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( * - 1 * ? " ? - The Beaufort Tribune ; 'a ' VOL. II.?NO. 44. BEAUFORT, S. C., SEPTEMBER 20, 1876. $1.50 PER ANNUM. Mj Ship on the Ocean. Yob, somewhero far off ou tbe cocan, A lover is sailing to me? A beautiful lover?nurse found him Ono night in my cup after tea. 1 laughed when she said it?who wouldn't ?? Yet often a thought comes to me Of the ship that is bringing my lover? My lover across the bluo sea. Whenever the cruel wind whistles, I think of that ship on the sea. And tremble with terror lest something May liappou quite dreadful to me. And then, when the moon rises softly, I hardly can sleep in my glee, For I know that its beautiful splendor Is lighting mv lover to me. Itnt nl, I* I.. .1. 11 "" ?#ui. vu, uu ouuuiu cume : wdj, Dureoj, I'd hide like a mouse. n?*ry m", What nonsense it is ! Bat jou shouldn't Be fludiug such things in my tea. ?St. Nicholas. THE LAST LEAP. A small, ol 1 fashioned cottage where a w -trnau sits working iu the porch. As she sits there alone, Mary Sullivan is dreaming the old dreams which have cheered her through her ten years ol widowhood?bright but never impossible dreams of the future of her only son ?and she is glancing backward, too, over her own life, woudering a little, just a little, if many women of her age have seen no more of the world than sho, who has not spent one night of all her life?r.or ever wished to do bo?be yond this village where her husband has been a schoolmaster. Is it to be always so 1 A steadfar-t light oomes into hei eyes, and her quiet lips break into n smile, ma le beautiful by proud and loving triiHt?' That shall be left to Davy," she snys, uttering softly the one name which now menus all the world to her. " iLi.s choice will be my choice." Sio does not know how intently she is listening for his footstep upon the gravel. not how her face brightens when he comes in at last. ? Mother 1" ' " Oh, Davy, Davy I" The gree ting bursts from tho hearts ol both, in tlint first moment; then the b >.v's lips are clinging to his mother's, and her arms hold him in that entire lovo which a widowed mother so often 1 wishes upou an only son. He is home to spend his vacation?a whole month? from school. The first vacation of David's passed like a dream to his mother, and now that the last day has arrived, she feelt as if only a week had speel, though she has so regretfully and hungrily counted (eaoh morning and each night) both the days that have been spent and those that are to come. Another long absence follows; anothei bright home coming (in tho frostj Christmas darkness now), another ab sencc; and so on, and on, and on, until David comes home from sctrol for the last timo of all. He meets his mother jnst within the porch, where the flowers bloom thai summer as they have bloomed throng! every Hummer or His life, ami he has nc oloud upon his face. But, later on, hii mother's anxious question is answered i little sadly. " Yes, mother; I heard from the law yer yesterday. Orandfather's will doei not mention either of us. He has givei me all the help he meant to give. Well he has been very good, and now I an ready to make my own start in the world But I must go at orcc. One delioioui day with you here", Ihen for London Don't look ro sad, my mother; this shal not be a loDg separation; not even e< long as the old school terms, for I wil soon come back to fetoh you." 80 after this one day he goes, laugh ing over his scanty pnrse, b< cause hii hands are strong, ho says, and his for tune, hope and oourage. But when h< looks back, it is only through a mist o: tears that he can see the little cottage where he leaves his mother iu ho* lone liness. After David's departure tho days pas* for Mrs. Sullivan just as the old scboo days have done, except that now she hat a daily excitement in his letters. Nevei can she settle to anything until the post man has come up the garden path, anc given into her trembling hand the lettei JJavid never fails to send ; the lettei which does his mother's heart sucl good. At last one letter comes in which h< tells her he has fonnd employment ii an accountant's office; employmenl which is very easy to him, and which h< likes, thongh the salary he is to receive is mnoh smaller than he had antic ipatei when he so hopefully began his search, " But I will work so well," he writes "that the firm will raise my salary soon and then I will come for you. Ah mother, I can indeed work hard anc long and steadily for that good end." "So, i n the cottage, Mary works hare too, oonAdent in the realization of hii plan, and living with