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BT BATEMAK «fc McDOXJJJ). WESSINGTON SPRINGS. D. T. THE OLD CLOCK. The old clock croons on the sun-kissed wall— Tick, tr ck! tiek, tock! "The merry seconds to the minutes call: Tick, tock I "lis moru 1 A maiden sits at tlie mirror there, Ami smiles as siie brnMh her golden hair O, in the light, but her race is 1'itir] 'lick, tockl tick, tockl Tar over the sea the wood ship brings The lover of whom the maiden sinus From the oranjre tree tho ih-st leaf springs: 'J i.'k, tockl lick, tockl The old clock laughs on tho flowor-decked wall— Tick, tock! tick, tockl The roso-winged hrnrs: eludo their thrall Tick, took! tick, tockl •The lover's 1 !e and his love aro blest: 'J"lie maiden is folded to his breast On her brow the holy blossoms rest Tick, tockl tick, tockl -O, thrice, thricc long, may the sweet bolls chimo As echoing tills thro' future time! Still, to my heart beats ih.it: me.tsured rhyme- Tick, tock! tick, tockl The old clock moans On the crumbling wall— lifflc, tuck! tick tock! The dreary years into olernity fall Tick, tockl 'Tis night 1 The thread th:it yon spider draws with care Across the gleam of tho mirror thero isteuis like the ghost ol' a golden hair Tick, tockl tick, tock! The sweot bells chime for those who may wed The r.eroli-snow crowns many a oad— But tree and maiden and lover are dead! Tick, tockl tick, tockl —''it Cavkiim, in Life. MISS MARTHA'S Ul? KEY. Miss Martha sat on the back porcli striuging beans whisht, whisht, from the pan in her lap, snap, snap, snap into the pan at her side. "Oh, Miss Marthy, I know where your old black turkey hen is!" suddenly came in a quick, sharp, voice almost at her elbow. Miss Martha did not start she was used to it—but eagerly rejoined: "Is that i? \VhereP'' "Down in our oat-field. My John saw her," answered her neighbor, Mrs. Baker, as she came around and drew herself up the steps with that, heavy, siilewise movement women take when their dresses are too long in front. "He said he knew it was Miss Marthy's hen, 'cause she just run like wild when he •come on her." "I must go right away after her she'll have .em little turkeys down in the hollow, and first thing I know some varmint'll have 'em all. 'Here, l'olly, take yourself oil that railing and come and linisli these beans and hurry up, too it's time they were on to cook now." Miss Martha snatched her sun-bonnet from its nail, and was oft' through the orchard without ceremony. Mrs. Baker merely remarked to l'olly, "When she starts out alter her turkeys there's no tellin' when she'll get back, so I reckon 1 might as well go home," and she went. Miss Martha was a practi al farmer. The few thousands her father had left her had been invested in a farm in Cen tral Missouri, sold for taxes. A negro family, that is to say, old l'olly and her children, relics of its former slave popu lation, still remained. It had never oc curred to her to leave the old place and providefor herself. When one of its post helium owners left she scratched about and gotalittle something to eat,wrapped her rags'around her ana calmly waited for the next. Her trust to luck had, happily for her, never suffered any se rious rebuke. It had been with all much the same as with Miss Martha. Said she, "I've got to have some body, so I might as well keep her." So l'olly and her children, the two elder ones being able to do a good deaj about the farm, continued to stay and be housed, fed, clothed, and generally provided for. Her "shiftless, nigger ways" sorely vexed Miss Martha, but as she despair ingly said, "'Xwas born in the llesh and bred in the bone, and no amount of scolding or coaxing seemed to do any good." Polly was a fat, jolly-old soul, and she dearly loved to come up from -her kitchen—down three steps and straight out four from the comer of the back porch of the "big house"—lean over the railing and watch Miss Martha at her work. Many a warning and friendly piece of advice in regard to her treatment had Miss Martha received irom Mrs. Baker. Said the latter: "What do you do this and ,that kind of work yourself for? Why don't you have Polly do it?" "Well, I'll just tell you, Mrs. Baker," answered Miss Martha, "I'd rather do it myself than dog around after