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1 \ ^? *" i J\_ POIN O V. o ^7 V ' I 0 * X. % ANNIE \ I <j EDWARDS. \ CHArTER X. 11 Continued. - "I have told yon that I wniked in my garden with a feeling almost of rap 'iurons thankfulness on the morning of -Sbe child's birth. At nightfall of that <lay I paced along the same path, under the same blossoming trees^ "with the ?lespaii' of death upon my heart. Mar-, garet was finking fast. All through that night I wrestled fiercely against the well-nigh accomplished will of Cod; I called Him as only those bereft of reason call; I sought to turn away the inevitable by my weak prayers, iny J ,"1! iifrtmiofla fnv / JCSOJlilJUU.S, Ilijf |/Uddiuuair j/iu?novw 1he future; and I prayed in vain, Jane! Soon after daybreak she died. She never asked to see tbe child, nor took any notice when they tried to rouse her by speaking cf it. But a little while . before death, I thought I saw more light gathering in her eyes, and I asked her to speak to nie once more. I suppose some vague shadow of my meaning reached the poor soul, just fluttering out of its pain, for she spoke. Yes, Jane, yes?she spoke? "Not of me?not of my child?not of anything belonging to tiie life in which I had ever known her. The name she called upon was not mine; the place and time of which she murmured were n place and time of which I knew nothing. Faint whispers of love, faint parting promises?none of them for me? wei;e the last sounds I heard from the lips of the woman I had made an *Sdol of! "Well, I have wished since tliat my daughter had lived. The probabilities arc that she would have loved me. She would at least havt been something for me to have called mine?my very own?without fear; and sometimes now I picture myself with a bright-haired little daughter sitting beside my fire in these gray November nights. But at tbe time of my first stunned misery the loss of that feeble little life could bring no additional pang. A fortnight after Margaret's death hr.r'gcave' was * opened to receive her. babe, aud I stood beside it, and heard ^the service read' again, with a feeling, almost of relief . that now, indeed, all was over! I had no more to hope for, no more to fear, no more to lose?all was over!" "And the words, Mr. Follctt?" cried Jane, -vho had forgotten herself and -Ler own sufferings more than she had dene for weeks, as she marked the keen, passionate emotion of the vicar's usually impassive face; "the last words you ever heard hfer speak?" "Were simply what I have already said, Jane, words of Jove and promise fiven to another man than me! I ought to have told you that my engagement Mfirrrnrot tvqs n v#*rv Rhort One. 1 met her first at a large village festival in a remote part of tlie country, and in less than two months she was my wife.. Her father was thq1 squire of the parish, a man of considerable means, and from the first it ..somewhat sur f>rised- me that he and his wife should look so favorably upon my suit, considering that I had nothing whatever to recommend mc personally, and only a little village parsonage to offer to their daughter. I understood afterward why they were glad at her accepting tlie offer even of a poor man's 'fove. Yes, Jane, I understood it all but too*well at last. "Margaret's mother was in the same room when her daughter died, and of course heard the words she uttered as 'clearly as I did myself. She offered me 110 explanation of them, nor did I dsk for any, until after the child was gone; then, just as she was preparing to 'leiive my house, I a6ked her?I was quite calm and unmoved, I recollect?to te^,me.what they meant. ... "A very few explanations sufficed to ?b*ow me the extent to-which I had ^een deceived. Margaret had engaged > tierself, when she was almost a child. ' to a man of whom her parents disap proved, but, after vainly trying every 'means to shake her in her(misplaced attachment, they at length gave her a tardy consent to the marriage, part of the contract being that Margaret should not marry till she was nineteen, and that her lover in the meantime should go to the We6t Indies, and eet about the improvement of