him, tlirough hei long day dreams, in a London whiol exists in h er imagination only?a wide, calm oity w here all the young men hav< David's face and David's nature, anc guide skillf ully the maohinery of th< world. But the time goes on, and Davie only earns what lie earned at first " Aud so," ho writes, a little sadly now " the home with you is still out of mj reach, for poverty here, mother, wouli be to you a hundred times worse thai poverty at home." When ho has been absent for a yeai he com* s home to spend his birthday with his mother ; a summer day whicl they have spent together for all tin eighteen years of David's lifo. Thoi he goes hack to his work, still hopefu of the rise which his oarnest and nntir ing servitude is to win. Six months pass, and then, one Sun day night, David walks unexpectedly into the cottage kitchen, where hif mother sits beside the lire, softly sing ing to herself a hymn which she ha* heard in church that day. When sh< starts up?her face, in that moment o: surprise, white as death?David soei how littlo able she is to bear any shod where he is concerned. But her do light, one minute afterward, makes u{ for all, and that Sunday night is out which both will love to remember. * * >jaj vuu uot stay one uay f tn< mother pleads. "Must yon really gc back to-mcrrow, Davvf" " To-day, you mean, mother. Look wo have chatted till after midnight, al ready. Never mind, we have fotu whole hours more, thanks to tho nev railway. Don't go t-o bed, mother ; 1 oann )t spare you for that time " She had never thought of leaving him so beside the cheerful fire thoy sit auc talk ; first of the lives which they hav< separately lod, and the i of that lift which they are presently to lead to > gether?for David has como home or > purpose to bring joyful tidings: Th< > long talked of home will be ready soon 1 for ho is earning a high salary now, ant all the old bright plans are to be carriet out. ' " But, Davy," Mrs. Sullivan says when she rises at last to prepare tin tarly breakfast, "how very hard yor i must bo working, only to be spared foi i one day, after a whole twelve months o: I st1 vice 1" " I could have had one holiday be i tween,"he answers, "but I would noi > take it. It was wiser not, mother, a; " this is an expensive journey, even now i that we have the railway." << A ...J 1 1 ' xi.liii juu uuvc ueuu seinung me you] money, David.'* > " Bat I am earning so much now,' the youug man nays, with a bright ex cit? mont in his ryes. > " And are you happy, David ?" ' " Very happy, mother?thinking hov i soon * verytbi.ig will be as I planned r long ago." " But for yourself alone, are yoi happv. dearf" she askp, wistfully, f "1! Oh, yes. mother, quite happy.' ? Another good bye??' But tlio last,' , David says, as again nud ngaiu ho kissei > hi?< mother's shaking lipr. i David had said that ho* would spo^t - Ins birthday at home?that June da; wl.ieh has slways been the o ie holiday I of the year to the wid< wed motl or?t?u ' on the morning befoie arrives a 1 tte: wl ieh tells her that he is oblige d to do i lay his coming. London is very full, h< I says, imd he is very busy; so ho canno' > gtt that day's holiday. > J a every lino of this letter tho motlic: cau read his disappointment, as well aj " tho sorrow it gives him to disappoiu ' her; and tears como and blot out tin loviug words, as well as the proud de I seriptions of the home which is all read; > for her now, out ia one of the pleasan northern suburbs. They blot out evei * that simple request at the end?" Thin! t of me more than ever to-morrow, mother i and prav for me just at nightfall; at tha 1 TT. -r, Vw.T,- _i ?i i * fw J uuui w liUii wouovo Utt'U UMtU CO SI i together iu the porch on other bapp; k birthday nights." There is the present of money whicl * most letters bring her now, and it i 9 w ilo she holds thin money iu her ham i that she forms a sudden resolution , which comes to her at that moment as ?c i natural a one that sho wonders where i . h :s been hidden before, a She is ou her way from the villag ! post office when the plan suggests itself 1 and when sho reaches home (her step > quick in the n.-w excitement) sho sit 1 down in her old seat in the porch am net! or it all clear to herself. D.ivid i - u. king very bard, and is to be lonel, J oj: his hirtbday. How can she better us - his gi't to her thun by giving him 9 pleasure he cannot expect, and fo prr f v< nt his being solitary on that day whic] J they have never yet spent apart? As h - cannot come to her, 6ho will go to him Ah 1 how his face will brighten when h ? sees his mother come in 1 How he wi] 1 Btart. up with outstretched arms to clas; J h? r! That momeut will repay her fo r any trouble sho may have in reaching him. I When once the resolution is forme, r it holds her tenaciously, and i-he begin r her t>rer>arationn at. nnp? ? ? - r - r ; ?