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FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS, r i? * - '! . -. ?, <" 'When the hours of Day are numbered, and the" voices of the Night Wake the bettor soul. that slumbered, to a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lampB aro lighted, and, like phantoms grim and tall. Shadows from tho fitful fire-light dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of tho departed enter at tho open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, come to visit me onco more; Ho, tho young|and strong, who cherished noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, weary with tho maroli of life ! They, tho holy ones and weakly, who the ciobs of suffering boro, Folded their pale bauds 60 mceWy, spako with us ou earth no moro ! And with them the Being Beautious, who unto uiv youth was given, More than all tilings elso to lovo me, and is now a saint In Hoaven. With a slow aud noiseless footstep comes thatmessenger divine, Takes the vacant cliair beside me, lays her gentle hand In mine. And she sits and gazes at me with those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still aud saint-like, looking downward from tho skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, is tho spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, brcatliiug from her lip* of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, all my fears are laid aside, If I but renu mber only Bach as these have lived and died! Longfellow. FALSE APPEARANCES. {< Here's a nice place, Mabel," said the elder of the two ladies who had just entered the train. "And we'll try to keep it undisturbed, too," she added, proceed ing to deposit their shawls, satchels, * &c., upon the end of each seat, while the two ladies teated themselves facing each other. Thcv were evidently mother and daughter, the mother large, portly and fine looking, the daughter a slender, bright-faced little tiling, and just as evidently people of " position," marked by all the belongings of wealthy travellers. Elegantly braided linen ulsters, oversuits of black silk, stylish hats, dainty . kid gauntlets, Russian leather satchels and shawl-straps were their distinguishing marks, besides that indescribable air which stamps its possessor as one used " to good society. "80 verv warm! Hn ronoVi inv fon Mabel!" said Mrs. Glcnnor. "We have a terrible hot day for our ride!" " But there is such a nice breeze. I think it will be lovely," returned brightoyed Mabel. 4' Oh, you're always contented with everything. Dear me, I hope the carriages won't be crowded!" "They are almost that now, mamma. > "We have the only vacant seats, I believe." } l* And I mean to keep them, too," announced Mrs. Glen nor. At that moment spoke a voice at her r elbow: "Is that seat engaged, madam?" Mrs. Glcnnor and Mabel both looked to see a young lady dressed in a plain, untrimmcd linen suit, with a brown veil covering' her hat entirely and shading a plain, homely face. Iier speech was that of a well-bred, person, but her exceedingly plain attire 1 stamped her in Mrs. Glennor's eyes as " common folks." not. worth an ellort to be polite to. She turned to the window and settled herself in her place without seeming to ll r 1"\11 f nrAr\/l it I 1 - ? ? A UU? gUUVl-UUltlll.<l iijiiuul fiJIONU !il r* ouce: "Mine isn't. You arc welcome to ?hnre it." And notwithstanding the decided frown on her lady mother's face, she tossed her "traps" over on the pile already beside Mrs. Gleunor and smiled a reply' to the young strangers quiet " Thank you," as she sat down, holding the small satchel she carried in her lap, "It Will tire you. There is plenty of room over here with ours," said Mabel, reaching out her hand towards the satchel. The young lad v placed it upon the seat herself, saying: ' T wns nfrniil i> minrlit ? - ?" nwuuiBjm''Not at al!," returned Mabel. But Mrs. Glenuor, with u little accent of spite, addressed her daughter: "Mabel, don't make yourself overofficious. I wonder how far it is to Hamilton?" "Don't the table tell you, mamma ?" -1 "No. Only the larger stations are down. Well," with a sigh and a glance at the intruder, "at least we shall be able to select our own society there." "Mamma, don't!" pleaded Mabel in a low tone, flushing at lier mother's rudeness. "I detest these trains, where