Newspaper Page Text
MAETIN, THE POSTMAN.
A Brave Man's Terrible Sacrifice.
The Thrilling Story Concerning a Stolen
LetterMistaken for an Assassin, Martin
is Killed by the Man Has Saved.
ll#j2 CTranslate*d for The Cincinnati Enquirer from the
r^fc French of Louis Collas, by E C. Waggener.]
sv^t You have often seen him crossing the
fields with rapid stepts, reconizable not
only by his uniform cap and jacket, but
vp 8till more by the susta'ned activity of
"%i his movements for to him the mo
S ments are counted, and he has no
y& right to slacken his space. An inde-
JjL tatigable walker, he fulfills his duty
agj. from the first day of the year to the
*4- last without rest or ceasing. When a
ff^ tropical sun invites all living creatures
to repose when the weather is as cold
t\ as in the frozen wildes of Siberia when
It rains, or when it snows until the
roads are buried and the paths obliter-
ated, he must still go, across the
country, through the forests and the
treacherous marshes, seeking for the
i houses lost in these solitudes and cut
off from all communication with the
towns save by the missives which it is
his place to bring them. He makes no
less than from ten to twelve leagues a
day, following the by-paths, leaping the
streams, scaling the cliffs, risking a fall
into some deep ravine, and wounding
himself upon the thorns of the thickets.
TO LOITER EVEN IS FORBIDDEN HIM,
For the hour of return is fixed by law,
the letters which he brings back with
him must depart with the out-going
mail, and the slightest infraction of
this programme would have the gravest
Father Martin, as he was called
throughout the countryside, had fol
lowed the business of postman for
twenty years. An ex-soldier, thanks
to the irreproachable conditions of the
service which grants its patronage
as a signal favor, he had obtained from
the postal bureaubrillianteand
of th canton the
priviledge of receiving fifty franks a
month as salary. Yet Martin was not
position, though he perfectly under
stood its responsibilties and its duties.
Every body knew and liked the little
.grayhaired postman with the com
plexion of brass, but whose limbs pos
sessed the suppieness and strength of
-steel they knew him, as I say, and
what was better still, appreciated him
for his scrupulous observance of rules,
though he never refused to them a favor
provided it coincided with his work.
There was not a coiner of his circum
spect on that he had not traveled from
time to time with only the company of
the birds and his wolf-dog Kep, and
not a hamlet or dwelling in the rcuit
to reach which he could not tell you
the miles required, almost to the exac
titude of a metre. Neither was he one
to spare himself, no matter what the
weather, a half hour's search by throw
ing aside into a ditch some worthless
circular or letter of doubtful address.
If the destination could notj be found
he returned with it at once to the bu
reau of the canton.
A SLAVE TO ORDERS,
Punctual as a clock, with a discre
tion which discouraged all curiosity,
every where was his coming welcomed,
and when he was seen entering the
viliages the children ran to meet him,
and the dogs received him with joyous
barkings. But to the offer of a cup of
cider or a bit of bread the
variably said "no1
'tim pressed and
he disliked to contract social obliga
His record at the office was equally
good, and the Chief more than once re
gretted that the parsimony of the Gov
ernment did not permit him to ac
knowledge such loyal services.
One morning about the middle of
'"October Father Martin departed on
his usual rounds. The weather was
frigtful, and as it had rained incessant
ly for more than a week, the roads
'were quagmires, the brooks torrents
and what leaves remained upon the
trees were so rotten and sodden with
'the water that they attorded not the
slightest shelter from the storm. The
postman, however though drenched to
the skin, marched with the impassibili
ty of the true soldier, who never dis
cusses nor dreams ot evading orders.
He had partially distributed his dis
patches, but his circuit was far from
ended, when he came to the Auberge
of Sebastian, an inn, or rather a mis
erable wine-shop at the entrance of the
forest, and which had for its clientage
the manufacturers of wooden shoes
who dwelt in the neighborhood and
came there for groceries and alcoholic
"Hello! Mr. Postman," shouted a
sroice as he passed the door "won't
you bide a bit till the storm has passed,
and give me some information which
I'm greatly in need of?"