her." Miss Martha, as I said before, was a practical farmer. She kept half a dozen "hands'' more or less, and it was in strict accordance with her directions that evcrytli'ng was done. Not a fence corne-, not a misplaced tool escaped "the surveillance of her bright black eyes. Tho thing in which sne was most highly interested, however, and to which she gave her personal care, was the raising of fowls chickens, ducks and turkeys she had in great numbers. The latter, though dearest to her heart, by reason of their more roving disposition gave her more trouble than all the rest. She hesitated not to get up at the dead hour of night if she heard a note of warning from her tlock. No kind of weather was bail enough to prevent her fiom hunting up each individual and •seeing him safely cooped at night. •Judge then of her anxiety' when she had not seen her cherished old black turkey-hen for twenty-four hours. Down through the orchard went Miss Marl ha, through the high clover wet with the heavy dew. through the pota to-patch. over the rail fence and into the sunny hill-lot where honest John J3aker was cradling his oats. With skirts bedraggled to her knees, flopping damply about her muddy feet, but nothing daunted. Miss Martha hailed him: "Mr. John, your mother said you saw rav old black turkey-hen here some place where 'bouts?" "Well, Miss Marthy," sa'd John, leaning on the handle of his implement, pushing back his wide-brimmed straw rat and drawing his shirt-sleeve ener getically a.-ross his damp forehead, "I'm powerful g'a to see you." "W here's my turkey-hen?" "I was just thiukin* 'while ago that .wrjyfrm'-.ZtZ, you hadn't been down to mother's ior a good while—leastways not when I was around the house—I'd just come up awhile this evenin'." ^Iart'ia on'y pulled her bonnet lurther over her face, tied it tight to gether so that only her eyes wero visi •iu 'urnel to move away. Hold on, now, Miss Marthv, where are you gom'?" remonstrated John, ^oin'to hunt for my turkey-hen, John Baker, since you won't tell me where she. is," said Miss Martha, in a severe tone though if John had only been observant ho could have told from the light in her eyes there was a smile on her lips. ky, Miss Marthy, I never see the like! You don't talk about nothin' but turkeys you're just on the go mornin', noon and night, chasin'after"'m. Wish't I was one." The light down the vista of Miss Mar tha's barrel-like bonnet sparkled still more brightly, but she merely said: "Ain' you goin' to tell me?" "Well, I s'pose I must. You see I saw h, and I knowed you'd be huntin' all over, so I :st took and shut her up in one of mother's coops, so's she couldn't get away again, and to save you the bother of hunlin' her up, and then I thought that this evening I'd—" "I'm ever so much obliged "to you, but you didn't need to do it," interrupt ed Miss Martha, as she walked off brisk ly toward Mrs. Baker's. Thought John: "The darndest, pro vokinest woman I ever see!" Miss Martha's life was a busy one no idler she. Besides licr large house and farm to look after, she had her brother, older than she, with three motherless children—a man who had made ship wreck of his life, and now, at tho age of forty-two, weak, good-natured and poor, came to his sister to be supported. After trying various plans she found that hiring him as one of her "hands" was tho cheat way of doing this. He seemed contented. Miss Martha had just brought out upon the front porch her work-basket and another containing the articles from tho laundry in need of repair, seated herself in her little willow-rocker and commenced the campaign by a vig orous assault upon a gray sock. The willful southern breeze pushed aside the trelliscd madeira vines and morn ing-glories at the end of the porch and gaily played with Miss Martha's crinkly black hair. As she gently rocked and darned and thought—who knows of what?