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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J %\\ Independent .Jfamilij DticKpaper: Joq the $romotion of the political, Social, Jfjfitultuijal and ^ommqtial Interests of the jsouth. j TERMS?$2.00 A YEAR IN ADVANCE. ______ "YOBKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1891. NO. 40. ' ' ? - - ^ mi? T THE MAN Wl BY W. C. 11v " ' Whose Nom tie Flu.11 Author ol* "The I [Copyright, 1891, by Cassell Publishing C ment wit SYNOPSIS. Chapter 1.?John Dorisoh, son of the -? head of the house of Dorison A Co., deceased, returns after eight years of wandering under a cloud, to the old home in New York city. The basement is used as a saloon, and stepping in Dorrison makes a chance acquaintance with Job Nettleman, who knew the Dorisons in their best days Chapter 2.?Nettleman leaves the saloon and in a few moments blood is seen trickling from the ceiling. The saloon keeper and his customers rush to the front stairway to reach the floor above. / * Dorison goes up the rear stairs and find a ** 1' a young woman weltering in blood. He m also discovers-a miniaturejaoitait of his father artd a fhmillarring on the stand,** both of which' he secures. A scrap of paper in the dead woman'b hand ana another on the floor are also taken and secreted. The entry of detectives and police place him under suspicion. The room is used as a costumer's establishment by Mme. Delamour. Chapter 3.?Dorison, using the alias James Dudley, calls on Dettleman to help him conceal his identity. At Nettleman's office he meets Simon Cathcart, a private detective, who engages him to assist in working up the murder case. Dorison's father died while writing the. letter, which tho rnn nf rrrftVP apphfcuuv acvujjcu iuv ovm w. 0 crimes. The scraps found in t ie costurner's room are in the handwriting of Dorison, senior, and appear relate to thesubjeot broached in tne un inished letter. Chapter 4.?Madame Delamour, the costumer, is Mrs. Farish. Cathcart goes to her private house and tinds that she has been murdered in the same manner as the young woman in the costumeris shop. The latter was Mrs. Farish's daughter Annie. A mysterious young man callod on the Farish's at intervals, and on his last visit went away angrv. Cathcart finds a man's glove near Mrs. Farish's body. Chapter 5.?Mystery in the Farish house. Mrs. Farish assumed mourning, ? Annie withdrew from society and a son disappeared, all about thedateof Dorison's death. The glove found near Mrs. Farish's body has an extraordinarily long thumb. Chapter 6.?Cathcart starts Dorison out as a young man of fashion to discover the wearer of the glove with a long thumb. Chapters 7 and 8.?Dorison saves a young lady from being run down by a caiViage on Broadway. She is the daugh ter of an old friend of his father, Mr. Fnctfjtre CHAPTER IX- . THE MAN WITH A THUMB. He turned to go out when he saw the man with the thumb enter the door. Lost in gloomy thought he wandered on, caring little whither he went. He reached Third avenue without knowing why he bad walked in that direction. Near the corner an elderly man, with long hair and beard, had erected a frail, low platform which he had lit up with oil lamps. He was an itinerant phrenologist, and was holding forth in long words and execrable grammar npon the marvelous head of a 6treet gamin he had per A?xt*ninofiAn Ouor bQttUCU IU bUUUlil iu c^dmiuauvu. v*v* bis bead was a placard. "A man is wbat be makes himself." Dorison did not ask what pertinency the aphorism might-have to the old man's occupation, but applying it to himself langhed bitterly, and asked alond: "Is that so? What am I bnt the football of chance?a chip on the rushing waters of life 1 can neither resist nor control." He stopped idly to listen to the street fakir as he gulled his auditors, standing on the outer edge of the circle in a shadow. Tiring of listening, he turned to go, when his attention was attracted by a figure which seemed familiar. A glance sufficed to show that it was the . young man he bad encountered at the time of the accident to Miss Eustace, who was so insolent. Perceiving that he was not observed by the young man, he determined to remain where he was, rather than encounter for a second time the one who had filled him with such repugnance. The young man, dressed as he was in the afternoon, lounged under the shadow of a covered entrance to the rear of the corner saloon. As Dorison watched him a man, sharp eyed and alert in his bearing, taking note of everything about him, passed by. Dorison heard a low, shrill whistle, and thought he discovered an exchange of signals between the newcomer and the lounger, but so rapid and inRicnifitiant were thev that, perceiving no change in the attitude of the young man, and seeing the other one pass on, he concluded he was mistaken. A moment later the sharp eyed man returned, passing close to the lounger in the shadow, and this time Dorison saw plainly that a folded paper was transferred from the lounger to the passer by, who went on a little distance and then sauntered back. As he passed the lonnger he said, without turning his head: "When?" "Tonight," replied the lounger. The sharp eyed man joined the circle of those listening to the phrenologist, listened a moment, and then stepping back said: "What hour?" "Between twelve and one," came the answer from the lounger. The alert man again joined the circle, and again listening a moment stepped back and Dorison beard the further exchange: "How many?" "Three." With this the alert young man walked off rapidly toward the corner and disappeared. The lounger emerged from bis shadow and went off in the direction of Broadway. "Mysterious," muttered Dorison. "Now, what can thut mean? If I were Cathcart I presume 1 would construct the theory of a great crime or a huge conspiracy." He came out of the dark corner. A young woman was coming down the street intent upon her own thoughts, humming a tune. As she came opposite the entrance to the saloon referred to as the one under the shadow of the cover of which the antipathy of Dorison was lounging, the door was nung open ana a loudly dressed man. partially intoxicated, came out. Seeing the young woman he cried out: "Hello, Bess, old gal." "Go 'way," she replied, trying to evade him. But he reached forward and, catching her by the arm, tried roughly to pull her to him, as he said, with a taunting laugh: "No, you don't, my bird. Come here and give me a kiss." _ "Let me go," cried the girl, struggling to free herself. "Let me go, you big loafgr, or I'll call the police." I h I TH A THUMB. HUDSON, tie is Barclay IVorth, )iamond Button." ompany and published by special arrangeh them.] "Or, Johnny the Grip, eh? Oh, no, you don't go until you give me a kiss." He bent over in an endeavor to carry out his threat when she dealt him a smart blow upon his cheek with her open hand. With an oath he made a motion as if to strike tier, wnen a policeman, running from the corner, cried out: , "None of that, now." Dorison, before whose eyes this scene had been enacted so rapidly that he could not interfere, supposed the cry of the policeman was addressed to the ruffian, but to bis surprise he saw Jiim "Pre been looking for this. Now I'll take you in." "I've done nothing," 6aid the girl in alarm. "He insulted me for no reason." "Oh yes! Of course. That's likely,** cried the officer, scornfully. "Officer," interposed Dorison, "you will do an act of injustice if yon arrest this young woman. I was a witness of the whole thing." "Do you know this woman?" "No, I don't, bnt I know she was not to blame in this matter." "Well, I do," persisted the officer. "Whether you do or not," replied Dorison, "you mustn't arrest her for anything she's done tonight. If you commit such an outrage I'll make trouble for you." "Are