Turning"about, Martin saw that this
invitation was addressed to him by a
a man standing in the doorway, with
his hands in his pockets and a pipe in
his mouth. As
THE RAIN WAS FALLING IN TORRENTS
S At the moment, and the wind blowing
&X> violently that he found it impossiblewould
to keep the road, Martin decided to see
what it Was he wanted, particularly as
tbe exigencies of the service in no wise
prohibited his accepting shelter in cii*
cumstances like these.
He entered the auberge, as requested,
therefore, and, placing himself before
^the logs whifch crackled on the hearth,
he asked the man "What was his de-
"To know the hours the mails go out
and come in, and a dozen things be
sides, Father Martin," he answered,
with a laugh, approaching the fire and
stirring the flames till the postman
steamed like a turkey cooking in its
"You know me, then," curiously re
garding his interrogator.
'Of course I know you. Who
doesn't in these parts? But, ho, Mad.
^Rosier, brih# out some glasses and
some eau de vie! What a dog's life
yours is, Father Martin," he continued:
"and your circuit isn't finished yet!
Ton go, if I remember, as far as Pies
sis and Lande-Gris, as well. The peo
ple there are not waiting your arrival
with patience, I can tell you.' How
ever, they'i'e in my way.
TRUST ME WITH YOUR LETTERS
I'll see them safe and save you a long
and weary journeying."
"Thanks, "replied the postman quiet
ly "but that is something I must do
"Well, perhaps you are rightyou
miist obey orders," and talking with a
loquacity which his companion did lit
tle to encourage, he took up the mail
sack which Martin had placed beside
him, and began to examine it, feeling
its weight and turning it about, first on
one side and then no the other.
"I beg of you," said Martin, atlast
noticing what the man was doing, "to
let that sack alone, You have mixed
up my dispatches now till I can no long
er tell where they belong."
The man humbly excused himself and
apologized for his awkwardness. "Nev
theless," said he "the mischief is easi
ly repaired. You have only to put them
on the table there and sort them over
again for the places ou have not yet
"True," said Martin, emptying his
sack and begining to look over the dis
patches, his interlocutor keeping at a
discreet distance, though he still man
aged to throw a furtive look over the
Suddenly there was a furious uproar
in the corner of the room, and a shout
from his meddlesome neighbor: "Quick.
Father Martin, quick! call off yo"ur dog
he's strangling me!"
Martin obeyed, and catching Kep,
whose fury contrasted strangely with
his habitual gentleness, by the skin of
the neck he dragged him to the chim
ney corner and forced him to lie down.
All these little mishaps irritated
Martin greatly, and he was conscious
as he returned to his work of a decid
FEELING OF DISTRUST
And repugnance toward this man, who,
whether consciously or not, had been
the cause of them alL At this moment
the latter, as if to investigate the pro
gress of the storm, went to the door
and opened it. A wild gust of wind
and rain swept into the apartment,
scattering the letters and papers spread
upon the table, and filling the place
with a cloud of mingled smoke and
Martin uttered a cry of anger.
"Bah!" said the one who had caused
the accident, "that is nothing I'll
pick them all up in a jiffy." And pay
ing no attention to the command to
"let them alone,'' as Martin preferred
to attend to his own business, he be
gan the pursuit of the scattered pack
ages. But, when they had picked up
all they could find, the postman, after
a careful examination, still seemed dis
turbed and troubled.
"What's the matter?" said his com
panion. "Do you miss au
"I can't tell but it seems to me I had
"Nonsense you couldn't have had it
and if you did, you left it at the office."
"Possibly," said Martin to himself,
continuing to rummage and search be
neath the furniture and in every con*
ceivable place that a letter could hide
but not finding any thing he fiually con
cluded that his memory had played him
false for, without seeming to do so,'
he had watched his companion as he
had gathered the letters together, and
it was impossible that ho could have
pocketed one without his seeing him.