every rude person who chooses may intrude upon you," went on Mrs. Glenuor, coolly. Mable knew there was no telling where her mother would stop once she was on the track, and she noted the flush which overspread the young stranger's face. She quiotly changed the subject. "Do vou know Mr. inn's fnmiiv JI mamuv "Not the children. Not Kinee they were grown, that is. I saw them when they were little." If they are l?ke their noble old father I'm sure I shall like them. I think he is splendid," answered Mabel. The stranger young lady smiled quietly. Mrs. Glennor answered: <4I daresjyy they are. Birth and breeding always show, Mabel. I, for one, could never mistake a person of wealth And culture for a common one." "Is there only one datighter?" asked Mabel. r , . 4'Only one at home, the youngest one, Henrietta. And one son, Kit-hard. I consider it vr-y fortunate tlint Hamilton invited us to make this visit, Mabol. Richard Hamilton will be very wealthy, and if ,vou piay your cards well, who knows what you may do in tho war of a settlement." I* " &?'*. - v , V . ' "Now, mumuia, if you .begin to tall thut way I do solemnly declare I wil take the next train that passes us bad home and not go at all!" . Mrs. Glennor knew the girl was quit capable of keeping her word if she wn pushed .too far, so she said no more, bu betook herself to the prospect in vie\ from her window. The ride was a warm one, but Mabe enjoyed it, and in spite of l*??r mamma' frow^ns, chatted with her seat-mate ver sociably. It was getting-sundown when the truii stopped at Hamilton, and several pas sengers descended, among them Mrs Glennor and Mabel. There was a forlorn-looking station with a dusty little refreshment-bar ii one corner of a dingy room labellcc "Ladies' Room." There were two o three village idlers, with hands in tliei pockets, promenading up and down th< platform, and that was all. "Why, what does this mean?", fret tec Mrs. Glennor. "Mr. Hamilton wrote hi avouId be certain to have the carriage t< meet us." "Perhaps it will be here yet, mamma,1 said Mabel. "Suppose you ask one o these men if it has been seen." "I believe I will." and Mrs. Glcnno marched majestically up to one of th< men aforesaid and inquired: "Can you tell me whether Mr. 11am ilton's carriage has been at the statioi to-day?" "Ycs'm?no'm'?I don't know?then it are a-comin* now," was the slightl; incoherent answer. Turning in the direction of his extend ed linger she saw a handsome carriage rolling rapidly up. "It is just coming," she announced tj Mabel,.whose eyes had already informer her of that fact. They waited upon the dreary plat form until it drove up and the drive dismounted. Then he came up the steps and ad dressed Mrs. Glennor, touching his ha respectfully. ' Ladies for Mr. Hamilton's, madam?' "Yes. Come, Mabel." ''The carriage is ready, ladies. Tlv spring cart is here already to take you baggage over. Will I take your tiek eta?" Mrs. Glennor gave him the tickets fo their trunks, and the ready coaehmai soon had them piled in the light ear which had followed the carriage. "Now we are ready." declared Mrs Glennor. But the coachman appearet to be looking for some one else. "Our young Miss Henrietta went uj to town yesterday. We expected he back by this train." "Here I am, Sam!" called a familia voice from the door of the ladies' room and the homely young lady in plaii linen, who had shared Mabel's seat, canu out of her retreat inside and approaches them. ""My goodness!" was Mrs. Glennor* dismayed ejaculation, as she flushed uj to the roots of her hair. But, Mabel sprung forward with ex tended hand. "What! arc you Henrietta Hamilton I am so glad. "And you are Miss Glennor! I an find- ton!" Kiiifl tVw? vninur l<wlv O 1 1 v"v' ing her hand most cordially. "I wouk have made myself known in the train Dut I am always so shy with strangers and I was not sure who you were til now. Mrs. Glennor, I am very glad t< welcome you to Hamilton. I love voui daughter already, and I am sure we shal have a delightful visit. Let us go now Sam is waiting." This prompt courtesy, so delicately ignoring her own rude behavior in th< train, was a greater rebuke to Mrs Glennor than any show of anger conk h.;vc been. for once her ready tongue wa3 at j loss, and she only followed her voun< hostess to the carriage, silently and wit! flushed face. But