some property he had inherited there from his father. *' "The story neither concerns you nor me. Jane?I need not go into its details. A few weeks after Margaret's lover left England news came to her father that the vessel in which he .sailed had foundered. "And Margaret's heart broke!" cried Jane; "she ought not to have married you. Mr. Follett!" "Jane, I don't much believe in breaking hearts. It is a favorite figure of ' speech, but I don't think we have much evidence to go upon in the suuject. "This I think, that if they had let her take her grief naturally, and from the hand o_ God. she would have got through as other people get through such strokes, both to body and mind? as I, in lime, got over my loss in her. But they were afraid, her mother and father and friends, to tell ^jer the truth .at first, and in their wisdom they invented a falsehood. Her lover, they told her. was faithless?ha?l married another woman even on his passage out, and she need never think of hiir again. "She took down his picture from the wall, and all the presents he had given her, and Lis letters, and burnt t&m, one by one; and when she had done she laughed, and told them never ?to mention his name before her from that hour; and she went about the house as usual, and was quite gay and excited, and insisted she would go, 'to show peopie she was not broken-heart ed,' to a public ball that was to be held .next night at the nearest county town. "I suppose, once carried away by ^ _ - nr^jr' fill \ FOR HER fe , X, FATHER'S ? { X SIN. fe ; Vv ? 1 ?F \ & j; 10N0R; \ | i t their own falsehood, they had none of ^ them the courage to go back to the , truth. At all events, they let her go , to the ball?dressed, her mother in- ^ formed me, like a bride in white, and with, bright ^flowers upon her hair, and , in her breast. My poor little Margaret! < she never wore a white dress and liow- . ers again, save once?and that was on t a day well-nigh'as fatal in its results, j the day she became my wife." The vicar stopped. j "And at this ball she was told the j trnth!" cried Jane. "Oh, Mr. Follett, j who had the heart to tell it her at such ^ a time?" ( "Well, Jane, 1 don't understand much about these things, but I fancy your j sex?far too tender-hearted though they are in general?have some merciful and j special faculty granted them for not j feeling too deeply the distresses and ( disappointments of each other. At all t events it is, I hear, froYn women's ^ hands, not men's, that the most Spar- j tan stabs to "women invariably come. . Nearly all the people at that ball knev/ that Margaret was ignorant of her lover's death, and men danced with her, her mother told me, and looked { grave, and constrained, and as though t they wished the:dance was over, while , she rattled oiyfull of bigli spirits and -J excitement, and with a brilliant flush j upon her face. But'just before supper j two girls?young girls of her own age, { and friends of hers?were speaking, j perhaps unintentionally, of Margaret, as she passed witb one of her partners, j and saying how well dearest Maggie ^ bore her bereavement, and what a wonderful . blessing it was to have such iron nerves, and wouldn't people have ' thought sbe might, at least, have ap pcared at this ball in mourning? ^ "Sbe walked straight to her father, , with a face cold and white as the face j of any corpse, and bade him take her j houie at once. She never upbraided him or her mother; but from the hour f she knew the truth, she seemed callous ' to everything in life, and utterly cold to their grief and to their remorse." . Her lover had been deaxl about a . twelve-month when I first met her, and some likeness tha't she. saw, or t thought she saw, to him in me } awakened the first sign of life and spirits that she had yet shown. "I pass over needless details, Jane? * the poor deceit toward me, the dc spairing hope of her parents tnat iu marriage she might forget the past, the passive indifference that I mistook ^ for angelic, girlish diffidence. I have ^ told you the facts; she married me; j she never loved me?you can imagine all the rest. She married me and died; ^ and -with her buried, not love alone, but my youth and my belief in happi- t ness?all that a young man's heart sums up in the word 'life.' From the { hour that I knew that Margaret had never loved me, I was. old. I have, never felt any spring or vivid hope 'or \ black despair since then. With me, r these things died a.sudden.death. .In t natural lives, you know, they molder with the slow decay of on-coming years. Who shall say which is best, ^ Jane?to know intense happiness, and s intense misery, early, and then have ' done with both; or to have them spread n out, at intervals, over twenty, thirty, j forty years of ordinary life? I am inclined to think I am as content as | most men. T. would not exchange my . lot?with that of any man blessed with wife irnd children in this county. No great affliction can come upon me. The ^ sun can rise upon no day that will find s me robbed of. all I care to live for by night. What happiness I have is self- ? contained. I think it is best so." g "And I think such a state unnatural ^ and dreadful!" cried Jane, with sudden ' energy. "I think it is death in life; a and I say better real death, a thousand j times, than live in the selfish, stagnant, lonely content that you say is so satisfactory. Mr. Follett, you deceive yourself in thinking you would not exchange it for .the common cares and i chances of affliction that fall to the lot < of lives whose happiness and whose t misery depends upon others." I The blood shone through her frail 1 cheek; her eyes glowed; a strange ' tremor, not at all aesthetic, made itself t felt at the heart of the Vicar of Ches- I terford. It came before him strongly wliat n fool Gifford Mohun had been; -1 what a jewel beyond all price tills was i that he had thrown away. < "Jane, is it better, do you think, for < men and women to be content with the 1 inevitable"?and, whatever the tremor 1 at his heart, the vicar's voice was * usually cool and steady?"better be ' content with human life as it must and : ever will be. or to bewail the glories 1 oi! our lost Eden?the Eden at whose I gate there stands a fearful arigel, the 1 .spirit of our own dead youth, waving i us back for evermore." } "Mr. Follett, I think, though my ac- 1 tual life is to be loveless, I am glad to ? have the time to look back upon when i ?when Gifford oared for me, and that l I would rather keep that recollection I of him and be miserable?God help me! 1 ?as I am. tlr.m forget him and grow f happy in such a state as you describe." i For a man of eight and thirty, who 1 had fully done with ycutb, Mr. Fol- < lett was smitten with a strange pang J at Jane's words. He remembered suddenly and with a great clearness that he had come as a priest to console one' . of the little ones of his flock; that . with this girl's lovely waxen dieek and delicate clasped hands he had just as t much to do as with the angel carved . in stone that hovered above the altar in Chestcrford Church. He had come . tu console her, and, with this exclusive ( aim, was laying bare the secrets of that distemper of the heitrt called love, through which, in his long sealed youth, he too had passed. What mar- j tered it to talk of himself or his last | hopes, save in as far as they afforded i him?the machine, the priest?a clew I J o 1lie souroc, and so, perhaps, to somching like u cure, ol' Lis poor listener's orrows?' , "I thought as yon did onre. Jane, ns { ill mourners liave ever thought, that ' o brood inactive over a grave was less )itter work than to let the grass grow here naturally, and to come back to he commonplace duties of a bereft ife. Don't think I mean to reach to ( rou, child!" for Jane turned her face tway impatiently at the first whisper cminding her of Miss Lynch and of idmouition; "I don't think it is in your lower to feel differently to how you I eel. I only tell you that I once hei bought the same, felt the same utter th< epubnance to the very thought of a consolation or forgetfulness, as you do low, and rallied from it, Jnne; that is lie real reason that I have been talking o you so long. I recovered from the nortal stroke that laid low every hope ind interest I possessed on earth. Will r-ou let me tell you how?" "If you please, sir. But remember ill constitutions arc-not equally strong. Il'ou strike me as being made of Iron; - - - ?