Nevertheless, he bitterly regretted ever
having put his foot in the house, an in
stinctive abhorrence impossible to
shake off having seized upon him in re
gard to this man, and besides it was
contrary to the usual principles and
habits of discretion which the postal
service impresses upon all its agents:
"To keep at a distance all who do not
In the meantime the storm had pass
ed away, and a brilliant sun warmed
and lighted the landscape with its
cheerful rays. As the postman entered
the adjoining village a woman rose
from the doorstep, where she had been
awaiting his arrival, and ran to meet
him. She was still young and pretty,
though at the moment with a look bf
worry and anxiety clouding the bright
ness of her face.
"Of course you've a letter for me,
Mon. Martin, have you not?"
"No, Mad. Andre nothing for you
"But how strange that is!" Mad.
Andre persisted. "My husband was
to have written to me to-day without
fail. You don't know how his silence
troubles me," and she shivered and
turned so deathly pale that Martin
hurried her into the house and placed
her a chair by the fire.
"You will surely receive a letter to
morrow, Mad. Andre," he said to her,
kindly. "The delay of a day is very
readily explained. Something unfore
seen has simply prevented it's reaching
the office in time for the mail Theie
is no need to worry yet."
"I know all that, Moas. Martin,"
she responded: "nevertheless I can not
understand his silence. You know, of
course, that he has been in the city for
two months past, engaged on work
that will bring him in a great deal of
money also that he has received a little
heritage which he intended to collect.
That is all arranged now, and he told
me he would write so that the letter
reach me this morning, to tell
me that he himself would be here by
nightfall. To-morrow the farm of La
Mere is to be sold, and he was to bid
on it. It is an occasion that $kfi$k
WILL NEVER COME AGAIN,
But I would have him miss it a thou
sand times over rather than have him
come without apprising me."
But why, Mad. Andre What dif
ference would it make P"
"The difference that wicked designs
against him would always make. In
the night time a bad deed is easily
hidden, and, as you know. Monsieur
Martin, there are two roads by which
you reach hereone, though longer, is
safe but it is the other one, by the
burned mill, that I fear my husband
will take, particularity as there is a
neighbor whom he wishes to see .on
"Well," began the postman, trying
to quiet her fears but she refused to
listenJP'You do not "know why ituf THE EFFICACY"OF PRAYER,
that I tremble for his safety,**she con- ?g
tinued, "but I will tell you. The road' rW i
it3elf is solitary and dangerous enough
at all times, and he will carry upon
his person a large sum of money be
sides .there is a miserable wretch in
this country who openly declares his
intention to put five feet of earth be
tween them at no distant day. It is a
feud that dates from the time when 1
was a young girl, and he wishetr to
marry me. I held him in such horror,
however, that he has never forgiven
me. It enrages him to see us in com
fort and ease while he lives' in want
and viciousness. But this is not all
a crime was once committed in the
neighborhood and suspecion pointed to
him. If my husband but said the word
these suspecions would become a cer
tainty, and this man be sent to the
galleys. You see for yourself, Mon
sieur Martin,v how dangerous
it would be for George to return
by the Burned Mill road, and I've
every reason to think that it's there
THIS WRETCH MAKES HIS HAUNT.
George would be lost, Mons. Martin,
lost as sure as fate," and the poor wo
man sobbed aloud?
"What is the, name of this rascal,
Mme. Andre or what does he call him-
"Jean Bruno but you do not know
him, for since his return to this ne gh
borhood he rarely ever shows himself
save to threaten me when he knows my
husband is absent."
The postman made no reply to this,
but remained silent and thoughtful.
Jean Bruno was the name the keeper
of the inn had called the man who had
stopped him on his route.
'After all," he thought to himself,
his heart contracting with a spasm of
dread, "perhaps a letter was stolen
from me despite my caution, and per
haps it was the one for which Mme.
Andre is looking."
Reassuring the unhappy woman as
best he could and promising to seek
her husband and put him on his guard
as soon as he reached the city, he has
tened to depart oppressed by a feeling
of pain and terror which he could not
explain even to himself. Unfortunate
ly, the rcuit that day was unusually
long and in spite of the activity with
which he leaped the hedges and ditches,
and plunged through the swollen
streams, he was behind time when he
reached the parish office.
"Yes," answered the receiver, to
whom he had gone at once on his ar
rival "there was a letter for Mme.
Andre, and you cariied it out, More-
over," his colleague continued, "some
one has been here at every mail ask
ing the same question."