—she looked toward her garden and saw, swinging along the path—the tall, sweet corn on tho one side, the del icate-leafed red-berried asparagus on the other—the yallow tin-bonnet of her neighbor, Mrs. Baker, and knew sho was going to have a visitation. That was one of the things Northern Miss Martha couldn't understand, how these Southern women could start out every day and spend tho whole after noon with never a bit of work. Mrs. Baker was a most estimable woman, albeit much given to this practice. Said she: "Just thought I'd come up and see how you all wus," and she sat down on the top step and fanned her self with her apron. "Have a chair, Mrs. Baker." "No, thank you, Miss Marthy I'd just as lief net here. Say, I want to swap a settin' of my Brahmy's for a settin' of your Plymouth Rocks. Look here," and she raised the lid o° a little basket she had and showed a baker's dozen large, creamy eggs. Said Miss Martha: "I shall be only too glad to exchange but I can't be positive that I can give you the pure Plymouth Bock, my eggs now are a miscelleous lot." "What did you say? Miss Philane ous' eggs? Who is she? I don't know anybody by that name in this neighbor hood." "Oh, no, you misunderstood me I meant to say that my egg's now were not any kind in particular, but a col lection of all soits." "Oh, well, my hens are doing pretty well just now," and Mrs. Baker went on talking about her luck with chick ens, now hitching her sleeves a trifle higher, now shifting- her seat from step to chair and back again. Sitting there with the afternoon sun light glinting her handsome, wavey, iron-gray hair, with her fidgety, funny ways,, she formed a study. A woman left destitute of husband and fortune by the war she had set bravely to work to earn a living and a home. She and her son, now several years a man. had been fairly successful in their labors and owned the large farm next Miss Mar tha's. Inured to the "bone-labor of the wash-tub, the ironing-table, the churn and the garden," she could never sit still. Nervous in action and speech, she yet had a peculiar drawl about the ends of words and sentences. It some times seemed as if, having gone briskly two-thirds of the way through a sen tence, she was suddenly struck with the insignificance of it all, and, disgusted, let it trail oft' into silence. Sne was constantly in motion, rolling up her sleeves, cracking her linger-joints, fold ing together her sun-bonnet, or pulling from their sticlied grooves therein the half-cylindered corn-stalks. She and Miss Martha talked on, the hum of their voices frequently broken in upon by the strong, broad accents of Polly, who was leaning over the railing with a basket of smooth, scarlet toma toes from the garden for supper. "Miss Marthy, did you know Tim Robi'son had got back?" •'No has he? when did ho come?" "Last night. Come to stay, I guess. It'd a been better fur his wife if he'd a left her fur £,ood. He don't do nothiu' towards keepin' 'the family, nohow and she unt:ed her apron strings. "I just toll you, Mrs. Baker," said Miss Martha, now mending her broth er's eoat, "I've «ot no patience with such men. Wheij a woman has to sup port a husband, 1 think she'd better dispense with him." Miss Martha forgets that her brother is a living witness to the fact that her bark is worse than her bite. She went on: "Have you' heard from Lore's late ly?" "Yes, I heered day a'ore yesterday. The baby's some better, but they're goin' to lose their cow. She strayed off down into Hog Holler an' a snake bit her." •'Yes, that's just Lore's way. If he'd a had any fences the cow 'd a stayed where he put her. How's Mrs. LoreP" "She's been havin' chills again. Dooa seem's though Lore had a hard time of it," throwing her bonnet on her head. "Law, yos but* what else can you expect? they're a do-less set all round. I guess I'll nave to go down to-morrow and see what they need." "When do you reckon you *11 trash your wheat, Miss Marthy?" getting up this time, but pulling the bonnet oft. "Not till week after next, I guess. I've got to get my oats in first it's just dead-ripe. Have you had any roastin' ears yet?" "No, our's ain't very forrad. John's been wishin' for some, too. John's so fond of 'em," hanging the long-suffer ing bonnet on the railing and wrapping her hands in her apron. The tree-shadows on the grass were very long, and Miss Martha's cat was stretching himself after his afternoon nap. "Well, Miss Marthy, if you'll get me my eggs, guess 1 '11 go home," settling the bonnet well down on her head. Without forming any conclusion from this action, however, for 3\lrs. Baker frequently put