Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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VOL. IV. DARLINGTON, S. C., FRIDAY, AUGUSTS, 18ty. « >i-'V RAIN IN THE W00D9, Silence first, with gloom o’erhenj Not a stir in bush or tree; Wood folk all to coverts fled; Dumb the gossip chickadee. Then a little rustling sigh; Treetops toss, and bushes shake. And a silent wave goes by In the feathered fern and brake. Now a murmur growing loud In the pine tops far and near; And the woods are tossed and bowed, like a soul in sudden fear. Hark! the music of the rain On a thousand leaky roof% Like an army o’er & plain Galloping with silver hoof • Patter, patter on the ground. Rustle, rustle in the trees; And the beaded bushes round Drip when shaken by the breeze. Ahl if you would nature know Close and true in all her moods, Flee not from the show’r, but go Hear the raindrops in the woods! —[James Buck ham, iuYouth’s Companion. mt Mrc On me cull. BY HARRY HOW. “The woman made a movement. “ ‘Yon seem in trouble,’ I said, and putting my hand in my pocket- well, the truth Is, old fellow, I gave her a sovereign. I shall never forget the grateful look she gave me; there was a smile there, and tears were in her eyes. She took the money with out a word, but I read all she wanted to say. I gave her my card, and told her if she thought anything more of my proposal to come and see me. She took the card, and with a thank ful face turned quickly and hurried away. “Well, I started on my picture, and day by day it grew. I seldom had to refer to the sketch on my cud though I kept it carefully, for the woman’s face was too vividly im pressed upon my memory. 1 must tetf »h« loves you more than ever, now I had known Franklin about a month. He was a man worth know ing. His honest and genial-looking face spoke truly of the honor of his heart within; and his friendship was something to be desired. Moreover, he Was clever, very clever, and among his associates was freely re garded as an artist who some day would bo with the much-coveted R. A. after his name. I was, therefore, particularly happy when he asked me to come round and smoke a pipe with him in his studio. It was a typi cal Bohemian little den in Chelsea— a studio among studios, for it was situated among a number of such “painting rooms,” in a building specially designed for the purpose. His greeting, as I anticipated, was most cordial. We lighted our pipes, and, as though we had known one an other for years, he took me by tire arm, and, walking mo around his studio, commenced pointing out the various curios and the like hanging upon the walls and crowding corners in picturesque negligence. Or,e “curiosity” in a little black and gold frame, however, seemed to Impress me more than anything else. It was a linen shirt culT, and on it, drawn in pencil, was the face of a beautiful girl. I recognized the fea tures at once; it was the face that figured in his celebrated picture, “Tired of Life,” which created such a sensation with the public, aud made such a marked impression on the art critics two years ago at 01 of the great art exhibitions In Lon don. Franklin noticed and under stood jay curiosity. “Sit down, old fellow,” ho said pointing to a basket chair covered with flowered cretonne. “Curiosity aroused, eh?” I admitted that it was. “Well,” he said, “I am just in the humor for telling the story, and I think you will vote it a pretty one; yes, and as romantic as the finale of it was happy. This is a linen shirt cuff,” and lie reached it down from the wall, “and the face you see there was the one which went into my ‘Tired of Life.’” 1 told him I recognized it as soon as I saw it. “I was walking along the embank ment one day a little more-thnn two years ago,” Franklin commenced^ trying to hit upon a good subject for a picture. I paced up and down the waterside for an hour or more, but still without an idea. I was just about to turn down the road loading back to my place when 1 saw a wo man coming along. Her eyes seem ed to bo fixed upon tlie water. Iliad never seen such a sorrowful face be fore; so pale and so sad; there was trouble written on every feature. Yet it was a very beautiful face, and it seemed to inspire me in an instant, and the subject I had been in search of appeared to be mine at last. Now, you must know that I have a habit of sketching a striking or character istic face upon my culls likely to stand me in good stead for introduc ing into a picture. Fortunately for mo the woman stood quite still for a few moments leaning over the stone work and gazing dreamily into the water. My pencil was out in an in stant, and her face was quickly trans ferred to my culT. I felt very exci ted. Here, here was my subject! the very thing. But possibly she might pose as a model for me, I thought. Better still. “I crossed to her, and, raising my hat, spoke. She started and looked at me witli lear and tr“mbling. I apologized to her for ‘die strange in spiration that her presence had sug gested to me. I told her I was an ar tist; that her face had given me un idea that might possibly bring me fame and fortune. ‘Tired of Life,’I should call it. Again I apologized as I further explained toiler my idea. She stared at me vacantly. “It will be the picture of a young and beautiful