All this was a thunderbolt to Father
Martin, for he saw at once that the
responsibility for what might occur
rested upon him, and and upon him
alone. He flew rather than ran to the
carriage stand which made the service
between the railroad station and the
city. George Andre had arrived, and
departed immediately afoot for his vil
lage home. Martin felt as if he
WOULD SWOON WITH HORROR
The prospect of a catastrophe for which
he alone was to blame rose up before
him like a nightmare. He could see
nothing but the anguished face of the
frightened wife, the wondering eyes of
the two little children, and this man,
this loving husband and father, return
ing with a heart full of joy to meet
death almost on his threshold, and
through the fault of his friend, Martin
He hesitated not an instant, not even
long enough to enter his own house
he must be at the crossing of the Burn
ed Mill road before Andre could possi
bly arrive then*.
Those who saw bim passing absorbed
in thought, and seemingly unconcious
of every thing about him, watched him
What grave affair could provoke such
breathless speed from a man who had
but Just returned from his route worn
out with fatigue and hurry? A fourth
of the distance from the mill he learn
ed that Andre had passed some time
-ago, the joy of return lending wings to
his feet as the hope of averting a mis
fortune had lent wings to the feet of
Martin. Nevertheless, he was far in
advance of the postman unless he cut
across the country and made directly,
regardless of obstacles, for the old mill
itself, a more difficult and dangerous
path to pursue, of course, but that
mattered little if it brought him there
Making all haste he could, night had
fallen when Martin arrived at the
place, truly a prop.tuous spot for an
ambusha narrow cut between high
embankments, on both sides of which
clusters of trees and shrubery form an
impenetrable shade. Every moment
flying clouds floated across the face of
the moon, whose pallid rays shin
ing through the veiling mist still more
increased the sinister aspect of the
landscape. Suddenly the noise of an
approaching footstep caught Martin's
ear, It was of course, George Andre
coming, and after all his hurry only
five minutes behind him. He would go
to meet hiuu
All at once there was a blinding flash,
a sharp report, and as Martin dropped
to the earth, a ball through his lungs,
a heavy stick descended upon the head
of his assassin, and ne lay beside his
nervousness, had gone to meet her hus
band. Returning quietly by a cross,
path that led them behind the mill, the
strange behavior of a man crouching
in the undergrowtha man who his.
wife insisted was no other than Jean
Bruno himselfhad caught Andre's-at
tention. The rest we know.
"He has died for you, George," said
Mad. Andre, sadly, as, leaning over
the prostrate body, they saw by theeap
and uniform that it was their friend
But Martin was not dead. He lived,
but only long enough to tell them how
the letter which apprised Mad. Andre
of her husband's coming had been stol
en from him, and how, determined to
avert the consequence of even an unin
tentional breach of duty he had hast
ened to the mill.
"Through my fault," he murmured,
"your life was imperiled it was rif
that mine should be given in atone
ment" A moment later Martin, was
Andre, unable to ovefdcmte her
Alde an Insurance Adjuster
Judge England, of this c.ty, is not
only well known here, but through
out the territory. Last fall while act
ing as adjuster for an insurance com
pany he went to Pierre to settle a small
loss on household goods sustained by a
After the judge reached Pierre, but
before he called on the man, he learn
ed that he and his ianiily were members
of the Methodist church and very up
right sort of people, so the judge look
ed forward to an easy settlement, as he
doubted not that they would be willing
to do what was fair, and he knew that
he was himself ready to allow all that
was really due. It might also be
mentioned right here that the judge
has not, so far in Lfe, connected him
self with any church organization.
He called at the man's house, and,
after some preliminary conversation,
"Well, Mr. Wileo\, we might as well
make out a list ot the things burned or
damaged. Just mention some of them,
and I will note them down, and I think
we can agree on this matter very read-
"Well, there was a silk dress, for one
thing," replied the man.
"Yeshow much was it worth?
"Ah, urn, Mr. Wilcoxexpensive
"It was," interposed Mrs. Wilcox,
"it was my wedding diess and cost
3125. I wouldn't have taken 6500 for
"Er, yes, very likely anything else?"