on her bonnet half a dozen times during her stay to finally go home without it, Miss Martha said: "Oh! you must stay for supper now, Mrs. Baker it '11 be ready in just a lit tle while." "No, thank you. Miss Marthy I must go and get John's supper." She was now nervously folding and unfolding her arms, with a movement very simi lar to that, with which she wrung her clothes from the suds. "Be sure and get a mess of corn as you go through the garden," said Miss Martna. "Miss Marthy! Miss Marthy! Wbur in sense are y'Better come down hyur. Mr. John Baker, he just came by an' he s'ed he seed them young yaller turkeys of yourn in the road down by the butch er's, an' that ornery Bill's boy out with ajnin!" Polly's rich, rolling voice sent these words up the stairs into Miss Martha's cool room, where she was sewing one hot August afternoon. "What!" exclaimed Miss Martha. "Well, I'll just have to go straight off and sec to them, or they '11 every last one be killed." Quickly on w'th. bonnet and gloves, she was off down tho gleaming white road, like that famous war-horse who sniffed the battle from afar. She soon beheld her enemy sitting on the fence beneath a tree at the roadside a slim, sallow lad, bare-footed, straw hat, dirty unbleached muslin shirt, blue overalls, "galluses," which drew the wasitband of the same up under his arms. "Jack Bills," began Miss Martha, "what in the name of sense are you do in' with that gun?" "Paw's," said lie. "Well, ho'd no business to let you have it. Been shootin' turkeys?" "No, ma'am." "Seen any?" "No,' ma'am." '•I know better." "Who told you so?" Miss Martha was unguarded enough to answer. "Mr. John Baker." "Ho Humph! Hello, Mr. John Ba ker." "Never you mind. Where were the turkeys?" "Down van way," with a nod. "What did you do to them?" "Never done nothin'." "Don't tell me What did you do?" "Nothin' only but fire a stone at one of 'em. Didn't hit"—dejectedly. "Oh, Heavens You wretch! Where did they go to?" "Nowhere only down the road." Stiffly marched ^liss Martha away. Cried her enemy: "May be Mr. John Baker'd help you drive 'em home." No reply from the irate bonnet, set steadfastly toward the turkeys. Her flock homeward turned, she was slowly progressing when she heard bug gy wheels, and a voice called out: "Miss Marthy!—Whoa!" to the horse. "Miss Marthy !—Stand up here!—I'm going up the country a ways here to get some seed wheat.' Won't you go 'long, for a ride?'' "I can't, possibly. Mr. John. I've got to get these turkeys home." "O, let them go by themselves, and come with me do now, Miss Marthy. I'd like to have company." "Why didn't you ask your mother?" "What did you say? Oh, well, she was busy." "So am I." "No, you aint. Do you know. Miss Marthy, I sometimes think I'll kill every turkey you've got. "Why, John Baker! What do you mean?" "Well, you give 'em all your timo. Say, now, come on won't you?" "What! Go riding in a sun-bonnet and buckskin gloves?" "Yes what difference does that make?'' Miss Martha smiled. "Oh, no, I can't. My turkeys. Good day"—and she was gone. "I wouldn't care'n Jake Bills'd shoot 'em all," thought John. "Good evenin', Polly. Is Miss Mar thy in?" 'Twas John Baker who asked it, and Polly replied: "Yes 'ah. But she's down in the edge of tho orchard shutting up her tm keys." "All right. Guess I'll ..just walk around that way." The sun had set, but the violet west ern clouds, dashed and lined with rud dy light, still shed a pure, clear glow over the landscape the vivid green of the corn, now toned by the fuzzy white of its tassels, the dull yellow of the fields of cut wheat, and the soft brown of mown meadows, presented a calm, restful scene. Coming up through the red, fragraat clover of the orchard was a slim figure, with frizzy black hair blown about over its head, whitish skirts festonod over its arms, an apron, full of soft something, gathered up in front. John Baker has tened to join it. "Good even' Miss Marthy. Can't I help you?" "Oh, no be careful—you'll step on those turkeys in front of you." John sa nothing aloud for a few moments, but walked on by her side, pulling clover blossoms as he went. •'When do you reckon you'll cut your second growth, Miss Marthy?" "Before long, 1 gues*. I wanted to get my new haj-Darn done