Henrietta's kindly spirit sooi put her at her ease, except when she re memhered her mortifying blunder. It was a wholesome lesson, however And the next time Mrs. Glennor meets i a lady in the train, whether she is rohec like a queen or in plain linen, she wil treat her ps such, and never judge b; appearance. ANSON GREY. Anson Grey was a still, stern man o thirty, shut up within himself and b] himself, in his great stone mansion 01 the hill, and people knew no more abou him than they knew about the dead His early years had been spent abroad where or how, nobody knew, and mos? had ceased to care, for that matter; th< last two had been passed in Burlingame A brilliant light at night, sliinin; from the great east windows, and oeca sional gallops through the town by day were the only tokens of his presence However, a change was coming, ant that without warning. Anson Grey fel sick, suddenly and dangerously so. The village doctor was summoned, who ii turn telegraphed for another from tin 1 i-. j ^ 'V -i * 11.j 111 iiui iiHMi-, niiu ujgcmer inev sail in whispers ihat their patient woulc probably die. There was no woman ii the great house to act as a nurse, sine the head * servant, obeying, doubtless nis master's orders, refused to allow om there as yet. How it came about was a mystery, bu one morning, when the master had laii a week, half senseless, an unusual clouc of dust was observed whirling up th< hill, and emerging therefrom was a car ri age, splashed and weather-stained, head ed by two straining, panting horses who came up to the entrance as i driven by the evil one. A lady, tall an< fair as sunlight, pushed open the car riagc door impatiently, and sprang out With a hasty glance around, she hurriet up the steps, entered the drawing-room and stood before the two astonishcc gentlemen who were seated there. *' Is Anson Grey alive?" " Yes, but he grows worse." Before they divined her intention tth< had passed them and was in the nex room, bending over the sick man. "The deuce will be to pay if she ex cites him now," the elder one said. 141 some good nurse had come it might hav< boen of (tome use, but this dainty tliinj ?bah!" She came out in a moment, he fact white but determined. * Will you have the goodness to senc i\\ -v^ev-.-.Av" v'-' F \' : y? .' . \ -it; U? k for a minister, ami remain until I come?" she asked as she began U k move her things. : There was something in her ma c | that forbade nucstioning, and s i obeyed her like so many dumb me 1.1 they said afterwards. vj The minister did come. William t1 : ner, the head servant was eallcd, 1 after the three held a private confer* s which seemed to be satisfactory, y came out, and, to the amazement ol : the lady stood beside Anson Grey, n 1 the manage vows were taken. - | The wise doctors were mistake] i. 1 their estimation of this fair unkm I She was something beside a fair y< , ; lady, as her actions soon proved l ; new order of things was institute I ' the sick man's room, and his wif< r 1 Stllllcfi lll?rv<?lf IIS niirun ? liliimnu " - j ? v. r | told for the hotter. In a month he b j riding through the village, with | bride by his side, all eyes of co1 I : agog, to cateh a glimpse of her h b ; some fare. 3 ! All agreed that she was just an ai j and when they came lo church the II | Sunday,. and sat down in one of f J pews like other people, they were i i than ever confirmed in their opii r ! What they ever knew was this. b i Three years before, Anson ( j haughty and indolent, was killing - | at one of the fashionable watering-pi: 1 j where Edith also lingered, though s< against her will. b j A sweet and wondrous fair face, i f j admired and sought after, Anson ! hud half a mind to enter the lists - j the others, hut something kept c | back, and he only exchanged a j words with her now and then. j There happened to come a heavy, I days' Hooding rain, and the first nig it Edith sent a servant asking Mr-. - to come to her private parlor for a r ment. He obeyed the summons alacrity, though wondering what t - be coming now. t Edith was awaiting him, cloaked hooded, evidently in haste to b< II somewhere. 