"There was a sewing-mach.ne, worth
"Sixty dollars, eh? Now you see
sewing-machines have a more fixed
value than silk dresses. I can get the
best sewing-machines made for $85."
"Not one like ours. It cost $75 and
was worth every cent of $60I couldn't
think of taking any less,' said Mr.
"Pass it for nowgive me someth
"Parlor organ injured fully $100
"I can get a pretty good new one
for that amount."
"Not like ours, mister," siid one of
the large girls, "it cost $250."
"Can't allow you so much, I'm a
fraid. What else?"
"I lost a suit of clothes," said Mr.
Wilcox, worth $70."
"Now, look here, my friend, I don't
believe your clothes cost that much,"
returned the judge, beginning to get
"I tell you they did they cost $80,
Mid I'm not go ng to let no insurance
sompany beat me out of it, either. You
just do this thing fair or get out and
I'll sue your old company."
"That's right, Henry," said his wife,
"we're- not going to let any traveling
insuraee agent beat us out of what be
longs to us."
The- children appeared to look at it
in the same way, and the judge didn't
see much encouragement, when a plan
Suddenly struck him:
"Brother Wilcox," he said solemnly,
"we must ask for help in this matter,"
"Whati"' said Brother Wilcox, look
ing at him.
"I say we must make this business
a matter of prayer. You and your ex
cellent wife here belong to tlie Method
ist church, I believe?"
"Yes, sir do you?"
"I've been a member of that church
Eor thirty years. Let us pray and see
if our way does not become more clear
in this matter."
So they all knelt down and the judge
ted in prayer. He could not remem
ber having done such a thing since on
a certain occasion when he tumbled
clown anol well while he was a boy,
but he speedily got the hang of it* He
struck in on the heathen in foreign
lands, made a tonching appeal for the
sick and. needy, remembered distant
friends, touched on the church, and
church extension in the west, and
wound up with an appeal for the little
band who had gathered together tn ad
just a certain insurance loss. The
judge grew very impressive, and asked
for strength for himself and his- good
brother and devout sister and also their
children, that they might adjust the
loss even as it should be adjusted that
they might all know the true price of
silk dresses and sewing-machiaes and
store clothes. He endaed in a particu
larly touching manner: his-voice trem
bling, and when they arose tears stood
in, tho eyes of the entire party.. Wileox
grasped the judge's hand*, pressed it
fervently, and said: 5,,*.,/^? *7
"Brother Englaad, lsfc us begin
"Yes, leto us beg&f *agaTni brother,'"
returned the judge.
"Now, the dress- first. Maria was.
it the calico cat the ginghain?"^asked
Wilcoa of his wife. Uf
"Ititit was the ealico, Henry.""
"One calico dress, Brother Eng-
"Worth abSut 40 cents, Brother
**Not more thin that, was it,Maria?"
Not more than 30, Henry. I had
worn it all summer." A^
^%'*Dress, 30 cents go oa, Brother
*The sewing-machine, gat' the leal
broken ofE^JYe iiad it hxed for half a
%V*Sewing-machine, 50 cents go
^**'The organ was scorched on one end
what did tbe varnKh cost, Susie?"
"Fifteen cents, pa."
"Organ, 15 centsproceed,brother.
"Suit of clotheswell, it's these
that I ha\e onthe coat-sleeve ,got
"It didn't damage it much, did it,
"It did it good, Brother England,"
said Mrs. Wile ox. "There was mud on
the sleeve and the water washed it off
it improved the coat."
"I think it will be satisfactory to tho
company. An\ thing else?"
"No-o-o, I guess not is there.
"I can't thint of anything more."
"All right total 95 cents. I'll make
you out a draft for that amount,
brother," and the judge did so and
went away with more faith
efficac}' of prayer than he ever
beiore. Dakota Bell.
O June' delicious month of June'
When wind and buds all sing in tune
When in the meadow swaim the beea
And hum their diowsy melodies
While pillaging the buttercup,
To htoie the golden honey up,
O June' the month of bluest skies
Deai to the pil&iun butteiflies,
Who seem gav-colored leaves astiay,
Blown down the tides of ambei day
O June' the month of merrj song,
Of shadows buef, of sunshmp long.