woman,” I said, “ga zing dreamily into the water by night, and seeing in the dark stream a rest ing place for her and her troubles. Would she become a model for my picture?” I saw how poorly she was clad, so I felt I should not be insult ing her if I told her I would pay her for her services. She started and trembled at my request. She looked at me in a way I shall never forget. “ ‘Do you know—do you know,’ she said, ‘but no, of course, you cannot, I must go; please let me go. I can- DOt do as you ask.’ you that at that time wo liad an old man here, named Glover, who used to clean and dust our rooms anu do odd things about the place in general. He was a quiet, say little sort of old fellow—a man, I should say, who had evidently seen a hit of trouble ns well as better days. We men used to talk to him pretty freely, and lie al ways evinced a deep interest in the various pictures Upon Which wo were engaged. But I never knew him so in terested in any canvas ns he was In my ‘Tired of Life.’ He was silent about it, however, and seldom spoke. I used to surprise him of a morning some times when I entered my studio for work. There he would stand before my easel with wondering gaze, watch ing my picture growing,and evidently wondering what was to come next. Thereon the canvas was the river by night, the lights reflected in tlrj water, the bridge in tho distance, and some river craft lying idle by the water's edge. Just by the parapet stood a woman in black—a shawl loosely thrown about her slioulders, her hat old and shabby her face—‘Tired of Life.’ “I had not quite completed the painting on the woman’s face, it was not realized yet, but the old man was al ways looking at it and apparently was wondering what expression and what features would eventually ho placed there. All this time I had not seen or heard anything of tho woman who had suggested the character to me. It wanted just a month to sending-in day and I had only another day’s work on the face, and I should be through in capital time. I spent the whole of this day on the featarcs of the woman and just us It was getting dusk I surveyed my work with satis faction. It could not have been bet ter, and I heartily shook hands with myself. The following morning when I entered my studio and opened the door I saw that which made my heart almost cease to beat. I stood holding the handle of tho door and could not move, my whole frame was trembling. The face of the woman had been cut out of my picture! In a moment I hud pulled myself together. I shouted- out for ‘Glover—Glover!’ but no re ply came. I rushed round my fellow artists’ rooms. The old man was not there, neither hud he been there that morning, for their rooms were un swept and untidy as left the pio- vious night. The whole truth Unshed across me, Glover was the miscreant who had ruined and stole my work. I remembered it all then—his interest in my picture, his anxious waiting, waiting, waiting for the woman’s face to appear on the canvas. ‘The wretched thief dnd robber,’ I mut tered. And in tho midst of all this the great question rang through my ears and haunted my brain—‘Who was this woman that induced this man to want the picture of her face? Search was made for him, but he had gone none knew where. “It was a supreme effort, I tell you, but I did it—I did it I I had a clear month before I should have to send in my work, and I set to and painted tho whole tiling again. You remem ber what a success it was, and 1 think I may say truly that had I never painted ‘Tired of Life,’ I should not be what I am to-day. “It was the day before the opening of the Exhibition. I was sitting thinking quietly in my studio when I heard a rap at the door. I cried, ‘Como in.’ Tho door opened, and there stood—the woman I had seen on tlie Embankment! Her face was still pale, and tlie lines of trouble were not entirely effaced, but she ap peared more composed and centered. She was better dressed too. It was such a sudden surprise lo me that I practically jumped from my chair. She was the first to speak. “ ‘Oh, sir,” she said, ‘forgive mo this; I should have come before. Tell me, tell me, have you painted tlie picture you spoke to me about ? If you have it is all a mistake; it will not be true now. It might have been, but you came to me as a friend in need. Toll me, sir, have you painted it ?’ “There was great anxiety in her voice. I told her that I had; that it would be exhibited on tho morrow. “She fell down on her knees be fore me. “‘Then, sir, it will all be known to the world ? ” “ ‘What ? ’ I asked. “ ‘What I was going to do. Yes, I was tired of life—oh, so tired. I thought I should find rest in tho river, and a homo for my troubles there. You won’t let my face lie seen—you won’t let tho people know the truth ? ’ “Well, I argued with her quietly. Told her that tlie world was wide, and in this great seething crowd of fighting humanity she would not bo known or recognized. “ ‘There is one who might, though,’ she cried. “ ‘Who ? ’ I asked. “ ‘My father. “Her father ! I seemed to realize the whole thing at once. Her father was the man Glover—the man who ruined the work of many a day and caused mo ceaseless toil and anxiety. Hero, then, was the cause of his spoiling my picture. He, too, recog nized the face on the canvas, and