you a 'pal* of her's?" "I'm a 'pjil' of nobody," said Dorison with dignity. "Do you know what she is?' asked the officer with a sneer. "No, and I don't ask. But 1 dc know she was passing along the street quietly when this ruffian came out of that door, and seizing her tried to kiss her, an indignity she very properly resented. You must not arrest her; if you do I will make a complaint against you where it will trouble you. If you must arrest ' any one arrest the rascal who molested her." Impressed by Dorison's stern manner, 4-u.rv IAATTQ/1 PAF fVio nff/anilMr dp. tau UiUV/Ci iwavu 4.W4 4MV nounced and to the surprise of all he had disappeared. "He's had some reason for sliding out," said the officer to himself. Then turning to the girl he said: "You're in lnck tonight in havin this swell at your hack. You look out though; I'm watchin you." The girl, who had not spoker a word during the passage between th officer and Dorison, now turned to the latter and said: "I am obliged to you for yoi.r kindness, sir. You've got me out of a bad i scrape, sir." The policeman had gone back to the | corner. The girl, watching him, laid ' her hand upon the arm of Dorison to detain him. 'Tm not what that man wants to make me out. I've got a man I am as much married to as if the priest had 'said the words. That man?the polictman?has been following me for a year, md he's got it in for me because I told t m to go about his business. The otht: man's crooked?he's a thief, and my man knows he is. I won't forget your kindness. It isn't every swell as would interfere to help a woman like me." She went off nodding and smiling. "I'm in for adventures today," muttered Dorison, as he retraced his steps through Twenty-ninth street to Broadway. "I wonder if destiny directed me this way to help that poor girl. Apparently I have an occupation in life? the rescuing of pretty young women. It does not promise to be remunerative, yet if thanks were coin I wonld be rich tonight." The incidents of the evening had I stirred him from his gloomy thoughts, ; and his mind reverted to the episode of the early afternoon, bringing the fair ; young face with violet eyes and cluster; ing golden curls before him. In what j direction his thoughts strayed may be ! judged from the remark he muttered aloud as he turned into Broad way. "It was a sunbeam shot athwart I dark life, and as unattainable as the sun I itself." Arriving in front of Daly's theater, upon a sudden impulse he turned in and bought a ticket Though the cur! tain was up the play had not progressed ! far into the first act when ho found him' self comfortably seated. Passionately fond of the drama, he was soon engrossed in the brightness of the dialogue and the skill of the sterling J favorites, Rehan and Lewis. Immediately in front of him sat a genj tleman with whom he had a slight ac; quaintance. Beside this acquaintance, I evidently his companion, sat a j*oung | man whose countenance he noted was i the most attractive he had ever seen in a man. Somewhat plump and fair, good humor, intelligence and refinement : reigned in it. He further noted that the young man was endowed with a i head of hair which should by right have I been bestowed upon one of the other sex, for it was pure golden, fine, 6oft, I silky and curly. From time to time, as j interest in the play flagged, Dorison ! turned to look at that kindly, winsome | face, remarking how ariless and re| eponsive it was without losing a particle ; of manliness. "Yet," he commented, "such a face, I take it, would win more with men than with women." By and by the young man who had thus attracted his attention threw his arm over the back of the seat, permiti ting it to hang limply behind him. Dorison started violently. He turned ' pale and a feeling of sickening faintness i swept over him. Had not all faces been ; intent upon the stage his marked agita| tion must have attracted the attention j of all about him. He trembled in every : limb. There was the hand he had been bid| den to seek. Not only was it the hand with protni! L-nn/.t'ldu ynd with ili?_ | UCUb JUIUtO auu anuvn.vo MTIAV* T* .VM i proportionately long thumb, but it was i incased by the mate of the very glove he ' had that morning examined. It was the same in color, in quality, in j form and in the peculiarity of its make. I Like that one, it fitted in every part of | the hand that wore it perfectly, j For a moment or two everything swam i before his eyes. He seized the arms of | his seat to prevent himself from falling. ! The sensation, as powerful as it was, | passed away and he got himself under j better control. He studied the hand and glove. There could be no mistake, j The opportunity for close examination was ample before the young man withdrew his hand. From this moment the drama on the j stage lost all interest for him. He now I was concerned in a tragedy before whose dread events the puny happenings of the ; comedy paled into insignificance. He studied the face of the young man with ; new interest and from another point of view. "It is the hand and the glove," he said - to himself, "but it is difficult to believe that that face could have beCTi concerned i in such awful work!" Yet, while he expressed this thought, he did not falter in his belief that the ; murderer of Mrs. Farish and her daughter sat before him. For a brief moment he contemplated the wild idea of denouncing the man there and then. This was due to the strength of Cathcart's theorizing. Though the old detective would have laughed at Dorison's certain ty, he could not have failed to have been complimented by this sincere testimony to the power of his reasoning. What Dorison did determine to do was to wait until the play was done and follow the young man, with a view of discovering who he was. He grew so impatient for the curtain to fall, and 60 nervous over the slow progress the comedy made, that, unable to sit still longer, he left his seat and went into the rear of the theater, from whence he could command a view of the house and not lose sight of his prey. After what seemed to him an interminable time the curtain fell and the large audience slowly made its way out. As the two upon whom his eyes were fixed approached the spot where he stood, the companion of the man with a thumb recognized Dorison with a courteous bow and passed on. Dorison followed. At the outer door the twain stopped and conversed earnestly. And suddenly, before Dorison could anticipate the act, the man with the thumb flung a laughing negative to some persuasion of his friend, darted across the pavements, leaped into a waiting carriage and was rapidly driven away. The other turned to watch the people pass out. Dorison stepped up, and saluting him, said: "1 have been strangely attracted by the face of your companion of the even2 ?? I Unnn WAWAIIT PAAtl AT\Q TMATO tXM T1 Ulg. I ua> u xaictj owu wuv m*v?v .? ning. May I ask his name?' The gentleman, who was one introduced to Dorison through the maneuvering of Nettleinan, laughed as he replied: "The common experience. Every one is attracted by it. 1 tell him that, like the traditional girl, he carries his fortune in his face. He is as good a fellow as it indicates. His name is" At that moment a gentleman with a lady on either ann addressed the speaker, and the sentence was stopped short of the information it was to convey." Lifting his hat to Dorison with request to be excused, he offered h's arm to one of the ladies and walked away. Dorison was disappointed, but he consoled himself with the thought that the information was not lost, only delayed, since he could soon find the gentleman who possessed it. Quite excited he strolled down the 6treet and entered that great thoroughfare, the Hoffman House. Having made a tour of the corridors and the art gallery without finding any one he