* ?* oj ) cited as a child. She packs her basket putting in a chicken and butter am 3 cream, because David has said that h i never enjoys these things in Londoi t as he does at home ; and she smiles a J she ties a dainty white cloth over then 3 all; for cho is picturing her boy's dc I light when ho tdiall unpack tbes . luxuries which she lias brought bin , f:om his own village. All that nigh , she lies awake, yet rises brisk and ac , tive, almost wondering if she can reall, I be the Mary Sullivan who has never en tered a railway carriage in her life?she 1 a traveler, starting alone to a far-off cit; ? of which she known nothing, r Taking her basket on her arm, sh i walks to the rectory to leave the key c , her cottage vilh her clorgyman, and t obtain from him instructions for lie 1 journoy. He gives them clearly am 3 oirou nstantially ; and, walking with he to the station, pees her off, with th I precious basket in her eareand that loo! of steadfast happiness in her eyes. , It is a long journey, but the anticip* l tion of David's deiight at seeing he 1 shortens and beantifles the way, so the l she starts with surprise when a fello' passenger tells her she is at Padding tor r Timidly she stands back from the crowd 1 holding her basket tight upon her arm l and watching the passcis-by with wisl 3 ful, patient eyes. What a great place 1 this station is ! and every one bo busy 1 and engrossed! "If you please, I want to reach Farringdon street. Would you kindly tell me what to do?"?she has at last accosted r a porter, as he passes with a hamper on ? his shoulder. " Cross to Metropolitan." j Cross to Metropolitan! The words 3 are foreign words to her. What can f they mean ? Is there a river, then, bes f rrOQTi li o?? on/1 n *?? ?1 0 3 unvwu UC* OUU X/aViU X i Another porter, coming slowly up as - tho crowd disperses, sees the puzzled > look upon the woman's face, and how she 5 shrinks apart in her neat country d?*e88, and holds her basket with such caro j and pride. > "Where do you want to go?" he inquires, kindly. , " To Farringdon street. I am to - cross something, but I could not underr stand. I'm sorry to bo so troubleT some." [ " You'd far better have a cab," the man says, in a tone of involuntary kind; liness. "Do you mind tho expense ?" I "I have six shillings in change," she * answers, loftkiug gratefully into his face, i " Will that do ?" " Half of it." 1 He takes her to one of the waiting ) cabs and makes a bargain with the man , in her pre.-euco ; then ho closes tho I door upon-her and smiles as he drives I away. And this is London?this line of , streets, and crowd of people, and deafj euing sound of wheels 1 Poor Davy 1 i How ho must long for tho quiet, shady r lanes end the fresh breeze coming inf land from the si a ! Tho cab stops, and Mary Sullivan stands with beating heart at the door of t a tall, narrow house in Farringdon street 3 and rings tho bell faintly. She waits r what she thinks a long, long time before a young woman appears in answer to her r modest summons. " Will you tell me, if you please, in * which room I shall find my son ?" " What's jour son's name ?" the girl asks, with a long stare. " David Sullivan." i " Ob, Mr. Sullivan," she says, a little t more pleasantly. " He's out. Would you like to step into the pnssago and i re?-t ?" " lhank you," David's mother pays, g? uuy, as sue meets tuts unlocked for ' blow, " I would mucb rather go to a him.'* . " I don't know where he is, though. He's nearly always out. He's at an 1 ofliee all day. Then he's forever going y out into the country somewhere north, f where he's got a house he's been furnish t ing. I don't know where el-e ho goes,, r but he's always away at night." Tie will boat?that ho.ise you speak 9 of, I suppose?" questions Mary, her t voice trembling in its eagerness as her thoughts dwell ou this home which r David has been preparing for her. " I a wish you could tell me where it is." t " lint I don't know," the girl answers, b more shortly, "ami I should think you'd - better stay here till he comes back." y "I would rather go to him. Do you t think any ono in the house could kiudly i tell me where ho is ?' t A young foreigner is coming down the , stairs us Mary speaks, and she looks t shyly and wistfully at him. So the girl t asks him the question: "Does ho hapy pen to know where Mr. Sullivan is.'" " Monsieur