 1 Tf?r. leisure which the summer vaca tion brings to many men and women is as thirstily desired as it is ofien cheer fully abandoned. We wonder how many are passing through the experi ence now of awkward use of what has so long seemed the one thing to bo de sired. After the toil, the escape from the city and care, and the first long draught of welcome freedom, there comes inevitably to many a settso of restlessness and uneasiness, as if a gift had been placed in their hands the value of which they surmised but cbuld not apply. Is it strange that people who know no leisure moments in the busy months should find the sudden possession an unfamiliar one? They know, perhaps, how to till a holiday with enjoyment, but they have not learned bow to use a vacation. We sugeest to such one use of their en forced leisure which may p-ove finally of great advantage. Iet them consid er, now that they have lime to sit down and think, whether it may not be pos sible to order their lives for the work ing part of the year so as to secure a more even distribution of their leisure. A month of Sundays would scarcely compensate for the loss of thirty Sun days at intervals of seven days each; and leisure, rightly understood, is the Sunday-spirit in a man's life. Men talk about the hurry and drive of the world as if it were something fateful to which they mu"t yield help lessly, and there might easily be a fret ful protest against it, which would be a childish opposition. But surely thore is possible a quiet independence of mind, which guards jealously the right to one's seif, and we insist that it is the part of wisdom for every one to use the utmost resolution and contrivance to secure a part be it ever so small of evoiy day for stillness and abstraction from busy life. We owe to our decorous habits of re ligion the enforced rest of Sunday, and we contend that it is no unworthy use of religion which makes it also the daily refuge of the busy man or woman. Let one but fence in a half hour even of the day, and guard it from intrusion, giving it to contemplation and devotion, ana the influence of this holy leisure will so extend itself into the day that the time will come to many when room will be found also for other leisure than that which is religious when the work of the day will not be a tyrant from which the soul escapes, panting, one a year, but an occupation which makes room beside itself for the higher engagements, which bring rest and order and the sweet charities of life. We claim for every one a true independence which will put an end to this violent yearly reaction, with ita momentary relief and subsequent vacu um; but it can be secured for each only by individual protest antl steady resolu tion. We cannot organize leisure half so effectively as by the uncombined effort of many individual wills. Churchman. A Handful of Leaves. Our water failed the other day. We could see it running into the reservoir on the hillside, and running over: but not a drop came through the pipes at the kitehen, at the barn or in the shrubbery. No water here, but plenty over there. What is the matter? We took up section after section of the pipe and examined it- In the section nearest the reservoir we found a bunch of leaves. They had got in through the filter, somehow, and, rolling together, formed a ball large enough to till the pipe and stop the flow of water. Noth ing but leaves; leaves that had fallen, sere and dead, from the trees where once they had shimmered iu the sun and dallied with the breeze. Any one Beeing those leave t as the winds tossed them, or as they floated on the stream, might have said: " Well, they are worthless, it is true, but they do no harm." Yet by driftinginto the water pipe, they did do harm. There are people like those leaves. They seem to be negative in character, nobodies in influence. They claim that at any rate they do not do any harm in the world. But we can not accede to that claim. They are always drifting in the way. By their very indifference and inertia they obstruct the progress of society. The Christian who aims to be ornamental rather than useful, whose ideal of the Gospel is foliage and not fruit, who is self-complacent if no charge of gross immorality or flagrant uncharitableness can be brought against him, would be startled if he conld see, as God sees, how he hinders the work of ' the Church and the Spirit. He ought to be one of the channels through which the water of life reaches the per ishing. But, instead of furnishing that water, he stops its flowing. With his withered leaves he fills up the pipe, and he will find himself condemned in the great day for a criminal and deadly in efficiency! It is easy to float, and drift ing where the current draws is plcas auter than breasting it. But the log that drifts into the flume of the mill, and into the buckets of the water wheel, may do a great deal of harm. -And so may the driftwood in our churches. Uerald and fresbijUr. Progress of Christianity. The population of the globe Is esti mated to be about 1,400,000, OX), ac cording to the most reliable data. Sharon Turner, after much labor and care, hits prepared the following table. showing the progress Christianity has maue irora the nrst ceuturv to tbe eighteenth, inclusive: Century. Aiiout. 'Century. Atxnit. First fsl, Ol Tent h SH.mm.'HK) Second S.iMll.uoo Klevcnth ... TO.tral.iss) Third 5omli.l' Ml Twelfth Huisi.00 rourtn lojssl.WM) Thirteenth... ".Uiuil.mMI Kitth lfxiHiilklO Fourteenth.. SiI.i.ii.iiO Sixth 20.nUi.Uul Fifteenth ... ltm,iiu.ll Seventh .UHi.lJUO Sixteenth . . lsa.0lK big-nth. ai.mil mo Kevftitccii!h.ii.mi),iiio Ninth 4U,uu,Uu0 Eighteenth.. :M.lMl,liJ0 This is a hiirhlv-suffocstive exhibit. The rate of increase during the present century is higher than tltiruig any pre vious century, and it is estimaiea mat tho number of Christians had nearly doubled. Soutltern Obstrver, A Rockkohd girl had her corset torn off by a stroke of lightning and was uninjured, but the young man who called to borrow a bouk had his right arm shattcrod, and a piece of corset steel blown into h'K liver. He said his didn't know how slio was loaded.