knew, he turned to go out, when he saw the | man with the thumb enter the door. To his great surprise, also, he saw the young man whom he had seeu twice before that day under most dissimilar circumstances?the insolent young manstart up from a corner and address the other. The man in whom he, Dorison, had so great an interest returned a cold and unmistakably haughty bow and passed on. while the other colored, frowned and returned to his corner. The man with the thumb supplied hiniRAlf with a eicar nt the case, went oat again, and leaping into his cab was driven off. "Strange," mattered Dorison, "that that man should cross my path three times today, ending np with showing he knows the man I want to know so badly." CHAPTER X. j BY WAY8 UNKNOWN. ^ "The name of the gentleman you Inquired about is Eustace. Early the next morning, even before he had breakfasted, Dorison sought the old detective at his room. "Have you found your glovemakerr asked Cathcart as he entered. "I have something much better," replied Dorison. "The man with the thumb." "You are expeditious," said the old man, so coolly as to dampen the ardor of the j'ounger one, who rather anticipated an outburst of surprise and excitement. "It was purely by accident." he said. "Well, tell me the story, and begin at the beginning." Thus adjured, his enthusiasm repressed | by the total lack of it in the other, DoriI son began with his entrance into the j theater, omitting no detail. When he had finished. Cathcart shook j lis head dubiously. "What is wrong?" anxiously queried j Dorison. "Do you think I erred in perI mitting the young fellow to get away without learning his name?" "No: that can be e;isily obtained. But 1 I distrust the conclusions of your infor| ination." Dorison was puzzled and Baid so. "I mean this," said the old detective. "Not only did you find a hand which ! answers perfectly to the one I want, but ! you found an exact mate to the glove I which you examined yesterday morning. ' You have found too much. If you had j found the hand without the glove, or the 1 glove without the hand, I would feel beti ter satisfied. You have found so much I at the first blush, which being establish! ed would almost justify immediate arrest, it shakes my confidence. 1 am afraid your imagination ran away with you." "Not in this instance," said Dorison. highly displeased and disposed to resentment. "There could possibly be no mistake." i "My sensation is one of disappointI ment, and 1 give great heed to mysensa j tions. Perhaps you may be entirely right. But let me present a considera| tion to you. You do not doubt that the man who lost the glove failed to discover his loss, do you?" "No." "Then having done so, recollecting where lie removed it, and having committed the murders, don't you think he would be worried over the loss and would fear that by it he had given a clew to a search for himself?" "Very probably." "Do you think a man so worried would don an identically similar pair and go into so conspicuous a place as a theater?" "Well, what do you argue then?" "Either that you have been grossly ' mistaken, or that the man with the thumb is not the man wanted." "You are discouraging." "1 do not nieau to be so; we must bo cautious in so important a matter as an : arrest." "You must see the man yourself then," replied Dorison, much nettled. "I can do no more than tell you I have found a man whose right hand corresponds precisely in every particular, even to the peculiar prominence of the second ' knuckle, to the hand you want, and i who wears a glove precisely similar to the one I saw yesterday morning. Now," ; continued Dorison, growing more earnest, "when I examined that glove I paid less attention to the form of the hand it fj,o? tn Hi? 111:1 kp kind and lUUlLUkCU vv fc..v ..... T color of tho glove?particularly the color. 1 accepted your description of tho baud as true. On seeing it I saw it j was one of the kind a man of fashion would wear in the evening." "Ah!" cried Cathcart. interested. "Follow up that point. Tell ine what i you mean?" "The man who wore it was in full 1 dress. Fashion's laws are inexorable. At present it prescribes just that kind of a glove for evening wear, just that color. Probably ten thousand men wore just such a glove last night in the cities | of the east. Now, that young man, putting on full dress, would naturally draw on one of that kind. You said the man j who wore the glove was a bit of a dandy. This man is." | "You have made a point," said the old man. "The man we want, besides having a big thumb and prominent joints, was tall and slim, with brown hair." full FT a ViQrl fnrrrntfan I LSKJk IDKJL1 a 1HWU 4VII. MW UMS4 I this requirement. He hesitated to reply. "Well," said Cathcart, "does your man answer to that?" "No," replied Dorison sullenly. "He was short and plump, his hair was light, a golden color." ' "Then he is either not the man we want, or we have come upon a variation in j our theory. However," added Cathcart, ' "that is not to say your information is J j not important. Upon the contrary, it j ; is highly so. You must follow him up: I make his acquaintance, gain his regard, j an4 if possible get on terms of intimacy with him. When you have found out his haunts I must get a look at him." "You would do all this believing he is not our man," asked Dorison. with something of a sneer. "I believe nothing," replied the old j man testily, "but I disbelieve nothing, i You jump at conclusions. It is a bad j fault, especially in an inquiry like the one we are engaged in. You came here certain you had found the murderer. Now, upon the expression of a possible doubt, you are certain he is not. Yet yop have shown me a flaw in my reasoning. I neither believe nor disbelieve at this stage of the game. I am open to conviction on all sides. This man with the thumb must be followed up. Obtain his name?all about him." "I had two chances at him last night I saw him afterward at the Hoffman." "Indeed. Was he alone?" "Yes, at the Hoffman. Though a man | who had crossed my path twice before j during the day accosted him." "A frieud?" "Evidently not. My man was cold i and haughty toward him?came as near | giving him a dead cut as he could with- j out doing so." "Who and what was the other?" To- answer that question involved a j statement of the episode of rescuing Miss Eustace, the call of the father, and the i strange incident upon the corner of j Third avenue and Twenty-ninth street When Dorison finished, the old man, I who had been an attentive listener, said: "The meeting of these two men was mysterious. Something wrong there. So this man spoke to your man, eh?" "Yes, attempted to, but was repelled by the other." "Mr. Eustace rPscovered y<?nr strong resemblance to your father. You must follow that up. You must cultivate his acquaintance." "To what end?" 