Snlli?Sullivan ?" the a young man questions, laughing a little s as he glances into*the face of tho coun1 try bred, yet delicate looking woman, , who stands holding her basket so closeo ly to her side. " Yes, I know; why ?" t "I am his mother," Mary says, her voice bright with pride, o "Had you not bettor wait hero until ', becomes?" s "1 would far rather ao to him. if von s j would help me." il I " You are quite snre ?" he asks again, s I with the laughing glance. y 41 Quito Ruro, sir." 44 'lhen I will direct yon, for i am goa ing that way myself. You had better, at )- any rate, leave your basket here." b So Rhe given it to the young woman, e with a shy request that it may be taken i. care of, thou follows her guide out into e the street. It seems to Mary that they 11 have walked for miles down noisy and p I bewildering streets, when they turn and r enter a wide and open doorway. With g a sign to his companion to follow, the stranger walks on along a carpeted pasd sage, only pausing a moment to speak to s a man who is standing there, just as if i- he might be waiting for them. Mary ;, follows her guide on and on, wondering d how this lighted way oould lead to any e home which David has chosen for her. n Yet all the while her heart is fluttering a joyfully, because the meeting must, now n be so noar. Once more the stranger stops i- to speak to some one who stands at an e inner door, then he leads her through a ! it, on amid a crowd of sea'ed figures. f I tut .a i " i- - V xt JV14 Div iici?y, lit? nnjB, wiiu u i- smile, pointing down to a vacant neat y which they have reached, " yon will i- Boon soe your son. Watch the wide en?, tranoo opposite you there, and you will y see him in a few minutes." Mary thanks him with simple earneste noes, then takes the seat and waits ; her >f eyes tixed, with a smile of expectation o in them, upon the opening opposite, r What a gay, grand place this is, with d lights like suns and stars upon tko ceilr iug, so far up, so very, very far up! e Why, tho church at home is not nearly k so high as this room. But why is it lighted yet? The June snnshiue is i- lying brightly now upon the sea at homo, ir and it must be light as day in the ootit tago rooms. What thousands of faoes w are gathered here?all looking one way, i. too, all looking at that door which she I, has been bidden to watoh. Are they i, waiting fhr David, too ? t-1 Suddenly a band begins to play ; and ?puzzled more and more?Mary turns her oyes from the spot Bhe is watching so intently. David has never told her about this music, and these lights, and the watching crowd. What dors it mean? And why is Davy coming here ? A prompt, tumultuous souud of clap! ping in the crowd ; and Mary turnB her puzzled eyes back again to the doorway she had been bidden to watch. No one is there, save the few idle figures which havo stood there all the time. But now, in the cleared space in the center of the building, a man (who must have passed through while she was gazing at ; the band, and whose face is turned from her) is climbing a single rope suspended from the roof. Wonderingly, Mary watches the light and active figure?tightly clad in white ami crimson?springing upward with the speed and the ogility of a squirrel. ; Why should ho do this daring, foolish o t ?- i?#- -- * * " I buiug i jh ik man 8 uie ho valueless mat , ho should risk it thus to provoke a mo' mont's passing wonder ? Is death so trivial a thing that he should bravo it recklessly thus, to win a moment's applause ? Ah ! to think of this man's j life, and then of Davy's ! Another minute, and the man she \ watches springs to a double rope whioh j hangs from the lofty coiling, and, sit- j : ting there at ease, looks down upon the crowd. Then Mary's eyes look full into ] his face. * * * ? | It is a special performance at the circus on thiH Juno night, being the farowell of tho famous gymnast Monsieur ' . Sulli, who, after his brief and brilliant ' ; career, is rotiring from the profession in i which ho shines without a rival, intendI ing to settle down?so it is rumored, i ironically and discontentedly?to office , | work with an accountant, and to live in j a small house out in a north suburb, ' with an old mother from the country. So ridiculous, in the very zenith of his , tame. On this farewell night ho is to perform (for the last time) his greatest feat [ ?a feat which no one but himself has ever attempted. From the flying trapeze where he now stands, swinging himself carelessly to and fro, he will spring to a stationary one forty feet distant; and passing through this, will ; catch it by one foot only, and hang suspended so, ono hundred feet above the arena. A dangerous exploit, of course; but performed with wondrous nerve and skill. Surelv it will be a nitv if. Viavincr v g ^ ?