before time to cut this olorer, but I don't believe 1 can. I've been depending on Bill Gosis TO do most of the work but he's such a trifling fellow, there's no getting any .thing done by him." "Yes, he's powerful unstiddy, Bill is." Another silence. "Miss Marthy, what's your opinion about puttin1 that bottom field of mine in corn next year?" "A would, if I were you. I planted mine next to it this year, and I've got a very nice stand of corn there." "Has land, jinin' on hero as it does, ought to all be in one farm don't you think so, Miss Marthy?" "Yes, I've often thought of it but then I didn't s'pose you'u want to sell." "I don't, Miss Marthy, but"— She was now transferring the baby turkeys from her apron to their coop and count ing them as she did it. "One, two—" "I thought perhaps you—" "Five, six, sev—" "Might-go into—" "Nine,'ten—" "That is, Fd like to say—" "Twelve, thirteen—yes, they're all here." "So am I, Miss Marthy though you don't seem to notice it." "I'm listening, Mr. John. Won't you please hand mo that board there to set up by this door?" "Here it is, Miss Marthy. I'll wait till you get done." Silence, and a prolonged counting, and fumbling with doors and slats. The work could be protracted no further, the last turkey was on its roost, and Miss Martha was reluctantly obliged to turn her devoted back upon them. John was going to be sure this time she was done her labors, and he con tinued waiting. Finally said Miss Martha, in a low voice: "Well, John, go on." And if he, there in the summer dusk, his rivals safely put to bed, did not make good use of his opportunity, he had only himself to blame.—D. Dowlcr, hi Continent. Animals that Hold Fast to Life. "You will hardly credit it," said a Staten Island fisherman whom a report er talked with the other day, "but the head of a turtle will retain a very marked interest in existence long after its body has been served up in soup and steaks. I believe it is a -well-known fact, but I only discovered it six months ago. I found a friend engaged in shell ing a small turtle. 'Now,' he said, put ting the head on the dresser, 'that will be alive and active to-morrow morn ing.' Of course I laughed at him, but 1 agreed to call next day and test his prophecy. Next morning my friend asked me to step into the kitchen. The head was still on the dresser, and though it had been separated from the body for at least sixteen hours, the eyes were wide open and bright. 'Take care,' exclaimed my friend, as I put my finger near the mouth. His warning came not a second too soon. The head of that turtle absolutely jumped at me. Where its motive power came from I can not explain, but it moved two inches toward me, and snapped at my finger with a vioiousness that could not have been surpassed by a cornered rat I think it had been holding back its life, as men of strong will-power, for fixed purposes, have been known to do, until an opportunity offered to avenge the destruction of its body, for after it had made the effort its eyes grew fixed and filmy, and in an hour it was dead. Next to the turtle in obstinate persistence in living must come the eel. In recogniz ing tho extraordinary length of timo through which an eel clings to its being under the most unfavorable circum stances, people, I think, overlook the most unfavorable condition of all—the removal of it froni the water, a state of affairs sufficient in itself to produce death. "I do not believe that cutting an eel's head oft" or serving his tail tho same way shortens his life much. He dies because he is out of his element, and had he been left unmutilatcd he would have lived but little longer. Of course, if you put him in sections on the frying-pan you place upon him a bur den greater than he can bear, and ho dies quickly but the lesser injuries, af fecting only the tail, head or skin, seem to me to make but little impression. The fact is, an eel can live an extraor dinarily long time out of water. They habitually leave it of their own accord and wander in the fields that slope down to a creek not far from here. I have often met in the early morning eels making their way down to the creek. They had spent the night in the meadows in search of worms and were going back. Whether an eel or any