'He was intimate with your father, and you may find him valuable in solving the mystery of that unfinished letter." "Oh," exclaimed Dorison, with peculiar emphasis, "I had supposed that inquiry was lost sight of in the superior importance of the other." The old man keenly regarded the other as he gave expression to the slight sarcasm. "Do you not know," said Cathcart impressively, "that in the revelation of the mystery of one the mystery of the other will be revealed?" Somewhat abashed, Dorison hesitated J before he replied: "You have not been particularly communicative as to your theories. I have followed you blindly." "1 believe success is more surely attained by keeping my plans to myself," replied Cathcart calmly. "I do not complain," replied Dorison hastily. "1 recognize my own want of skill, and therefore am content to obey implicitly." "And thereby be most useful. Now seek this man of yours. You need not come to me until you have learned all you can. Let me tell you for your own satisfaction, that notwithstanding your belief that the one thing in which you are particularly interested is being overlooked, that I have devoted the past three days, and will possibly for several days to come, to a most searching in quiry into the relations your father maintained for the years immediately preceding his death. What I have learned I shall not tell you, for 1 have not yet digested it. As soon as you can accomplish it, arrange so I can get a good look at your man." Dorison, as he walked away from Cathcart, felt as if he was a very inexperienced man, and had much yet to | learn of the ways of the world. It was in this frame of mind that ho , Bought the Hoffman House for breakfast The hour was not early, and he was en| abled to obtain one of those tables ad| joining the windows looking out on J Broadway, where he could watch the I tide of humanity us it floated by. He was so much engrossed in this watching that he did not observe a gentleman ris! ing from a table near him, and cross the I room to his own table. It wasBushnell, the one whom he had seen in the theater the previous evening with the man with I the thumb : 'I suppose an apology for my abrupt | departure last evening is due you, Mr. Dudley." he said. ! Dorison replied courteously: j "The apology was made in the very fuiwM uf interriintion." | "I am glad you take it so politely. I'll ; answer your question now. The name of the gentleman yon inquired about is : Eustace, and there is uo better fellow i alive than Charley Eustace." "Eustace!" said Dorison in surprise. I 'Eustace! iudeed. What Eustace?" "He is the son of Herbert Clavering ! Eustace, an old New York family of wealth and social position. Charley h:is i beeu abroad for many years, having only returned a few months ago. Do you know the family?" ! 'I can hardly say 1 do, although I had a call from Mr. Eustace yesterday evening Earlier in the day I had the honor , of saving his daughter from being run over on Broadway, and ho called to ; acknowledge the service." "Indeed!" replied Bushnell, "was she I injured? I heard last evening she was ill - i presume it was she who was illthere are two daughters, you know." j '1 did not know it." answered Dorison. "Miss Eustace was not injured, though she was knocked down by a horse; but j that she might be ill from the shock she received. I can readily believe." 'Yes, it tnust be she." returned Bushnell. "Charley, who had not been home to dinner?indeed lie maintains bachelor i apartments?did not know of it last night when we were together. She is a charming girl." j Dorison did not reply for a moment or ' two. His mind was busy with thoughts of bow singularly the affairs of these people were becoming tangled with his own. His companion rattled on: j "I saw you were much attracted to Charley last evening. Everybody is. He carries the stamp of his goodfellowship on bis face." , "1 was much interested in him. Does he follow a profession?" 'No: he has studied surgery here and ; abroad " Dorison gave such a visible start that his companion stopped in wonderment and looked at him. ! 'It is nothing." said Dorison, casting 1 about for a reason for his involuntary manifestation of surprise. "1 saw a man at that moment on the street I could ! have sworn was two thousand miles from here. You say your friend studied : snrgery abroad?" "Yes,.hero and abroad. But 1 doubt If he will ever practice ft. He is independently wealthy by the will of an nncle. and lie has his share in his father's estate, which is not small. Would yon like to meet him?' "Very much Indeed." "He will dine with me tonight here at six, and if you will join us in this , room at that hour I. will be pleased to have you." i Accepting the invitation gladly the 1 two young men parted at the door of the 1 restaurant. 1 "Fortune favors me," muttered Dorison to himself. "The opportunity to observe the young man Cathcart desired is made for hiin. I must find him and 1 give him notice." ( The work of finding the old detective 1 was not so easy, and the greater part of the day was consumed in the search, ludeed, when lie was found, there was ! barely time left Dorison in which to prepare for dinner and tneet his engagement. _Lv* ' [to be continued next week.] .. _ A* gtU5CCuawuM;t> gwuuuij. I*. How Brave Soldiers Have Met Their Fate. CALMl.Y COURAGEOUS VETERANS. Tlie Observations of a Light Artilleryman During the Tremendous Struggle In the Wilderness ? A Soldier Who Fought Till Three Times Wounded. [Copyright, 181)1, by American Press Association.! | **'" OW do men tlie in iA battle? That is a ^ difflc,llt 'i11681'011 i lato answer. Almost Vpp-X every death is dif' [ i t /^lrw\\\afc ferent. And the | \\jJI Wjui nianner of the i ^J ' deat'' depends on i i ^ ||/g the won nd and on [ y 1\]' the man, whether i he is chicken | AK h \ hearted or brave, < L. <whether his vital- i I /J&jfiSW lfcy u lar?e or ^ /W^. small, whether he I j '3 a ,,,an ?' act've i imagination or is t dull of intellect, whether he is of nervous I i or lymphatic temperament. I will In | stance some of the deaths and wounds that | 1 saw in Grant's last campaign. I | 1 was a light artilleryman, but fought as j j an infantry soldier during the first two I j days of the battle of the Wilderness. On i the second day of that battle 1 saw more I | men killed and wounded than i did before ' | or after in the same space of time. I knew j | but few of the men of the regiment in wnose i ranks I stood, but 1 learned the Christian j i names of some of thein. A man named i Will stood next to me on my right. He | was cool, brave, determined. In the morn- | ing wheu the Second corps was advancing | and driving Hill's soldiers slowly back, 1 i i was flurried. Will noticed it and steadied ! my nerves by saying kindly: "Don't fire so | i fast. This fight will last all day. Don't i hurry. Cover your man before you pull | your trigger. Take it easy, my boy, Lake I | it easy, and j'our cartridges will las: the i longer." During the day I had learned to | look up to this man and to lean on him. i Toward evening, as we were being slowly driven back to the Brock road by I^ong- i street's soldiers, we made a determined | stand. I was behind a tree firing, my rifle barrel resting on a stub of a limb as I took aim. Will was standing by my side, bul; i in the open. He, with a groan, doubled up and dropped ou the ground at my feet. He looked up. His face was pale. He gasped for breath a few times, and then said faintly: "That ends me. I am shot through the bowels." I said: "Crawl off to the rear. We are not far from the intrenchments along the Brock road." I saw Will sit up. and indistinctly saw him reach for his rifle, which had fallen from his hands when he fell. Again I spoke to him, urging him to go to the rear. He looked at me and sail j impatieutly: "I tell you 1 am as good as | dead. There is no use in fooling with ma I shall stuv here." Then he pitched for j ward dead, shot again and through the head. We were driven back by Longstreet's men, and Will was ieft lying in a windrow of dead men. Late in the afternoon of the first day's fighting in the Wilderness 1 saw a battle exhausted private of a Maine regiment "THAT ENDS ME." * standing behind a largo oak tree. He held j I his rifle loosely in his hands, the butt rest- j ing on the ground. His back leaned heav- j j ily against the tree. The soldier was not. | shirking. The Confederates were directly 1 in onr front. The Maine volunteer was j apparently resting in perfect safety, a i | solid shot from a Confederate gun struck ' ; the oak tree squaiely about four feet from j | the ground, it did not have sufficient force to tear through the tough wood. The j | soldier, who had sought the protection of ! the tree to rest, instantly pitched forward dead, killed by the concussion of the tree, j His skin was unbroken. J When the Second corps got into tiie l Brock road intrenchments, on the after| noon of the second day's fighting, a man a | few tiles to my left fell dead, idiot just I above the right eye. He did not groan or j sigh or make the slightest physical move] merit, except that his cheat heaved a few j lime*. The life went out of his face in : stantly, leaving it without a particle of ex- | j pression. it was plastic, and as the facial ' muscles cotitracted it took many shapes. | When this man's body became cold and j | bis face bad hardened it was horribly distorted, as though be bad suffered int.