* O rnrulo hiH reputation, Monsieur Sulli shall still persist in his determination to retiro from the ring. A grand success i The shout of applause, which shakes the great building from floor to ceiling, testifies to this beyond a question. Decidedly a grand success ! Though in one seat among the crowd a solitary woman, who is a stvauger there, sits, white, and still, and i dead. \ Fashion Xotes. 1 Undressed kid gloves will be imported in dark brown shades different from any hitherto used. Buttons will be very much used on winter costumes and cloaks. They will be of medium size, rouud and orua- , mented with embroidery. Scarfs made of India cashmere and i lined with silk will bo worn in the early fall. They will be crossed on the bosom aud tied behind in fichu fashion. The canvas braids of open-work, introduced in the spring, will be woven heavier for winter stuffs. They are to bo used not only oif the polonaise, but in the flounces of the lower skirt also. A now cravat bow is called the Centennial bell. It is made of China crape of any color, laid in long folds, widening below somewhat in the shape of a j boll, and with a hanging tassel for the | i tongue or clapper, partly concealed l>y the lace which in gathered on tho edge. New breakfast caps have close pointed crowns without fullness. They are made o! organdy muslin or of cream white mull. Tho crown is relieved of its sharp look by a wide band of ribbon that half covers it. This band is of basket-figured armure or brocaded ribbon three inches wide, with an Alsrtim bow on top, a full lace frill is around the face, and one end of ribbon hangs behind. They cost $3,50. For ladios wearing mourniDg, tho frill is edged ; with iiutiug instead of lace, and the band is of black ribbon. A Second Joan of Arc, Tho Paris correspondent of the London Telegraph says : It appears that Mile. Mercus, the young lady who is playing the part of Joan of Arc in the Herzegovina, is of Dutch nationality. She is about thirty years of age, of diminutive stature, dark, and not handsome. She has squandered away I tho greater part of a largo fortune in the jrealizdion of her romantic dreams; i nevertheless she is still in possession of i moro than sevei.tv thnnsniid nnnnd* sterling. Her first fanoy was to erect a < | Protestant temple at Jerusalem, in 1 front of the monument supposed to be ! our Savior's tomb. The temple, whieh I cost ?14,000, still exists. Mile. Mercus' i present ambition is to command a bat- i terv of artillery, aud she recently gave i ?1,200 for the purchase of guns, but the ; ' gentleman intrusted with tho money i j suddenly disappeared, and nothing far- i ! thor has been heard of him. Th's extraordinary lady is not admired" here, having supported the French Commune, : and approved of the archbishop's assassination. She spends her time running i after bittlcfield adventures wherever they are t > be encountered, and, if pub- : lij rumor be correct, is rather to be ] oompured to Lola Montes than to the Maid of Orleans. A Rich Treasure Found. The London News says: In the neighborhood of the village of Nikolsk a discovery has been made which is likely to demoralize tho industrious peasantry of tho district. Tho eternal dream of ponsaut idlers has come true for once, and a rich treasure has been fonnd near tho very spot where the public of Nikolsk had always looked for it. It appears that not far from this township there is a valley which runs into a gorge called Zaporogno, and in the gorge there is a deep well of the same Dame. Now, tra-lition has it that the well Zaporogne was once made ubo of by brigands, who not only drew water from it, but used it as their-common purse and exchequer. Into this receptacle were cast coins, old Russian and older Greek, the silver orunmcnts of the peasants, the plate of the village churches. It is much easier, however, to hide treasures than to find them, and the honor that should prevail among brigands usually breaks down when the time comes for the company to dissolve. It generally falls out that the treusurer, for instance, has stored the booty in a piaco known only to himself, and then some perfidious comrade slays the treasurer and his goods perish with him, the secret of his bank having been known to himself alone. Something of thiB kind may have happened in the Zaporogne plundering company, for although the house has long been extinct, its wealth lay cunningly hidden. Tho