- ?? -1 ?f? ? Ka1/1 iiui l?i am very wean: jmj? one uciu ip before him two little, warm hands, /ail anil transparent as porcelain. - ' 'What would be a blow to you would )e just death to me. I have no rallyng power, bodily or mental. Miss _.ynch says so; Mr. Huntley said so? Nhen he saw his tonics weren't going o do me any good." "Huntley is a fool!" exclaimed Mr. ?ollett, warmly. "I beg your pardon. Tane; I mean Huntley talks about hings of which he is most profoundly gnorant. No rallying powers! "What Iocs he know about rallying powers, he struggle of life against death?th* greatest of all the mysteries that lie iid in us?when he doesn't rightly unlerstand what spirit it is that moves me muscle iu this poor little liand?of ours?" He took her hand,'and Jane long aferward remembered that his own sir remblcd; then he dropped it suddenly, co: md began?as one'may return to the foi ead'ihg of a book?at the exact point fit . . 1!??? i,? llo/1 h0 n U1S own narration ut nuiui w- ? eft ofl'. i think ho found that drawing en my but an indirect parallel between thj lis case and Miss Grand's led liim into wl ather different roads to those lie had thi aid down for himself when he quitted an lis vicarage gate an hour before! inl "My wife's mother left my house, su Taue, and I kept up no further ac- of luaintance with her or any person .-onuected with Margaret's family. Dne or two female relations of my own cindly proposed, when they heard of ny bereavement, to come and keep my louse lor me, but I refused all their >ffers. I should have shuddered to see mother face save hers at my table; itter silence was better than to hear he sound of any other voice than hers n my study. Besides," what communty of interest could any alien life have vith mine? I had had one interest, one lappiness, one intense, passionate deight in living, and it was gone. All I isked for or desired was to be left ilone, to hear, to see, to read nothing eminding me of a world beyond "this lftrrow one that hemmed in my o'fn xistence and its misery. "I am telling ytffc what Imppened ifteen years ago?a y?jf before I came o Chesterford, and tirst saw your little ace, child?yet every individual and listinct torture, out of the crowd of ortures that made up my life then, is is vivid to me as though I had gone hrough them not a year ago. "For a great many days sfter t?e irst blow fell on me I remained as one lupetied. The long summer days, the hort, bright midsummer nights Irngged over me?one dreary nightnare of dull pain?and I gave no cry o heaven-forrhelp. "Margaret had never loved me?Margaret's lips had never given me one Jss of true love; and she \eas dead, tnd my child was dead, and I was ilone. I realized each fact thoroughly, ind repeated them again, and again, tnd again, as the brain involuntarily nultiplies one sickening image in bodly fever, but I felt nothing in the last iegree approaching to sorrow for myielf or for what I had lost. "This was the first natural stage, the irst stunned condition to which mind md body are alike subject, you know, tfter any very violent blow? It passed Lway in an hour, in a moment, as a lervant asked me for some direction ibout a common domestic matter in no v*y bearing on my affliction?it passed _ tway, and I awoke to know real and w, lassionate and despairing grief. (To be Continued.) jn A Russian Deathbed. C8 A scathing arraignment of the real ulers of Russia?the priests of the Or- tr! hOdox Church?is a leading article in dm ho World's Work. Mr. Percivai Gib- th Jon, in his account ot' "The Church's ' 31ight on Russia," tells the following ac ncident to show the fatal grip of a tu >esotted clergy on the ignorant Russian th peasantry: th There is a dreadful tale which I have tic old before in another place. It was pi; ;iven me as authetie, to illustrate tho th :ondition of the prieslhood of the Or- in hodox Church. Let it be a picture. A ap ir.t, in which si man lies dying, sodden tu ivith fear lest he may