-nseiy. A few minutes after lie fell another sol| dier, a little farther to the left, fell with ! apparently a precisely similar wound. He j I was straightened out and lived for over an i hour. He did not speak, simply lay on his : back, and ais broad chest rose and fell, i slowly at first and then faster and faster j and more and more feebly until lie wus j dead. When his face hardened it wits alI most terrifying in its painful distortion. I i il.?;t<l men's faces wreathed in smiles and heard soldiers say that they had evidently died happy. 1 do not believe that I the face of a dead man ever allows the i meutul or physical anguish he suffered or j the serenity he enjoyed before his death. In the Wilderness, ill front of the 11 rock ' road intrenchments, 1 saw many of our wounded burned to dentil. Must tliey not I have suffered horribly? I am not at all | sure of that. The smoke rolled heavily : and lowly before the fire. It enveloped the wounded men, and I think that by far the larger portion of the stricken soldiers who were roasted were suffocated before the . flames curled around them. The spectacle I was courage sapping and pitiful, and it i appealed strongly to the imagination of j the soldiers who saw it, hut I do not be| lieve that t he burned men suffered greatly. I saw near Spottsylvania, as my battery wa> inoviue into action, a group of wound- j | ed men lying in the shade cast by some large oak trees, near which a field hospital stood. All of these men's faces wero gray. They silently looked at us as wo marched J past them. One of these wounded soldiers, j a blond giant of about forty years, was i smoking a short brierwood pipe. His j strong, white teeth were firmly set on the pipe's stem. 1 asked him if he was badly ; wounded. "1 am having my last smoke, young fellow," he replied. His dauntless blue eyes met mine, and be bravely tried to smile. I saw that he was dying fast;. Another of these wounded men was trying i to read a letter. He was too weak to hold it steady, or his vision was clouded. He thrust it unread into the breast pocket of I his blouse and lay back with a moan. Tin's j group of soldiers numbered eighteen cr . ' twenty. All of them were supposed to be ' fatal 1 j' wounded. T11ey received no atten lion from the surgeons, who were working at the r bloody tables, on which soldiers whose lives could be saved were lying. None of the fatally wounded soldiers who had l>eeti abandoned to their fate ;ried aloud; none called on wife or mother jr father or their childreu. They lay on ' the ground, pale faced and with set jaws, waiting for their end. They moaned and groaned as they suffered, but not one of them flunked or cried for mercy. When ' my battery returned from the front, five or tlx hours afterward, almost all of these 1 men were dead. Ixmg before the cam- i -* --> f paign was euueu i cuuciuucu lu?l men seldom culled on those who were deari!at to them, seldom conjured their north- i trn or southern homes, until they became ilellrious. Then, when their minds wander "I'm n ^ '* * , ed and fluttered wildly at the approach of freedom, they babbled of their homes. Some were boys again and were fishing in northern trout streams or gathering nut9 In brown leaved forests. Some wandered through the pastures and meadows of their family homesteads. Some talked to their wives and children. Others stood, spougo staff in hand, at the muzzle of their gnus, Dr, rifle In hand, stood in buttle line. But nearly all were delirious. Wouuded soldiers, it mattered not how slight the wound might he, generally hastened away from the battle line. There were many exceptions to this rule, as there would necessarily l>e in battles where from 10,000 to 20,000 men were wounded. I per sonallysaw but two men wouuded who continued to fight. But I saw many wounded soldiers inarching with their colors. During the first day's fighting in the" Wilderness I saw a youth of about twenty years skip and slap his thigh. He turned to limp to the rear. After he had gone a few steps he stopped, then kicked jilt his leg once or twice to see if it would work, then tore the clothing away from his leg sj as to see the wound. He looked at it attentively for an instant, then kicked jut his leg again. Satisfied that he was not dangerously wounded, he pushed his way into the battle line and resumed firing. I'here was considerable disorder in our line. Individual soldiers moved, uow a few feet to the right, now a few feet to the left, to find u position from which they could see the Confederates. One of these movements brought me alongside of this wounded man. I could see clearly from that position and pushed Into the gaping line. In a minute or two the wounded soldier dropped his rifle, clasped his left forearm and exclaimed, "1 am hit again!" He rolled up the sleeves Df his blouse and shirt. The wound was very slight He bound his handkerchief around it. picked up his rifle aud again took bis place in the line. We fired together, and faced each other as we reloaded our rifles. I said: "You seem to be out Df luck today. You had better get out of this." His eyes blazed with anger. He swore he would not leave the line until he bad satisfaction for the wounds he had re ceived Suddenly his head jerked. He staggered, then fell, then gained his feet. A tiny fountain of blood, teeth, bone and bits of tougue burst out of his mouth. He had been shot through the jaws. The lower one was broken and hung down. 1 looked directly into his open mouth, which svas ragged and bloody and tongueless. He attempted to speak, and finding he could not, lie cast his rifle furiously on the ground and, clasping his broken jaw with bis hands, staggered to the rear. Next day. while fighting on the Second corps' line, I heard the peculiar cry a stricken man utters us the bullet tears through his flesh. I turned to see who HE SWOICE HE WOULD NOT LEAVE, was hit. I saw a bearded Irishman pull up his shirt. He had been wounded in the left side, just below the floating ribs. "You are done for. my boy," I said to myself. The Irishman looked at the wound. The color left his face. The uplifted shirt fell from his hands. He leaned against a tree for an instant, as though to gather strength and to nerve himself. Then he lifted his Bhirt again and, after lookiugat his wound, gently poked it with one of his powder blackened index fingers. Ho flushed redly and grinned broadly with intense satisfaction. He tucked his shirt under his trousers, picked up his rifle nud was lighting in the ranks before 1 had finished loading my musket. The ball had cut a grove in his skin only. The play of this man's face was so expressive, and hisemotions changed so quickly, that I laughed aloud. Fit ANN WlLKESON Looking Ahead. The coming woman?she who is playing with her doll today?is going to be well equipped with the small silver for her coming establishment. The custom of giving single spoons on birthdays and ut /~*l?lirtlfc. /Iii 11 rrlitoru nf I V-'iiriMIIlfia i'lliic LU vusi livwv uwub?.vv.w W. | the home is becoming so prevalent that some silvei>.miths keep duplicate patterns j for regular customers. The colfee and i dessert spoons are selected in harlequin ! patterns; the tablespoons and the forks are i preferred of a single design. In some family circles different members | take upon themselves the providing of one | certain set of silver; as, for instance, grand- I mother elects to give the dessert forks, an aunt the dinner size, a mother the tablespoons, and a father, perhaps, the dinner knives, and so on. A single piece is select | ed for each holiday, bearing the proper i date and name, and when the small miss j becomes a large one, exchanging eight | years for eighteen, she hus a case of solid i silver that represents a considerable sum, j and is a valuable start in her housekeep- i ing. Another pretty custom in the same dl- ! rection is the reversal of this just recount- j ed, where the children contribute, each of them, on mamma's birthday to the home i silver basket.?Her Point of View in New 1 York Times. How Abyrtslnlau Women Tattoo. Painting is temporary and needs frequent j renewal. In many parts of the world we una color designs, eiauoraie, curious, some- | times beautiful, made permanent by tattooing. The pattern and the method vary greatly with locality. In some regions men only tattoo, in others only women, in others both sexes. Here it is confined to the nobles, there to the servile. In Abyssinia women chiefly tattoo. The whole body is covered; even the gums are picked blue. An old woman operator's tools were a pot of blacking fcharred herbs), a large i iron pin, bits of hollow cane uud pieces of straw?these last for pencils. She marks out the design, pricks dots with the pin loaded with the dye, and goes over it repeatedly. To allay the subsequent irrita- ' tiou it is plastered over with a green poultice; the scab must not be picked ofE.? j Popular Science Monthly. l'attl's Ago. There is a row about Patti's nge. The Bible in her castle has been stealthily consulted, and the date of her birth is fixed at Feb. 18, 1647. Then she must have been less then ten years old when she sang in Cincinnati at Smith & Nixon's hall, near Vine street, on the north side of Fourth, with her sister, Mrs. Strakosch, and Ole Bull drew his magic bow with the diamond in it over his ancient violin.?Murat j Ilulsteud In Cincinnati Commercial Ga zette. ' A PICTURE OF THE CHILIANS. Naval Cadet George W. Williams gives an Interesting Description of what He Saw on a Trip from Valparaiso to Santiago. Correspondence of the Yorkville Enquirer. U. S. Steamship San Francisco, in the Harbor of Valparaiso.?At 8 a. m., September 10, in company with four of my messmates, I boarded the parlor car attached to the Santiago express, at the Puerto station, and ten minutes afterward we rolled out along the sea wall of the Valparaiso harbor bound for the capital of Chili. For the first ten miles the road runs along the sea front, affording a fine view of the hay, and then, when the valley of the Vina del Mar river is reached, makes a sharp turn to the right and follows the winding course of the bed of the stream, crossing and recrossing as the winding hills make it necessary. Just at the turn is the town of Vina del Mar, with its summer hotel and cottages, where the rich people of Santiago and Valparaiso spend the hot months of the year. Notwithstanding its having lately been occupied by rioting trdOps, we could see few signs of pillaging beyond one or two broken windows; but off the railroad, some of the houses, we know from report, had been burnt. Among them that of Senora Balmaceda, the Spartan mother of the late unfortunate president, who, when her son showed signs of weakening, would urge him to stand by his colors to the bitter end, and who, on account of her championship of her son's cause, incurred the bitter hatred of the opposition, so that when the insurgent troops entered Vina del Mar, the first house attacked was hers. Pillaging in South America, from the practice afforded in the frequent national riots that occur, is a fine art. The house is broken into in a quiet business-like manner and completely denuded of everything portable?valuables, furniture, pictures, and even wall-paper being carried off. The building is then fired. The next point of interest is Quillota, where the opposition army cut the railroad and the telegraph line, thus destroying the means of communication between Valparaiso and Santiago during the battles around the former city. From there we turn and twist up the narrowing valley, constantly ascending, until Llai-llai is reached, where we have a 20 minutes stop lor DreaKiasi. We attempt it, but the "mozos" have evidently not been educated up to our Spanish, and we finally compromise on "snpa, cafe y cigarillos ; rather a light meal after a forty miles ride through the cool mountain air. From Llai-llai to Santiago, is the most interesting part of the road. For the first twenty miles there is a constant succession of gorges, tunnels, deep cuts, high embankments and dizzy trestles, after which we enter the valley of the Mapocho, a broad level plain fifty miles wide and hundreds of miles in length, beyond the eastern edge of which the stately peaks of the Andes can be seen looming up through the atmosphere. ? We are now in agricultural Chili. The haciendas, with their low mud walls, adobe houses and bridges of slender poplars, are passed in rapid succession, and just as I am dropping off to sleep in my comfortable chair, the train runs intb a narrow street, and a few minutes afterward stops under the curved roof of the Santiago railroad station. We get a cab and are driven up the Alameda, a broad thoroughfare having a driveway on each side of a central avenue of trees, the middle of which is ornamented with statues of Chilian generals, placed at intervals of a few hundred yards apart. Arrived at the Hotel Addo, we secure rooms and the middle courses of that breakfast, the ends of wincn we demolished at Llai-llai, after which we start out to see the sights. The first place visited is the "Cerro Sau Lucia," a rocky eraineuce several hundred feet in height, with almost perpendicular sides, on the top of which, some three centuries and a half ago, Don Pedro Valdivia, a Spanish adventurer, set up the yellow standard of his native laud and luilt a fort, thus founding the present city of Santiago. Since that event a broad, winding stone wall has been built from the bottom to the top, flower beds have been laid out, grottoes excavated, statues erected, and fountains constructed until there is hardly a single square foot of surface on the hill's sides that does not show some evidence of man's handiwork. At the extreme top is a summer house, from which can be obtained a magnificent view of the surrounding country. Underneath you the city spreads out over the plain, the trees of the Alameda and those along the banks of the Mapocho, giving a dark green to the prevailing red of the tiled roofs of the low houses, with their central courts paved with red brick. Out beyond the city's limits, the plain stretches for iniles and miles, the white walls of the hacienda houses shining out clearly in the sunlight, and then just as the land seems to melt into misty indistinctness, you lift up ovoc nnrl tlinro nlmnst, directlv Juul V-J) ?? ? > ? above you, are the great silent peaks of the Andes, their snow mounted heads dazzling bright as they reflect the beams of the western sun, giving you an overpowering feeling of the insignificance of man's productions when compared to these mighty works of nature. Down the hill we slowly walk, halting once to read the inscription on the monument erected to Valdivia, and | again to view his armour and accoutrements in their house near the gate. And then, on reaching the level of the street, we hoard a car for the Quinta Normal, taking a roof seat, for which piivilege we pay one cent American, to the woman conductor. Arriving at the