'I hope you will pardon me," she r. as he el used the door behind him, r really 1 did not know whom to ask, - mamma will not allow me to iro bv self. A poor woman down on the 1j r is sick, perhaps (lying, and I must { i her. Iler little boy just came after t I was there yesterday and they ai great distress. Could I trouble y< . go with me?'' 1 "I will do your errand. It is stormy for you to venture out." > Mr. Grey saw what she wanted, r saying he would be back directly, ished for his rubber suit. r The rain drove into their faces. , the wind howled through the t 1 night like a minister of a thou 2 storms?not for a poor fisherman, I haps, but for one as good and fa Edith Willoughby, he should not k hesitated a moment. When they < > upon the bench the waves fairly le; into their faces, and Edith shivered - clung, half terrified, to her compai in spite of herself. ? "I believe you had better return and leave it to mo," Mr. Grey said. 1 4'No, we are almost there. I sh never forgive myself if I did," she I swered, catching her breath as spoke. "It is only you 1 am woi ' about." 'j "I am glad to be able to help \ } he said. Aud I think he spoke r truth. j Inside the cottage poor Grace Pt . lay on the hard bed, trying to brt on a little longer, if so the good might briii}; some good frieud hi she died to care for her orphan boy. When the door opened her eyes bri j ened. and she raised up a little. "The Lord bless ye for coining 4 know He will!" she said, as Edith tl oil her wet covering and went to^ ^ her. "This is only one of the boarders 1 came with me," she said, in reply t( questioning look. "1 should have ( to-day had I known you were worst She sat down beside the bed and \ son Grey watched her as she spoke \ low, tender voice to the grateful 1 man. Among the words he could tinguish was a promise, to sec Jit and when the woman who seemed t the nurse came up to administer s? thing, and in a half-whisper asked E to pray with tl.em, lie began to thin was in another w >i ld. And it was other to him. i n I v Snr??lu u)w> iv f never do that! JJut she did. Knei 7 upon the bare floor and clasping 1 white hands she sent up such a pr t for help and strength us Anson < had-never dreamed of hearing lefor After that night Anson Grey k t where his heart was, but for his lil 2 dared not approach Edith. She sec an immeasurable distance from sue ? he; but he cherished the memory of - prayer as the one glimpse into he: , for which he should thank God all life. i Edith's mother was a gay woman, 1 such she meant her daughter to though for her life she could not 1 1 her from ferreting out and helping j 2 an innumerable number of forlorn, 1 erty-strieken people, who had no ei I ly claim upon her, as they went t fashionable rounds. It was mortify Ii>uu u.-viw>|>vn?lllli;, Will Silt' WHS ])<) . less to prevent it. They were to bi g again soon, Anson Grey heard; bu would have missed seeing her had t not accidentally met her as she i hurrying up the beach toward 1 1 boarding-house on the very day e left. He could not let her go wit! - telling her what was in his heart. "May I speak to you a moment? , said, abruptly, stopping her. f "Certainly." 1 As the word left her lips she - what his speaking was going to be. "Oh, not thnt, Mr. Grey?" 1 Somehow he took courage from , quick paling of her lips. 1 "Yes, that I love you and want for my wife." "I am to be married Christmas!" He turned and wax leaving her v w m/ui?.iuiu^ I11UUU 1IOA DjlCilK. t "Mr. Grey!" He fined l?er again and she Raw - white and stern he looked, f "Had I been free you would not ] i asked in vnix" f For days and weeks afterwards Ai Grev hugged the memory of her I 3 as slie said those blessed words, to heart, earing more for that than I love ar.d caress of any other. \ I he Christmas came, but death came with > re- it, and Edith's lover went his long journey, leaving his affianced bride and inner scheming mamma to console themselves they as best they might. n, as , In a way mysterious to all snve "William Skinner, Edith heard of Anson *kin- Grey's illness, and, as we have seen, went and to him and had the courage to become mce, his wife. thoy The people of Burlingame learned to all, love the gentle mistress of the old stone and mansion on the hill, and never a suffering one called for help in vain as long as I i.wi.. .... ?i it-.i i? ? .. iu inuj, ii.i iiu'? uaut'u ner, was uijs)wn. tress there. A THE Fill ST CUT. (1 in i ini : | ApiilirmilN lor tl?p Outstrip I'Ipoo of Ro:i<4t Ilcef? lieef ?m tin Viuericun Nrn>snity. was its "Give me the outside cut of the roast ursi, 8lli(i a reporter to the waiter iu a am" popular restaurant at precisely 11:30 t , o'clock one forenoon. '"f-t "You're too late, sir," replied the man n[iX, of the apron. ''There arc several gentleu men waiting for the outside cut. I'll mere # tret vou as near the outside as I can, ,lou' though.