other fish is capable of feeling acute pain I can not say. This I can vouch for: When an eel has been skinned and beheaded, and seems to be quite dead, a little salt rubbed on the surface of the body will be apt to restore lifo very quickly. A snake dies quickly under injuries. The average snake will not live three minutes after his head is crushed with a stick. The eye of a wild bird remains bright for some time after you have shot it, and is likely to cause a tender-hearted sportsman on his first gunning expedition a good deal of self reproach. I do not know whether clams have at any time a very self-assertive exist ence, but that, in captivity, the clam is able at times to make himself excessive ly disagreeable I have had occasion to know. Not long ago I brought home a big basket of clams. I placed them in a dish-pail and left them in the kitchen. In the middle of the night my wife aroused me, saying that there were rob bers in the house. With a pistol in my hand I wandered from room to room. I could hear a most extraordinary noise, like a combination of sawing, filing, groaning and grunting, with an occa sional watery gasp, but for the life of me I could not imagine where it came from. At last I went into the kitchen and tho mystery was solved. Each clam, with his shell wide open, wm making almost as [much noise as a bull frog in full vigor. I filled the pan with fresh water, which brought either con tentment or death that is to say, it quieted them."—N. Y. Sun. —A widower at Canton, Tex., who has nineteen children, recently wedded an Alabama widow with twenty-one children.—Chicago N&ws. Onr Young Folks. MINNIE AND MAGGIE. "Oh, dear, and oh, deary I" Cries Minnie Dundreary, The dav is so dismal— It rains and it rains 1 I never have pleasure, In lull perfect measure. But keendisappointment And trials and pains 1" I soo it israinlng! Well, no use complaining', Tho sunshine is tomewherel" Cries blithe Maggie Joy. I'll never be whining. Nor think of repining, But llud the heart-sunshine That has no alloy." "Oh, dear, and oh, dearyI" Cries Minnie Dundreary, How tireeome tnesc lessons, So hard and so long! I never can do them. Nor even see through them, It's no use to try tbom— They always go wrong 1" These lessons perplexing Are certainly vexing. But then I will do them!" Cries brave Maggie .1 oy. There's no use in sighing, I'll juBt keep on trying And conquer, if every Power I employ!" Oh, dear, and oh, deary!" Cries Minnie Dundreary, That troublesome baby. To watch and to tend I I'd rather be riding. Or running or sliding. And having some fun, With a guy, merry friend." Oh, yes, dearest mother: My sweet little brothor I gladly will care fori" Cries sweet Maggie Joy. "Although 'tis some trouble, The fun will bo double, For merry and happy Is dear Willie boy I" Thus, ever complaining, If sunny or raining. Poor Minnie finds evor Something to annoy While joyous and merry, Light-hearted and cheery, A fount of puro sunshine Is loved Maggie Joy. —Mela E. B. Thurne, in Gulden Days. HIGGLEDYPIGGLEDY. That is the way Dora wrote it. She put the long, queer word at the head of a page in' her account-book. Higgledypiggledy represented the odd pennies and live-cent pieces and dimes that found their way out of Dora's little hand, and found their way into the .till at the confectioner's and the pastry cook's. And how hard it is, indeed, for pennies to stay in little hands! They so long to get out, and so do the little silver dimes and the big quarters. Now Dora was a dear fat little dim pled dumpling. You couldn't help lov ing her the moment you saw her, and you are supposed not to be a bit of her relation. Of course, her cousins and aunts and uncles and big brothers and sisters were ready to eat her up. And it was: "Here, Dodo, is a penny for you," or: "Here, Dodo, is a dime and sometimes it was a quarter, or even a silver dollar somewhere near as large as the moon. Once in awhile it was a dear little fascinating gold piece, yellow as sun shine. Dora had a tender heart, and she was ever so sorry for poor people, especially poor children near her own age. She knew that there were hungry children and ragged children, and children with pale, pinched faces, and even little babies, with no pretty red