pa?; ere the last be sacrament be administered to him. ' Ike shaggy, long-robed pope has come, fo ind the gear is laid ready; but ere he qi rvill get t<? his work and unburden the bu loor soul he will have an enhanced fo ?rice for it. The wife of the dying fo nan comes from the side of the ---1 --J -> TT?1 squaiia oea auu picuus ?uu mui. Ji?r leers and is obdurate. Tlien a son -w ill 1 compel him, aud they tight about th? of room, wbile the shaking patient stares W from bis pillow. The priest seizes the P1' bread and tries to break it. for broken tr! bread may not be blessed, while the P'{ son of tbe dying man grasps his arm to save it, and in tbe wrestle tbe little 110 loaf crumbles at last, and tbe sick maw 'jn closes bis eyes with u sigh of despair, s" igniting damnation. 9'(l Love mill Cookery. Among tbe middle classes bad cookrig is quite as universal as in tbe work- j ing classes. If only English women ^ would not turn up their pretty noses ce] it cookery mid tbe art of housekeep-. 60| ing, they would tin;! themselves amply tje rewarded in tbe affection of their fnm- eff ilies and tbf domestic proclivities of thi their husbands, says tbe Loudon S0] Urapbic. jn, The styles which will prevail in furs (he coming season are tbe various 1)0 grades of muskrat, natural, blended M and black, only tbe backs, and not tbe bellies, being used. i:, . . V V few York City.?There is no coat < tter liked or more fashionable than \ i blouse Eton and none that suits j greater number of occasions, n is j i ||?. ; iart, jaunty and very generally beruing, it involves fewer difficulties r tlie amateur than do the tightly ted coats, and it can be worn at all urs of the day. Here is one that is iluently simple at the same' time at it is eminently chic and 6mart and lich appropriately can be made of e light weight velvets, velveteens 1 d broadcloth!, and, indeed, all suit- I js that allow of being tucked with ] ccess. As illustrated, cloth in one i the new shades of sage is trimmed < <T 1 uiked Blouse T Ith velvet and handsome buttons, but ire again there is opportunity for dividuality, for the collar and cuffs n be made of broadcloth on- rough fiterial, of the material braided or [mmed with banding or of moire or, deed, of any contrasting material at may be preferred. The coat is made with fronts, back id centre front, all of which are eked. The ncck is finished with e collar and the closing is made at e centre front, the tucked centre por>n being booked over invisibly into ace. The sleevfs are quite new ones at are full above the elbows, laid tucks below, a trimming band being plied over the upper edges of the i ->i-o -r^iiita fiiaro finished with < ?' ""I coming flare cuffs. The quantity of material required r the medium size is four and a mrtor yards twenty-one, three and a , ilf yards twenty-seven or two yards .< rty-four inchfs wide, with one yard ; r collar, cuffs and belt. KlbboiiH anil Trimmlnjr*. Rib#r>ns of taffeta and satin weaves, very limp textures and in plain lors, are those which have part incipally in the making and in the mining of the models in headwear *ced on recent exposition. But w.*h faille and moire ribbons wero ticeable on some of the latest of the ported hats; and. as in the piece ks, shot colorings in the ribbons, be[p oifilii coloring.*, were to be taken jount of ? Millinery Trade Review. Fre.ilciPliner* In Hntft. j'reakishness, without doubt, will utinue to obtain as a feature in rtain of the brims of the new seal's bats. Yet there are some evinces of an inclination to modify the ect of the capricious by varying sin with brims of simple design, me of which are very little unspring* in adjustment or irregular in outies; and the flat brim of the sailor ing reckoned among the approved.? illiuery Trade I!eview. - An Invisible Plaid. LLke?