-' , . | Inquiry elicited the fact that if a man j wants the crisp, well-cooked flavor of lnu I the outside cut of beef roast he must no | to the restaurant early. At most rest.au)1( * rants the roasts are lifted promptly at , 11:30, and at that hour several custom;\ut;1 ers may usually be found waiting for ; the first cuts. Some beef-eaters go as 1 early as 11 o'clock, ]mt in their orders } *r and patiently read their newspapers ' until the hot, sizzling meat is placed before thcni. Their patience is amply r<*. warded, for hot, well-done roast beef is \ ?x. certainly the finest meat on earth, while ,rt- lukewarm meat is not as good as meat V-10. entirely cold. In most restaurants the ,WI| i kitchens are so small and crowded that ou it is well-nigh impossible to keep meats , hot more than a few minutes, especially the beef roast, which must be constantly 3 ? manipulated by the carver. Even under the most favorable conditions roast meat h" Pcrfyc* onl>" when it first comes from t n, ! the fire, as its great charm consists of j the savor of radiating heat. 'i"ch "Yes," said the proprietor of the ^ , restaurant mentioned, as he llipped the f t reporter's quarter into his cash drawer, . " "roast beef is the great moat nowadays, m to nnc* 11 *8 6e^*nK' more popular every day. "We are becoming as much of a nation of t beef eaters as the English, or even more 00 so, for the English are very fond of mutand *ou' *s not generally popular in v in this country. It seems to me that if the present tendency continues much longer ftn(| the time will come when it wont be >l'ick wor*'1 while to cook anj'thing else, saml ^*ven "now't is one of the most profit1 able meats we serve, because we can ir is ^uy a P'ecc <md use it all up. have ^^iere *s 110 rcnson why the people of M>ine Chicago shotddn't take kindly to roast t j beef, when they can go to our best and rc8tuurunts ,l,1d get nice slices of the n roast for fifteen, twenty or twenty-five ' cents. I believe prime beef is cheaper now *n ^'hicngo than in any other city in the world. You can buy prime roasts at the I stock yards shops for eight cents a pound."?Chicago Ilcrahl. she rrictl A Desperate Encounter. ou " It is related in the Boston Ilcrald that t]'ie Mr. Iiicliard Freeman, a fisherman, had a desperate encounter with a swingtail >olev s^ur^ ?H Kainsford Island. The shark iathe ,nU(3e its j>resence known to Mr. FreeGod Inan charging under the boat anc .fore "early upsettii.g it. Mr. Freeman. I armed with a clamming fork, kept the i-rht- shark at bay, and, by several well-made ! thrusts, quieted the monster, and, as he r J 1 thought lie had it lifeless, proceeded to iirew h'8 sharksliip into the boat, which ivard AV,ls accomplished after considerable effort. Mr. Freeman started for Boston who Pr'zei and everything progressed > the smo?thly until oil Long Island Head, oine w*ien> to the surprise of Mr. Freeman, , ? the shark became as lively as ever, and \n. made things pretty warm for him. In in a stniggle the boat was overturned, wo- an<^ captor antl captive were left to -s_ fight out the battle in the water. Hemic markable as it may seem, Mr. Freeman o be succeeded righting the boat and scrw?,r> curing the shark with a rone, bv which Idi'lk *1C> towc(^ prize to South Boston j. Point, where it is on free exhibition at [in_ the Grant Ilonse. Considering the fact ould t^lut' ^r* Freeman's capture measures 1.1 >jjn,r feet, an<J is one of the most dangerous her 111,1 n ca*crs captured in the harbor for aver years> ** *s without doubt a great curiClrev osi{y- Mr. Freeman was quite exhausted J ^ after his struggle, and is the hero of tlu ,n' hour at City Point. fe he " ined A Watering Place. h as _ her Carlsbad is very full this season, and liven there are many American visitors. The his population proper number 12,000. Till the year 1852 visitors were welcomed and with a flourish of trumpets from the ton be, of the tower of the Town Hull; now keep they receive a demand on arrival to pay a ulso, tax of 15 florins