roses in their plieeks. I'm going to save 'most every bit of my money," she said to her mother, one day near New Year's. I'm going to save it for poor children. I'm going to buy some shoes for Betsy-Ann Ba ker's little Tom. Why, only think, I saw his toes sticking out in the snow when he came here with his basket for cold bits and they were awful red. Then I'm going to buy a new red flan nel dress for Mrs. O'Flaherty's Biddy. Her knees are just as bare as little Tom's toes. She wears an old light calico dress, and it's all torn and horrible. "And there's Mike Conroy he hasn't any thing but a crown to his hat, and can't go" to Sundaytschool and Jim Conroy hasn't any stockings. He told me so when I asked him way he didn't keep 'em pulled up. He had nothing but old feet made out of flannel rags. Oh dear, there is so much to buy!" "But you have ever so much money," said Dora's papa. "You are the rich est little girl I know." "Oh yes, I have a whole pocket-book full." said Dora. "If only Higgledypiggledy don't get it," said mamma. "Who is he?" asked papa. "A giant that gets money from little people," said mamma. "He got some of the missionary money last week," said Dora, blushing. "He must be an idol," said papa. "I will give you two little account books, and you shall put the idol's name at tho head of one, and devote the other to poor people at home, and in lands that we call heathen." "Good," said Dora, clapping her tiny white hands. "You shall see that old Higgledy won't get much." "1 hope so," said papa, taking up his evening paper. But as Itold you a few minutes ago, little children find it hard .to keep money. The candy-storcs are so very tempt ing! Candy men ought to hide thoir pretty confectionery, and not put it in the window where all the children can see it. And then the red apples and oranges and bananas—they taste so good! And it is so nice for a little girl like Dora to treat her little friends. At the end of a week papa took up the account-books and looked at Dora's little crooked figures and printed let ters. Under Higgledypiggledy he found: Two oranges, ton cents. Two bananas, eight cento. Candy dog, five oents. Throe chocolate rats, fifteen cents. A gingerbread man, one oent. A gingerbread elephant, two cents. Ice-cream, thirty oents. Three red apples, threo cents. •Under Charity, which was written in the second account-book, he read: Gave my old shoes with a hole in 'em to Betsey Ann Raker's Tom. To the heathen, seven cents. Papa took his pencil and wrote under the last entry: "it. is platii that my little Dodo loves th» idol best." When Dora read what her father had written, she was ashamed. She resolved a*** to b« verv, very, very careful, and neves let old Higgledypiggledy get such an advantage again.—Mrs. JL Youth's Companion, F. Butts, in Determined to Sncoced. "Eight times three!" said Willie Wil son. impatiently. "Oh, what is th« matter with me? Can't I get that right?" 1 "Come on, Willie!" shouted the boysl at the window "we can't wait finish: your lesson afterward." '. "O, yes," said Willie. 'Afterward!* I know all about him he has cheated me many a time, and I have no faith in him. Nine times four are thirty-six." "Bother nine times four! It is time we were off, and we shall have to go without you." "1 slmuld like to cotner it," said! Willie "it is giving mo bother enough.^ How much is it, anyhow?" "One hundred and seventy-nine. Now come on this minute, or we shall go. without you." "Look here, Harry Jones," said Willie, looking up a minute from his work "this is the last ex ample in our lesson. I've got all tho others, and 1 know I shan't have any more time for arithmetic, and I don't mean to stir from this corner till I get this bothering old fellow right. I'vo, gone over him three times now, and it won't come if I have to do it three hun-i dred times I mean to have it. So1 there!" "Bother fake the old example, any-i how?" said Harry, in his'crossest tone. "Come on boys we can't lose all the fun waiting till midnight for him and away every boy went. I'Nine times four are thirty-four, said Willie, patiently and though, of course, it was not right, and never will be, he worked away just as steadily and when he founct that he was wrong, again, he. said, taiking