^lltl>e irst of these suits this ; 1 * . smart example is an invisible plaid of the ever favored blue and green mixture, is tight fitting and has sleeves i trifle more roomy than the coat sleeve. In reality this coat is an Eton jacket to begin with, the skirts being stitched on like the front and sides of a man's Prince Albert. The Velvet collar and coffs are finished with folds of blue, green and russet cloth. / Severe Tailor-Madea. The plainest, most severe tailor cuts are smart this y^ar, while half-fitted nnd tight-back coats are both worn Not the box coat?this is ever an ugly fashion and, saving for ($]J(J.ren, nevei becoming. Coat 6leeves are ail large, leg o'mutton, but fuller than in the spring. Turned-back cuffs, embrodd - ? ? A-V XVJ I ered or or silK or veiret 10 muicu un collar, make an attractive finish to i model otherwise a trifle too plain. # ,A Drebsiue Jacket. A charming negligee, or dressing jacket, as it is generally known, i! made of cashmere with a band of satil ribbon near the edge. The cat is cir cular and the upper revers-llke pari forms deep points at the sides and i| the back, while in the lower part ari places for the arms to go through. " Blouse TValat With Vert. * Vest effects are greatly in vogue this season and are to be' noted upon 'many v of the newest and most attractive blouses. Illustrated Is one . which is much to be'deslred, both for the en- : tire gown and for that separate blouse without which no wardrobe is complete and which allows of variations galore. As illustrated it is made of. plaid silk with the tucked front, vest and cuffs of plain but harmoHdaiBg color finished with a plain but simple 'i I Valet, 32 to 40 Bust banding.- Any contrasting materials could, however, be used with suceess and again the waist of plain color can be combined with plaid or with stripes or with the same material trimmed, or again the little ve?t might be of velvet with the tucked front of plain silk. The waist is made over a fitted lining, which closed at the centre front, and itself consists of the fronts, centre front vest portions and back. The; back is plain, drawn down in gathers at the waist line, but the front is tucked to give a box pleated effect at j the edges ?u'd to provide fullness from the shoulders. The closing is amie invisibly beneiith the edge of the left side. The sleeves are the favorite ones of the season (hat 'ire full above the moderately deep cuirs. Tlie quantity of material required for the medium size is three and a half yurds tweuty-one, three and threeeighth yards twenty-seven or twe/ yards yards forxy-four inches wide, with three-quarter yard any width for? centre front, vest and culls" and three and a half yards Of hnnding. POWHATAN hHH k Good Old l^dlin Name Survives. Toe name of that old Tn<l!:^H^flH^M r. ho ruled over most of ea$t^^^H0R9fl ginia in the earliest Colonial not called as much now as HMB fornieily. It survives in good bawtan County and in the Po^HBE^BH pipe, and in six different posto^HQ^HH different States of the Union. N sas ti}ey have Powhattan, suppose is a mis-spelling, fo^^HJ^H| a mispronunciation of Powiiatal I many people of this generatio^^^HBBa forgotten, if they ever knev^HHj^^B King Powhatan's summer was about a half mile beIo^flflH^^| mond, while his winter quarter^^^H^H In Gloucester, and that he wa^^^H^H nately a good friend and a'greatl^^H^^B of Capt. John Smith, and that the father of Pocahontas, from descended many Virginians of I H But so it was, and all that -fl H thing makes us close conuecti^^H^^H I bis; However, be was of a roviil I position and moved bis town of tepees?from place to place, an^HH^^H .''back driver's history" only died at bis sometime bome nea^^HH city, known as Powhatan.'We do not fail to remembei^^RMH^ Powhatan was the name of the River before the colonists int^HnRH their ships and skiffs upon it?'buH B is another story. Once, it was quite common foi^^H^^B <rinio hnv hnhlf>K? to be chrislHH^m "Powhatan" and gifls "Pocalioi^^B^H|] but not so dow. We can well u^Hfl^Vj stand how the latter name ceas^^^nEg be agreeable to ladies since the diminutive of it was "Pokie," butH H the royal name of Powhatan slfl B have fallen into disuse is not vious. However, a period came provision had to be made for the^^^^Hj petuation of the fame of George ington, Thomas Jefferson. Lafaj^H^^H Jo mi . Marshall, Patrick Henry afflH other "patriot fathers." Then drew Jackson and Wihfield SeottJB H -to have their