All things on earth love vou the best,
The bird who caiols near his nest,
The wind that wakes and, singing, blows
The spicj peifume of the lose,
And bie, who sounds his muffled horn
To celebiate the dewy morn
Aud even all the stars above
At night aie happier for love,
As if the mellow notes of ninth
Weie wafted to them trom eaith
O June such music haunts 30m name:
With AOU the summer'^ chorus came'
Came to Confusion.
John B. Gough used to tell of a man
who, while dunking from a bowl of
punch swllowed a spool of silk, and
tindmg the end in his mouth, attempted
to draw it out. The silk unwound.
First with one hand aud then with the
other, he pulled. But still no end.
Longer and longer grew the thread,
while his hands, now right and left,
wove back and forth from his lips to
At last in terror, he ci iocl out to his.
wife, "Betsey'. Help! Murdei! I'm all
The story is paralled by one told of
a young man in Providence, who, hav
ing bought a pair of troupers, wore
them the first t'me to a party. Hair
parted in the middle, faultless linen,
brilliant necktie, shining boots, and
his new trousers all made him vain of
his appearance, and led himi to think
that every one in the room was admir
All would have gone well if the
young man had not, as joung men
with proud heads will do. looked oft
en with satisfaction at his feet and
But charmed with himself, and cast
ing eyes once too oftem at the
new trousers, he discovered a bit of
thread on his leg. He seized it to pick
it off, but it clung.
Conversation so absorbed him that,
for a few minutes, the thread was for
gotten. But, later on, the new trous
ers again attracted his eyes and once
more he saw the thread. With tirmer
grip he seized it, resolved this time to
get rid of it.
A strong pull was too successful!
The thread seemed to be endless. It
came following the energetic pull so
readily as to run out a yard or more,
unraveling a. yard of the* seam, and
leaving a gaping rent in the trousers'
The youngr man in confusion sidled
away to tha-dressing-room,, where he
pinned himself up, and then went
home, takiag no delight in his varied
Grabbin.' de 'tumties^oT dis heah life'
is like gedierin' apples*. If you geder
'em too soon da's gceen, an' ef yer
waits tclong da's rotten.
De frien' dat praises- yer ter yer face
an' talerbout yer whea yer's gone,
puts me-in m.ne o' dfo man dat will tell
yer cWtmif an' den steal er hat.
It aia't offen dafe yer sees er good]
pussoii! come irum, er bad family. It's
mighty seldum diat yer see r ros^t
growjii* in er patahi o* dog fennel.
lb peers ter me like happiness is oae
o*do accidents o dis life. Jt!t's sorter
like good luck jer's got ter be bailt
tax"-it ur it ain'tgwine ter stay widyer.
3 S -A,
Little- Dot's Ingenuity.
-^Little Dot (laughing-Why Dick,
what's the Matter?
Little ekI's mo3t dead. I just
took some awful stuft^/ J.^f,
"That what your mamma put on the
"Yes she left it there iia a*"cup an*
told me not to touch it, 'eause it was.
for pudding, an' when she went oui I
took a great big swallow, an' it's eas
"Yes, she, said you ought to take
some, an' I told her how to, fix it
Some of His Distlnguislilns Cbarae-
A'majbrily think unkindly of the
wasp. They cannot forget its
The prejudice is not an admirable one,
is some prejudices are race prejudice,
for instance, which is the making of
nations. But not this one against
wasps^ ,For it is really only a protest
against a vigorous personality, against i
the assertion of individual power. In *j
the human species there are wasps
strong-flighted men. whom most fear,
and man out of our sheer weakness,
hate, for their robustness of mind and
their intellectual aggressiveness. Such
do not work in wax, nor store honey.
Yet the workmanship of bees, as com
pared with that of wasps, is the work
manship of blind mutes imitating a
pattern by touch of fingers as com
pared with that of uncrippled and in
dependent intellect. The life history
of the wasp, too, is far more worthy
of self than the hive folk. Sting?
Of course they do, if necessity arises,
and often, grateful to Providence for
the weapon, they make the necessity
for themselves. Ought they to keep
their talents wrapped in napkins?