Quinta, we wander through the surrounding park, inspect the zoological gardens containing sped- j mens of the animals of South America, and then enter the museum, where we . spend an hour or more over the mum- | mies, relics and trophies, finally returning to the Addo for dinner at G o'clock. In the evening we take tea with an American family, who two weeks hefore rested in quiet security in the American consulate at Valparaiso, { guarded by the blue jacket sailors from the American cruisers in the harbor ; j out HOW I Hell HID D'lUtl \>iii in u.ti , . have returned to their home ill Santiago, where they give a hearty welcome to visiting countrymen. Bidding good night to our friends at 11, we walk j hack through the silent streets of the city, being closely inspected as we pass i by the soldiers on duty as policemen, ! wearing their red bands, the disting- ! uishing mark of the opposition, with j the proud air of victors. The next morning we visit the Mineda, the ollicial residence of the presi- ; dents of Chili, a large jail like building covering an entire block. Next we visit the cathedral, with its high eol- i limn supported roof; its marble floor, i over which devout worshipers move in J reverent silence; its allegorical paintings, with a small closet box, a confessional under each. Then last, but not least interesting, the market place, where can he seen the "peon,*' as the poor class Chilians are known, in all his glory. These peons are the descendants of the original inhabitants of Chili, and the combination of Indian ferocity with Spanish treachery, makes a combination that is not advisable to butt up against. Their dress consists of rough cotton trousers and shirt, a poncho, a bright colored braided garment < with a hole in the centre, through ] which the head is thrust, and a broad brimmed white straw hat. Each and * every one carries a long knife that 1 they are ever ready to use. i The women wear black invariably, < their head gear consisting of a "manta," i a black shawl thrown over the head and i drawn around the shoulders. These < mantas are worn by the poorer class- < es at all hours, but alter the church t hour the women of the upper classes 1 throw them aside and don dresses i made after the Parisian fashions. < From the market we return to the j hotel, take a late breakfast, pay a fare- I well visit to our friends, and then board i the train for Valparaiso, and go Speed- t ing off through the gathering darkness 1 to the coast. The run is made in five i hours, and at 11 p. m. the train draws up at the station at the mole. We 1 hunt up the captain of the port, get i permission to get off, and gladden the ] heart of a Chilian boatman by em- 1 ploying him, and with the direction, ' "Buque de guerra Americano San i Francisco" \ye shove off and go glid- i ing through the shadow of the big. dry i J--I * tha ] UUt'K. post tllC Uiaua uuuo vt vuv meraldo" and the "Champion," giving i a "Pargo" to the one and a "no, no" i to the other, and answer to their hails i across a bright space of moonlit water, i to the gangway of our gallant white i beauty, where we dismiss the boat- i men with a "peso," and a "Buenos ] noches," and mount the ladder. We 1 are received on the quarter deck by I the officer on duty with the most wel- 1 come words he could possibly utter: i "The ship is under orders for home." ] George W. Williams. < ? ? i THE GOSPEL OF GOOD EATING. < Since eating is the only subject on earth, or in the heavens above the earth, or in the waters under the earth, which 1 engages the thought of every human i being, daily at least, it is not surpris- < ing that wise men have said many < notable things about it. Robert B. 1 Roosevelt, ex-minister to the Hague, ! who is known as the successor of Sam < Ward, the most famous bon vivant of < America, is perhaps as notable an exam- i pie as can be cited today of the quick- ] ening, generous impulses which good i living gives to a broad nature. He i has said: "More divorces are due to an ill- < regulated kitchen, when the trouble i arises with the man, than from an ill- i regulated morality. No husband ever < abused or deserted a wife who always < gave him a perfect dinner, unless driven to it by dire force. Good cooking is at < the foundation of all happiness, for there can be none without it, and it ; should be taught in our public schools < i . / T> 1 1) i ueiore eveu me -mice ivd, Jay Gould says: "I do not myself believe that any man can stand the strain of a large business unless he lives on the simplest food he can get." But Richard A. McCurdy declares emphatically in favor of French cookery, and says: "An American salad to a person just home from the other side looks absolutely naked. It is almost indecent." Edward B. Harper, president of the Mutual Reserve Fund Life Association, says: "The gospel of good living is the most important of all things earthly." Henry Ward Beecher, before he had dyspepsia himself, spoke in a similar strain, denouncing sickness as criminal. Dr. Robert Collyer said: "I think the American people, take them all in all, are the best livers of any people in the world. I was only too glad when I got to a land where I could live twice as well as I could in my native country." Charles A. Dana was seventy-two years old last week. When he was asked some time ago how he preserved his youthful vigor as marvelously as he has done, he said : "I live well and take rational exercise. I have no hobbies about plain and simple food, but eat everything I can get that is good and that I know by experience agrees with me. Theories about eating n.re n.11 nonsense. Experience must govern every sensible man's selection of his food." Such sayings could be quoted by columns and would only emphasize the importance which every intelligent man appreciates, if he stops to think ol it, of care and discrimination in the use of food. It was almost for a century a standing reproach to this nation that its people, richer in food than any other people on earth, were almost the worst cooks, and altogether the most foolish feeders in the world. It is to the infinite credit of the present generation that such a thing can no longer be justly said. A VERY EASY LANGUAGE. "Ibrahim" (Abraham), said a European traveler in Palestine to his native guide, "I want you to teach rae some Arabic. If I wish to go into an Arab's house, how ami to say to him, 'Let me rest here, and give me some food ?'" "You needn't say anything at all to him, Effendi" (master), "but just walk in, and sit down. As for food, if it is his meal time he will give you some without being asked ; and if it is not, you will not get any, whatever you say." "And if I want to buy anything from him, how do I ask the price of it?" "You don't ask it, master, but just point to the thing and show him some money. If it is not enough, he'll hold out his hand for more; and if he does not give you enough of the things you want to buy, whatever they are, you hold out your hand for more, and so it goes 011 until you are both satisfied." "And in case we fall in with robbers, -L - tr.?. tlT.ilf i t WlliVl S II1C Allium iui ituiv. v. fire ?'" "There is no Arubic needed in that case, master. If there were only a sinpie robber, my comrade Yacob" (Jacob) "and I would kill him before he could say one word; and if there were a band of them, they would kill us before we could say one word." "And supposing I want to climb up on to the roof of a house to look at the view, what shall I say to the people of the house?" "Say nothing at all, but just climb right up. Then the people to whom the house belongs will climb up after you and ask for money, and you'll give them some." "And if they are not satisfied with what I give them, and begin to threaten me, what shall I say to them ?" "Don't say a word; just whistle