for the privilege of pov- drinking the waters and listening to the irth- bands which play in the morning. The heir principal industry of Carlsbad is that of inj^ housing, feeding, and curing invalids, wer- Though the place is small, as many as j off 10,000 strangers, can be accommodated t he at a time. During the season, which I he begins on the 1st of May and closes was on the 1st of October, nearly ,heir 30,000 persons spend not less than they three weeks in Carlsbad. There is a bout great industry there in needles and pins, which are hand made. When Goethe " he was here in 1808 he sent a pound of pins as ar present to his Frau Von Stein. saw That Old Jib Again. The Gloucester Advertiser tells this the veteran story of the sea : We heard a good story the other day of an indiyou vidual in Gloncoster, who mav be seen I every day on Mnin street. Some year* ! ago he made a fishing trip, and dminixii irhen violent blow the jib was torn, and the skipper, not wishing to have the t>ai. blow to pieces, onb-n-d him to tnko it how in. "Great Scott,wi?s the response, "I can't go ont there in such a storm ; have let the jib go and charge it to me, ?kip* per." As it was the only jib th" sk'.pper nson nad with him, and he was ir. a place ook, where a jib was wanted, he got some i his one else to rescue it, but for a long tunc, the "Charge the jib'to me,.skipper," was & byword on board of that craft. , v.-../, / . LV'.v-:: ' GERMAN POTATOES IN NEW YORK j No UlffRvr tlinn Walimis and Hold tit the Italic oT ft u l'oiind. It may seem incredible to some of our i readers to learn that potatoes arc imported from Germany into this country, than which no other portion of the globe has more agricultural advantages, but [ such is the case. Whether the potato grown dn German soil possesses any par- . j * i? \uiv ??v*. juiiviuiii. in nu; ;viiu;i i I can-grown tuber, is a question we are not able to answer, but we clo know that certain classes of people, the world over deem imported foods of every sort far superior to home products. In England and Franco, for instance, the label of an Ameriean house claims the first consideration of the epicure in search of something extra nice, and from our foreign correspondents and personal ob- j servation we learn that everywhere in Europe American goods arc found on sale in immense quantities. On the other hand, it seems perfectly natural, when we consider this vagary of human nature, to find German potatoes, and a thousand other articles we might name, I in the New York markets, with plenty . of purchasers in the bargain. The particular German potato we have in mind has only lately aiued a prominent place on our list of imports. A few years ago the receipts were from 25 to 50 bags yearly. Last year over 1,000 bags of German potatoes were sold in I New York city alone, and this season | the sales have already reached that fig I ure, showing a remarkably rapid increase in their consumption. Noticing this in- ' crease, and desiring to find out the ( cause of their popularity, we called ! upon an uptown grocer, who serves a very particular class of trade, and asked to see his Germany potatoes. He displayed his samples upon a plate which held a dozen or morn ttihors t.hn of n walnut. Wc were surprised to learn that this was the average size, and that i in spite of the seeming disadvantage in' this respect, the German potato was a favorite on the tables of several of his wealthier customers. He sells them by weight, at 5 cents a pound, and buys them at three cents by the single bag, or 2J cents a pound in 10 bag lots. The bags will average about 100 pounds. Regarding the demand, he informed us that at present his sales are one bag a week, but during the winter season from three to five bugs. Curious to know whether tliey were bought for any special object, we were informed that they are considered the finest potatoes for salad, and are principally used for that purpose. Peeled and boiled in lard or butter, whole without slicing,they make a specially attractive dish. Boiled and served in their peel, and eaten with a little butter and salt they are delightful, (looked this way the potato should be broken apart with the hand, and not cut with a knife.?Metropolitan Grocer. Striking it Rich. Tfave you called on the Browns yet?" she asked, as the new minister