tradition of the mysterious store wan handed down from sire to son, and tho father of the present proprietor begun some diggings, or ns it ueemsnow more fashionable to say, commenced Borne excavations in the neighborhood of the well. Nothing was found, and the research after theeo endowments was dropped until last year. The steward of the property then hit on the happy thought of trenching in a lateral direction, like the treasure seekers in Poe's " Gold Bug," who dug not at the foot of the pirate's tree, but at a distance of thirty yards in a bee line. The Russian investigator was as successful as Poe's hero. He soon struck on a great shining vessel full of ancient spoils. To fill his pockets and those of his assistants was his first idea, and then he sent to the village for sacks. The steward tried to bribe his assistants to silence, but apparently ho did not bribe them high enough. They olaim by Russian law, as it is said, a right to a third of the treasure trove?in this case about 50,000 roubles. Their suit has been dismissed by the local courts, but they have appealed to a higher tribunal, and very likely all the wealth of the brigands of Zaporogne will melt peacefully into the pookets- of the members of the Russian bar. Gratefully Declines. There is a man in Cincinnati who does not want to hold office. Qe writes to the Times : You are very kind to mention me as a candidate for Congressional honors, indeed you are; but I cannot permit my name to bo used for one moment to disturb worthy men who reaily have a call to legislate for and take care n( T 1 "?11? J? ' vuu tuuun j x cw^iuiuuiujr ueciare dow that I am not a candidate. In the lauguage of Mr. S til eon Hutchins: "You coaldu t shoot an office into me with a double barreled shotgun." I never saw a Congressman that I didn't feel sorry for. I in ver heard of but one man in otlioial life whom 1 sincerely envied, and that was a schweinhirt, in an ancient German village. His business was to take the hogs of the village out into the country every day, care for them, and return them to their pens at nightfall. It seemed to me that this person could enjoy official life. He was secured iu Ilia place, his future was secured, and he had the benefit of good society. I held an office once. I was journal clerk in the Ohio House of Representatives, during the sessions of 1868 9. I did more work than anybody about the establishment, and was compelled to listen to all the speeches besides. My pay was $36 a week, and my perquisites amounted to $5 during my entire service. The late Mr. Nosmith paid me the $5 for making a copy of his oelebrated Ron to No. 9 Kill Tilio J " *?**" V?JW*40UW UiOUUUltl^CU liiO. 1 have been heard to declare that no American citizen should ever throat a ballot into a box with my name on it Witii my consent. That declaration I will reiterate now, and trust that you will give it emphasis. I have seen a gn at many politicians, and they all seem to be very unhappy and very unsatisfactory. Homely Maxims for Hard Times. Take care of the pennies. Look well to your spending. No matter what c >mes in, if more gees out you will be always ]>oor. The art is not in making money, but in keeping it. Little expenses, like mioe in a barn, when tliey are many, make a great waste. Hair by hair heads get bald; straw by straw the thatch goes off the cottage, and drop by drop, the rain comos into the chamber. A barrel is soon empty, if the tap leaks but a drop a minute. When you mean to save, begin with your mouth; many thieves pass down the red lane. The ade jng is a great waste. In all other things keep within compass. Never stretch your legs farther than your blanket will reach, or yon will soon be cold. In clothes choose suitable and lasting stuff, and not tawdry fineries. To be warm is the main thing, never mind the looks. A fool may make money, bnt it needs a wise man to spend it. Remember, it is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one going. If you give all to back and board, there is nothing left for the savings buuk. Fare hard and work hard when yon are young, and you will have a chance to rest when you are old. Lore Light. Beyond all lights that over ahona On land or glittering sea, The lore light shining in your eyas The faircat seems to me. Quickly to meet the sunbeam's kiss The rose with beanty glows ; Swiftly beneath your tender glanoe My warm blood oomes and goes. If the son sees an answering smile On land or glancing ware, Oan yon not see in my eyes, dear ! The light your own eyes nave ? A Terrible Bore. Mr. Sniffln send* as the following: When I bought my