day, and yet later Beauregard, Ashby and other Con^^^^H erate names attained popularity. fashions change in names as thej^^^^B in riothes and iust now, there tendency to turn back to old registers and reproduce the namefl the. long ago and it may be that^^HH shall have soon a new crop of "PHHH hatans." We are not so hopeful abHHH the ^establishment of "Pocabont^^^H in public favor, the reason why H M have already given. But rocalionj^H^Bj other Indian name was "Mateo, "Matoaca," and that is pretty, an<SH^N not liable to any objection, so farHHH we can see. W H When fcbe and John Rolfe had "mafl^H n mntrh." she embraced Christianl^^H and was baptized under tbe name Rebecca. But, all that aside?we cc^^JB elude by expressing our ardent liol I tbat tbe new Powbatan babies m^RjH bave their names correctly piHHH nouneed. We can tolerate no tlon of tbe sound of "Manhattan." j Let ^ it be good old-faisbioned, Virginia ]fl Powhatan, with the "h" silent, and tbe second accent * on "tan."?Richmond Times-Dispatch. Modern Borneo and Juliet. *9 Juliet was the ideal age, about four- ? teen. She wore a red coat tbat just I came down to her boot tops and ?he B Viionb- hat thflt mrtlv | JJUU Vii a uig ? * ? m ^ shadowed her strikingly pretty face, sfl She bad just come out of Sunday- v school with a companion who was too young to flgnre as the nurse, by cojjparison, yet was old enough to sympt ' < tbize with the commotion that wa^[^ raging in Juliet's heart. ^:1J Side by side the two girls walked ! slowly up the cross street and then, *]* as if they were measuring their steps. I they turned about and returned to the , 9 corner. When they reached a point - I whore Juliet could see a young man r J who was standing half way down the I block talking to a group of his friends,' I she cast a demure glance in bis direc- > I tion?but quite as thongh she were ! I looking miles beyond him?and then in J turned about and retraced her steps up the side street Slowly she walked nm* * "1? 11-?,7 Krt'rtl- offain 2, f up &D<1 SIOWIV Hilt 1VJHCU Ud\.a Uf,uni. Just as she reached the. corner?it lar was beautifully timed?Romeo crossed ^ her path. Romeo was at th& stage in his youth when he probably would fer to the maid as "a little gh*l,"rao< though she was almost up to his shoul-u? der. He. was undeni&oly good looking, and he was also courteous; for he Jg bowed to the two g*rls and took off his' hpt, with a sweep as he met them. T~j But he went on his way, leaving Juliet standing on the corner with an ecsta- ; tic glow in her - eyes and one hand pressed to her coat over her heart.? i New York Tress. < >o Cbarjfe Tor Insect*. Anent the curious habit of that fam- l ous naturalist, Francis T. Buckland, b l woe nenn 11 v Accompanied on his g nuu iiuo ? travels by his pet monkey, the follow- * ing story is told: ' At a certain railway station the naturalist applied for a ticket for the animal. The man at the booking office went 'carefully over his schedule of ; charges for animals. "Cows is cows," quoth he, "and so 1 is donkeys. Cats is dogs, and fowls is likewise. Sir, that'll have to go as a dawg," pointing to the monkey. "Well, what will this go as?" laughed the naturalist, pulling a live tortoise from his pocket. As to this the schedule did not afford any i?:ormation, and the clerk turned in scorn from its perusal. "We don't charge nothink for them," 1 he said; "they ain't nothink. They're \ an jnseek!"?Chicago Journal. \ " ? The Mission of the Drama. ^ The temples of the drama are scat- 1 tered everywhere, in the small towns 1 "" oo itt rho Tpjtt tto ?rv?* * * o v ?v, 0. - doors are open not Sundays <^MH9HE every day of the week. Its c^NflH|^HH gladly, and sense of duty, or at the prit^H^H^o^B conscience. They are in a mood. The seen comes directly to all classesfl|Hj^^H| to every age. A grea|^R^N^HB quantity of what they see taken into their con^^^^^flB|H and, unknown to themsel^B^^f^^H fleeted faintly or strongln^^^^fl^H own and their own yet we, who think oursel^|^^^H|^H people, let this potent in^H^^BMHI good or bad find its guidanJ^^^^^^^^f | ever bands it may chance Metcaif, in the Atlantic. Mk MM