was about to take his leave, after making a call. "I'm just going," he replied. "It's the third house from the corner, I believe?" "Yes?third house. They are very, very nice people, and I know you'll like 'em." When the minister rang the bell there was some delay in answering it. Mean- | while the screen doors permitted him to \ hear from the interior. Brown, who seemed to be up-stairs, called over the banisters: "Say, Helen, where in thunder is that old vest I spoke of ?" "Who are you talking to?" demanded a voice from below. "To you, of course! If you were any sort of a wife you'd put' things where they could be found.'' "Solomon Brown, don't you cast any | slurs on me. If I don't know more about housekeeping than all the Brown's *1. T* I 1 i 5--J- II I u.i VIII 111, 1 11 (..-(.>11111111 SlllCiUU. "You do, eli? What did the pauper Smiths have to keep house on?" ''Solomon, you are a vile wretch!" "Much obliged, but it's living with you that's done it!" At this juncture the minister was ushered in, and Mrs. Brown soon entered the parlor, extended both hands, and gayly exclaimed: "Ah! I'm so glad ! Solomon and I both wanted to see you so much! Solomon?Solly, dear, hurry up and come down?our new preacher is here!" And Solomon came down, painted a grin on his face, and greeted the good man with: "Well! well! but this is good of you! Wifey and I were just wishing you'd Pull Wl' U'nnt tn unn if on nlTort m'f be made to increase the interest in the Thursday evening prayer meetings I" Fashion and Prices. Two hundred and twe?ty-flve dollars was the price which the polite salesman of a fashionable up-town tailoring estab- 1 lishment said the other day a suit made of such and such cloth in such and such a way would cost a lsdy visitor. "Bother?" said the lady. "I -won't pay any snch price. 1 want something 'like this I have on, and I paid only $00 for it." "Oh, of course, you know," replied the salesman, in a deprecatory way, and with a profusion of bows. "But these American-made goods?" "Why," interrupted the lady, "I ; bought this suit at your branch house in Paris only a month ago. Is all the extra price here duty?" The salesman was fairly extinguished, i and could only gasp out: ' un, you know, well, of course, as an ' old customer, we cnn do it a littlo cheaper for you; say $1751" "No." "Well, say $150?" "No." "I think we coidd do if fhr$125," was the last offer; but the lady had bowed her way out, and left the store. The incident is only illustrative of what some people will pay to be fashionable, and how other people always stand ready to let them do it.?New York Commercial Acfoertiw. ?UR pr*yer? and God's merer *re like two buckot s tn a well?while one Moeod% the oth.r ill i-CcU. I, r-' /?* y <xrvv.. a*. ; ': ^ . ' r> / *:-f v r.":*7" $ ' 7T'? (General Grant's Funeral Expenses. ?? TUB FACT THAT THKY AIIK NOT PAID l'AKADBD AT A PfJJI.IC MKKTINO. The most interesting incident of the National Undertakers' Convention in l'hilndelphin was the address of Kev. Stephen Merritt, who was introduced as "the distinguished gentleman who buried Gen. Grant." Mr. Merritt said of the Gen. Grant funeral: "I had the honor of burying Gen. Grant. All the arrangements were left to me. There was aome criticism indulged in, but it was from people who knew nothing. The keeping of the body was perfectly satisfactory to the family of the General, the authorities and the members of the press. I think it was a mistake to have belled glasses above the face, becHU.sc they distorted the view. The body was over-embalmed rather than under-embalmed. As to the bill. there were till sorts of guesses from $000,000 down and $50,000 up. It amounted to $14,103. I thought it proper to make the bill reasonable and right. I didn't want to make enough profit ou one funeral to keen me the rest of my life, but I charged a fair profit - a little more than I would charge or other funerals. I haven't the money, and don't know when I am iroin?j to get it. The bill was audited and sent to Washington, but 1 haven't the money. I furnished 500 coaches, on which I got ten per cent., the amount usually allowed us. I want to say that all the blame al>out the body not being properly embalmed, etc., came frem members of the profession who knew nothing, and didn't even see the body." The association passed a resolution asking the governmer t to pay Mr. Merritt's bill, and then adjourned. A Runaway Master. The /Southern Uivotiae tells the following story: 'A well-to-do farmer in Tennessee owned a large number of slaves, and among them one old darkey about his own age, and whom he had known all his life. Old Saui was a faithful creature, a great favorite with his master, and a sort of privileged character on the plantation. The old fellow was industrious and exemplary in his behavior all the year round, except during that period dating from the time when roastinir.n..r? -I" 1 1:?