to himself: "Now, look here! You think you are going to beat me, don't you? Well, you were never more mistaken in your life. My namei is Persevere Wilson, Father said 1 had earned that name, and that I should have it as long as I deserved it and I hope-you don't think I am going to lose my name and my place in tne class just to please you." Then he began again, slowly, patient ly, each figure carefully studied, and at last the example "proved itself," and Willie, with a soft hurrah and a loud yawn, got up from his corner. Th® last glimmer of twilight was fading. No' use to talk of ball-playing now fun was over for that evening. "I don't care,'' said Willie, as he went up to bed "it will be more fun for me than for the others when the roll of ex amples is called to-morrow." Sure enough! Master Willie," saidi Prof. Bennet, looking up over his spec tacles, you are the only member of the class to be marked 'Perfect' to day. Thero was more ball-playing than perseverance by the rest of the class, A fear."—Young Reaper. Ambition, Selfishness and False Pride* Ambition is a very good thin? to have if you don't have too much of it. It is like quinine—good in small doses if too much is taken it is apt to have a bad effect upon the head. Ambition is a diflicult thing to define cruelty, selfish ness and false pride are its first cousins.1 Ambition, in ill-balanced natures,, makes them cruel the possessor will step to the prize over the quivering bodies of his competitors—physically speaking, in by-gone ages figuratively,, in this nineteenth century—without aj qualm of regret, except that the guer don is not greater than it is, and with out compassion for those who have fallen in the struggles. Of selfishness there are many kinds the common, every-day, won't-give-up-my-seat kind, of selfishness, and the other kind—tho rendering of small favors in expectation of a return at usury—this is the pure„ double distilled, bottled-and-corked with-a-o lass-stopper kind. Of false pride there is only one kind—but that is the meanest kind manufactured.. False pride will tell a young man to steal rather than to beg to lie concern ing his prospects rather than tell his friends he has been unwise and is in straits. The young man who arrives in a city without any friends, registers at the best hotel, and has his mail from home addressed there, taking his board out of his prospects for getting work, will be very likely to get himself into the papers as a hotel beat, and be obliged to have his letters addressed to the jail. The young man who starts out in life with the idea that in a few years he will ovvn the whole earth and a few acres of the next field, may havo to come round at the last minute and beg for so much as a seat on tho fence. "Make haste slowly" is a wise proverb its wisdom is proved by the test of experience. Rome was not built in a day, nor even a great many towns of lesser importance in history.. The only thing that ever was built in a day is a young man's air-castle, and wet all know of its durability.—Newsboys* Appeal. —Probably the laziest man on record is a prisoner in the Lockpo'rt (N. Y.)| Jail. The Sheriff wanted him to helpj shovel off the snow from the streets, but he absolutely refused to do so. He waai then given the alternative of shoveling} or being shot. He chose the latter* The authorities then proceeded to "shoot" him. He was placed in a corner of the cell with his face toward the wall. A gun was loaded with a blank cartridge, and was discharged at him. At the' same time the SheriflB threw a book at the culprit's head, and! he dropped to the floor with all the ap pearances of being a dead man, and liq probably thought he was. He soon re covered, but his dislike for shoveling snow was fully proven.—Buffalo Ex press. —A work called "Industrial Sur gery" will soon be undertaken in France. It is said that wounds made by many ol the new tools and machines used in the arts in France are often of a nature to require a special treatment, the princi ples of-which are not laid down in tha current books. ~—Central Park, N. Y., requiiesmore money to the square acre to keep it in repair than any other large public park in the world.—N. Y. News. if m\ :i K:i: i.l:' Jil "'II i' I i!-- •'TV.