present place the former owner offered, aa one of the inducements to purchase, the fact that there was a superb sugar maple tree in tho garden. It was a noble tree, and I made up my mind that I would tap it some day and manufacture some'sugar. However, I never did so until this year. But a few weeks ago I oonoluded to draw the sap and to have what Mr. Bangs calls " a sugar bilin'." My wife's uncle was staying with us, and after inviting some friends to oome and eat the sugar he and I got to work. We took a huge washkettle down into the yard and piled some wood beneath it, and then we brought out a oouple of buckets to catch the sap and the auger with which to bore a hole in the tree. ~ My wife's uncle said that the buoket ought to be set about three feet from tho tree, as the sap would spurt right * out with a good deal of force, and it would be a pity to waste any of it. Then he lighted the Are while I bored tho hole about four inches deep. When I took the auger out the sap did not follow, but my wifo's uncle said what it wanted wns a little time, and so, while we waited, he put a fresh armful of wood on the Are. We waited half an hour, and as the sap didn't oome I oonoluded that the hole was not deep enough, so I begun boring again; but I bored too far, for the auger went clear through the tree and penetrated the back of my wife's uncle, who was leaning up against the trunk trying to light his pipe. He jumped nearly forty feet, and 1 had to mend him up with courtplaater. Then he said he thought the reason the sap didn't come was that there ought to be a kind of spigot in the hole so as to let it ran off easily. We got the wooden spigot from the vinegar barrel in the oellar and inserted it. Then, 4S the sap did not oome, my wife's uncle said he thought the spigot must'be jammed in so tight that ohoked the ilow; and while I tried to push it out he fed tho fire with some kindling wood. As the spigot could not be budged with a hammer I concluded to bore it out with the auger, and meanwhile my wife's uncle stirred the fire. Then the auger broke off short in the hole, and I had to go half a mile to the hardware store to get another one. Then I bored a fresh hole, and although the sap would not oome, the company did, and they examined with muoh interest that kettle, which was now red-hot, and which my wife's uncle was trying to lift off the fire with the hay fork. As the sap still refused to oome I went over for Bangs to tell me how to make that exasperating tree disgorge. When he arrived he looked-at the h<ue, then at the spigot, then at the kettle, then at the tree. Then turning to me he said: " Sniffln, you have had a good dealo' trouble in your life, an' it a done you good. It's made a man of yon. This world is full of sorrow, but we -must bear it without grumblin'. Ton know that, of course. Consequently, now that I've some bad news to break to you, I feel's if tho shock won't knock you endways, bnt'll be received with patient resignation. I say I hope you won't break down an' give way to your feelin's when I tell you that there tree is no sugar maple at alL Orashus, why that's a black hickory. It is, indeed. And you might as well bore for maple sugar in the side of a telegraph pole. Then the company went home, and my wife's nnole said he had an engage-^ merit with a man in Hatboro' which ha must keep right off. I took the kettle up to the house, but as it was burned out I sold it next day for fifteen oenta for old iron, and bought a new one for $12. I think now maybe it's better to buy your maple sngar. A Solid Dinner. " Some of the hotels hare bills of fare with the fly-leaf oovered with oards of various business houses. An Oregon man recently took a seat behind one of them, when a waiter appeared with "What will yon have, sir I" To the utter confusion of the waiter, he leisurely remarked : " Yon may fetoh me a new set of teeth, in gntta percha; an improved sewing machine, with patent lock Etitoh, a box of Brandreth's pills, and a pair of number seven Frenoh calfskin boots." In a moment the waiter renlied : "We haven't sot anv of them." 44 Then what have yon got ttiem on the bill of fare forf" retorted the customer. / A Heavy Fall ?A writer in Note* and Queries tells the following good story: Mr. Falls, a well known Irish sportsman, happened one day to ride down a hound. The irascible but witty master attaokr d him in no very measured language. ?? Sir." was the reply, 44 I'd have you reoolleet that I am Mr. Falls, of Dnnginnon." The; arsver was ready: " I don't oare if yon are lb. Falls, of Niagara; you shan't ride over my bounds." 4