* vino IV I U11U CliU UUI I1UTH. appearance of frost. Sam was invariably seized at that period with an invincible desire to 'run away.' Ol course, in such a ca e, tire usual punishment inflicted on 'runaway niggers' was not to be thought of. Remonstrance was unavailing. Sam declared that 'he jes' couldn't he'p liissef,' and it became u * r settled and understood arrangement that he should go, and that the neigh- . s ? * "borhood should condone his raids on corn-fields and potato patchcs. After i many such escapades, his old master asked him on one ocnsion, when the matter was under discussion : " 'Sam, do you really enjoy running away ?' I " 'Deed, Marse John,' said Sam, fI docs. Hit's de iroas' fun in de wurl'. Coon huntin' ain't nowhar to hit.* " 'Well, then,' said Marse John, 'just let me know the next time you take a notion to start, and I'll go with you, and try it awhile myself.' ''Sure enough, in due season, Sam I came up, saying: I " 'Old Marse, de time's mighty nigh I when I 'bleeged to lite out. Ef you gwine wid me, you better be gittin' reddy, for when de time comes I got to ; go quick.' " 'Old Marse' kept a bright lookout, and when Sam started he was on hand. > "They had a delightful time. They fished occasionally, caught 'possums, robbed orchards and watermelon and potato patches, picked blackberries for recreation, and haunted the greenest and shadiest nooks of the forest, all of which Sam knew well. 'Old Marse' had never enjoyed a summer sb much. In fact, he was so much pleased that regularly afterward he accompanied Sam when the latter went into annual retreat. At length Sam died. The old master grieveH for him sincerely. He was sad also over the reflection that his summer ~pastime would in future be denied him. ?! But, to the amazement of all his friends, and not less his own, when roasting-ear time came again, the fit seized him as strong as ever, and he ran away by himself.v The First Mammoth. A Toongoosian fisherman named Schumachoff, about the year 1701>, was pro t n.1 IB HIV i;umuui Ul uaiiuriui'll in those parts when fishing proves a failure, along the shores of the Lena in quest of mammoth tusks, which have been there found in considerable abundance. During his ram'des, having gone further lian he had done before, he suddenly came face to face with a huge mammoth imbedded in clear ice. This extraordinary sight seems to have filled him with astonishment and awe, for instead of at once profiting by the fortunate discovery, he allowed several years to Toll on before ho summoned courage to approach it closely, although it was his habit to make stealthy journeys occasionally to the object of his wonder. At length, seeing, it is presumed, the terrible monster made no signs of eating him up, and that its tusks would bring him a considerable sum of money, he allowed the hope of gain to overcome his superstitious scruples. He boidly broke tho barrier of ice, chopped off the tusks, and left the carcass to the mercy of he wolves and bears, who finding it palatable, soon reduced the huge creature to a skeleton. Some two years afterward a man of science was on the scent, and although so late in at the death, foiuid * a huge skeleton with three legs, the eyes still in the orbits, and the brain uninjured in the skull. A Nick Littlk Story.?When Oct*. Washington was in New England ho was entertained at dinner by a country gentleman who lived comfortably butquiotly in his old-fashioned homo far from town. When the General rose to go, flic little daughter of tlio host, not yet... " in her teens, opened the door for him. As he passed out in his stately way he bowed and said to the little maid; wish you a better flfHee. mydo.?r.M "Yea, sir," she quickly rcpliod, with a bow, "to let yw? ia, air." v - '.-I ' ' ' > % '