for me," replied Ibrahim, with stern significance. "Hut if am thirsty, and see a man i coming along with a pitcher of water, [ how am I to sav in Arabic 'Give me a ' drink ?' " ,4I)on't say it at all. Kfiendi; just j catch hold of the pitcher, take a drink, j and pass on.'' "And supposing I go into a native vil- I lagc, and see there a pretty girl whom 1 I wish to compliment," asked the I traveler, with a somewhat sentimental I air, "how am I to express in Arabic j 'Vou are a beautiful child'?'' Ibrahim's small black eyes twinkled appreciatively. "If you take my ad- j vice, KH'cndi, you will not try to express that at all. for if you do, her j father and her friends will come up and begin throwing big stones at you." j Olio!" cried the traveler; "do you speak from experience, my friend?" i Ibrahim answered only by rubbing the back of his head with a meaning grin; and here the Arabic lesson end- ! ed. the traveler being by this time j fully convinced that Arabic, if studied in tiie right way, is one of the easiest languages in existence. j Fleet mail-uakbiekb.?me mlian runners are familiar figures in Mexico. They are employed by the government to carry the mails among ;he Sierra Nevada mountains, and nake better time than any animal that can be employed. A runner will car* ry from twenty to thirty pounds of nail, and never be delayed by washcuts or swollen streams. He is always cn an easy run, that must carry him ilong six or seven miles an hour at east. AHe is nearly always dressed in white cotton cloth, which makes him a conspicuous figure against the sombre green and black tints of the high mountain levels, and which, late in the evenng, causes him to look like a ghost or spectre flitting among the pines and firs ind moss-covered bowlders strewn ilong the trail. The trails, on the steep places, wind backward and forward in stretches from fifty to seventy-five yards in length, in order to find a grade up which a laden pack-mule can make his way. But the athlete carrier does not run the whole length of these windings in descending a hill. He cuts off the corners at each bend by placing his hand on the edge of the trail and vaulting to the lower level whenever the two levels are not more than six or seven feet apart. All this time he never gives up the little dog-trot that is carrying him forward rapidly and 3urely. The carrier will, in half an hour, go down a mountain side that would take the best mule in a bullion train or the fleetest one ridden by the little Mexican caballero, the best rider In the world, half a day to accomplish, [n ascending, too, the carrier has methcds of taking shorter cuts up steeper Inclines, so as to gain time and distance it every turn. First Love.?Ask any very young lady what she thinks of "first love," and she will tell you that it is the quintessence of all that is ecstatic, compared with which any so-called love that may come after it must be as jky-blue skimmed milk to clotted cream. Put the same question to an enamored young gentleman of 18, and and he will vow that it is the champagne of human existence, to which all subequent emotions dignified with the name of love are mere Jersey cider. But the mature of both sexes, in nine cases out of ten, can tell you a different 3tory. Boy-and-girl love is but a faint shadow of the intense passion which often overcomes and enthralls the middle-aged. The capacity for loving is not fully developed in the young miss who has just cast aside her dolls, nor in the youth whose chin is but newly acquainted with the razor. The enthusiasm of these novices in the tender passion is generally evanescent. Of course there are exceptional cases, but, as a general rule, love does not take a firm root in the heart before the age of twenty-five. Professions of undying . affection fVom vouncr men of nineteen or twenty are rarely to be trusted. The question which a lady who receives an offer of marriage should consider is not merely whether she has won the affections of her admirer, but also whether, if won, she could keep them. To have and to hold are two things. Curious Effect of an Earthquake.?The recent earthquake in northern California occasioned phenomenal results in Sonoma county. On the Polpula Rancho of J. E. Poppe, the ground was cracked and seamed in various places. From these narrow openings in the earth large quan tities of water of various temperatures have been gushing forth ever, since. In some places the water is ice cold, while in others it is warm, reaching a temperature of 100?. The Polpula Rancho has always been noted for its many springs, but the recent earthquake has . opened up many new ones, some hot and some cold, and caused the old ones to gush forth ten times the amount of their previous flow. In town the flow of General Vallejo's artesian well has been increased about 100,000 gallons per twenty-four hours. On the Rhine farm of Jacob Grundlach is an artesian well which has always given but a meagre supply of water. It was Gruudlach's intention to resume boring operations, but the shake has caused the well to send forth a large supply of artesian water, and the idea of having it sunk deeper has been abandoned. On Captain Joye's farm, a short distance from the town, the flow of gas from his natural gas-well has been increased to a great extent, and a spring that has hitherto been cold has been converted into a basin of hot water. Unpleasant Women to Meet.? Women who wear diamonds with cali co dresses. Sneering women, who snap at your clothes, your family and your friends. Women who talk baby talk to each other, and kiss each other on all occasions. Women who gossip, and who never fail to tell you disagreeable things said of you. Simpering, babyish women, who haven't brains enough to know when they are hungry. Women who wear rainbow gowns on the street and a whole millinery store on their heads. Women with voices as sweet as a turtle dove's coo in society and like a buzz saw in the family. Hysterical women, who burst into floods of tears if you cross them in the slightest particular. Beautiful women, who think their beauty entitles them to all of the eflrth and a good share of the planets. Women who lug dogs around in their arms when there are millions of motherless, homeless children in the. world. An Organ's Grinder's Sparring Combination.?An organ grinder who has been in this city for a month has a scheme which is making him a small fortune. Instead of the customary one monkey, this industrious son of Italy carries two. When he stops, the ordinary tricks of climbing and begging are dispensed with, the monkeys are set to fighting and bets are made by the owner with any of the spectators who are so inclined as to which monkey will win. The owner's bets are freely taken, and they rarely go against him. The result is that where, under the old method, he would probably receive a few nickels he now receives dollars. A reporter watched the man with the monkeys for nearly an hour in front ofthe new city hall, where lie was surrounded by a large crowd, who were freely contributing their quarters, halts and dollars to the coffers of the musi citui.?San Francisco Chronicle. Wc&" Applicants for official positions in government departments in Washington are so numerous, importunate and pathetic in their appeals that the appointment clerk of the interior department says he has to keep his heart locked up in the safety vault of (he department as a protection against moving talcs of woe that are every day brought before him by the score. Further appointments just now are a mathematical impossibility, because there is neither room nor money for more people than are already engaged. Still people will persist in struggling for government appointments when they could make much more money in a far more satisfactory way in civil life.