F,**ji Popular Science.
Susie"Oh, mamma, I'll
disobey you again," fyt.
you done?" -y
No one likes bees better than I do. I
have kept hives. But, after all, they
are not the cattle and poultry of the in
sects? They are the sheep, while the
wasps are the wild deer. The one
resents routine, the other one prote's.J
against routine. What poetry is there
in the lives of bees-as compared wih
that ot wasps?in the tame citizou
sh of the artilicial hive, the machine
made honey comb, as compared with
the romance of the woodland comb
maker? Both b?e and wasp need
'ioney but the latter, when he has not
the leisure (or the wJl) to-gather ik for
itself, goes after the foimer. "What,
ho, there! it criesi "You bumbling
fellow, in your jerkin of wooly brown,
stand and deliver!"and the bee does.
A pirate of the air? a highway man
of skyey loads and heathb? No, no
not at all. This is the way of cour
ageous genius, that knows how to take
the bricks which the diligent mechanic
al student has been piling up into reg
ular heaps his brick-yard, and to
build beautiful houses with them. Left
alone, they would have been piles of
br.cks, and nothing more, forever and
a day. But a better man oomes along
and bravely possesses himself of them.
"You can go aud rummage for more,"i
he saj-s to the toiler among the clay
that is your life-workto make bricks. I^*-
Mine is to bu Id with the bricks which
you make." Of course, the bee buzzes E,
and says: "You musn't you really
ought not. I want the honey myslef j^f
to fill a cell with The wasp replies:
"Deliver, or \ou are a dead bee." Or
suppose they argue more calmly: &
"What are you doing?" demands the
wasp, Going home with my honev- 4
bag," replies the other. "Wl
"To fill a cell with." "W/, .^It
then? When the cell is filed what 1
shall 3 ou do?" "Shut it up and begin
another," is the reply. "And then?"
"Fill that up, too, and begia another."
Imagine the generous fury of the wasp!
"Oh, thou mutton-headed fly I And is
that the end of lifeto fill cells with
honey and eat none? To sweat all the
summer through and have ms harvest ,_
of your toil? O thou gross one I Thou
honcy-grubber! Thou miser of honey- lv'
bags! Perpetually filling for others to
voidand without the. wat to- see that
thou art the sport of spendthrifts. Out ,,_
of this! Give up your honey, or, odd 1
zooksl this rapier at the end cf me*\
shall rid the world ofi a .'skull/#'
vaiiet." But, like the s-t Ogood
citizen that he is, the bee c/* refuses
to surrender, and then woe him, the
poor honest fellow in his &. ian coat.
For my gentleman whips out his bod
kin, and there is an end of the bee.
Inishort, there is~a great deal to say
about the wasp, and in its tavor. Its
soldierly ways, so-."smart" and alert
the lancer in the field, a gladiator at li,
need. When they go abuoad it is with
military motionsscouting, skirmish
ingj. foraging, fighting. And the nest
is a. citadel. There is no "bumbling"
variety of the wasp, no "bumble" wasp.
TJisy make very little imss about what
thsy do. Yc^ometinaes, when they go
by* there is slang pat your ear a sound
like a rifle-bullet not like the bees of
"a full content," bt an eager racing
Toice that has an objective point before
it. Thus they ke6p life from getting
stagnant.,,, Manv insects would go to
sleep altogether if it were not for tho
wasps, who. aie forever reconaoitering I
other people's premises. Just as nature I
keeps a hawk hung up intshe air to
teach tba-gronndlings that "life is not
all beer and skittles," so she always*!
has a wasp oa hand to repress the ideaJ|
of perpetual gayety among .nsects. It.
is the JaScoo of the dipteroas folk. fio"P
too, when it is not at wo*k, there is. a
delightful idleness about the wasp^^r
thorough complete vacancy which^t
enough to send a honey-bee mad to see?.
But for myself I hold perpetual laborj
in bominotion, and believe my hatred')
of it justSt. e/iowne*"* Gazette.
Susie"Well, I draH
lunch and than atea piekle s^id th
milk said to the pickle,. *Get out' anc*|
and the pickle said, *I won't?' an
they CQ haying an awful time!"-'