he did not want those features to be given to the world. ‘Tired of Life! ’ and a father living, A daughter for gotten and forsaken. This, then, was the motive of his crime. “‘My father,’ she said, ‘whom I want to see again. He was so good to mo; but I left home for one who has deceived me, and I cannot face my father now. But I want to: I want to kiss him, to take his dear hand and fall on my knees at his feet and say, “Take your Mary home again, fatiier, for she loves you still. Forgive your Mary, fatiier, for THE LIMEKILN CLUB NO. 38. Oil, forgive me, dear, (fear fatfiorf’ “My heart was touched. I told her to rise to her feet again. I took her by the hand and sat her down in my chair. I had made up my mind exactly what I would do. Glover knew for which exhibition my picture was intended. He evidently destroy ed my work thinking I should not be able to paint another in its place in tlie time. Possibly, I argued to my self, he might have had his doubts, and I should not be surpriecd if on tlie morrow lie was there to see whether I had once more conveyed liis erring daughter’s face to the can vas. “I turned to the weeping woman and asked her name. It was Mary Glover, she said. Then I was right. “ ‘Will you meet me to-morrow evening at (> o’clock at Charing Cross Railway Station?’ I asked; ‘If you will I may be able to ’ “ ‘What do you mean?’ she cried excitedly. “ ‘I don’t know yet. But, come there at that time; and who knows what may happen?’ “Well, the poor girl went away. The morrow came, and with it the opening of the Exhibition of pic tures. My work took the town. It was as I expected. I kept a sharp lookout and there was Glover among tlie crowd. I shall never forget his face when lie saw that picture. He only gave one glance at it, his face went deadly pale and lie flow from tlie room. I pursued him through tlie streets to a little by-turning off Hatton Garden. He entered a house there, and I soon ascertained that lie lived at this place. There was no time to lose; I hired a cub and got to Charing Cross just as Big Ben was chiming the appointed hour. She was there. “ ‘Jump in—jump in,’ I said. She obeyed me with a trustful look. In ns careful a way ns I could I told her that I had found tho whereabouts of her fatiier. That I thought that lie, too, was waiting to welcome her back to his arms again. I shall never forget that woman’s face when she heard (hose words. Her cheeks be came flushed, her eyes shone with brightness. “At last we reached the house. Tlie door was open, and bidding her follow me up the creaky stairs we readied the third floor, where tho door of a back room was partially open. I asked her to wait until I called her. I peeped through the door and there I saw the old man,' holding in his hands the piece of can vas ho had cut from my picture. He raised it to his lips and kissed it. My heart leaped, for that action told mo Hint my mission would not bo in vain. “I tapped quietly at the door. Hurriedly I saw him place tho can vas under a cloth on the table. With trembling hand ho pulled back the door and lie saw me standing there. He could not speak. He stared at me vacantly. I almost felt sorry for him—poor old fellow!—and nil the trouble lie had given mo seemed to fade away. He was about to fall on his knees, but I stayed him. “ ‘Never mind, Mr. Glover,’ I said as well ns I could, for there was a great lump in my throat that made it difficult for me to speak. ‘Never mind, I understand nil.’ “ ‘Thank God !’ tho old man cried. “Tho sound of his voice must have readied the ears of the one waiting on tlie landing below. I heard her hurrying footsteps up the stairs, and at their tread tho old man started, lie stood as one afraid to move, but when lie saw the form of his child lie flew out of the doorway and caught her in his arms. “That's all, old fellow. I couldn’t toll you anything more—save that I found tlie tears trickling down my face just then. I often hear from them now. You are not surprised I keep that old linen cuff, are you?”— [Loudon Million. Wool Fat. A recent discovery in Australia goes to show that the sheep is oven a more valuable animal than it has been generally esteemed. Its latest contribution to man’s welfare is a fatty substance called wool fat, de rived from the grease that is skimmed from the scouring vats. It is used as a basis for the oint ments for medical purposes, and is said to he more readily absorbed by tlie skin than any other oil or fat known. It is able also to adhere to moist surfaces, which no other un guent in present usj will do. Tlie sheep owners of Australia are care fully saving the refuse of their vats for this purpose.—[New York World. Baggedy Wayside—Why did you swipe dat scientific paper when der wuz lots wid gals’ pictures in clem lyin’ ’round? Wandering Willie—I like ter read ’bout do invention of labor-savin’ mas chinery. Diss will bo a boss world ter live In when dere’s no more work done by hand.—[Fuck, Brother Gardner Accepts the tor's Roslflnetlon. “Gem’len,” saidUrdtheeGarfiaSr, as he stood up, adjusted his spec tacles and looked abound the hall, “It has come to my ears dat sartin pus-, sons In dis Limekiln Club ar'-feelln’ ► sort o’ shaky'bout our finance!!. Fey am talkin’ 'bout embezzlement, de- falcashun and shortage, and dey say dey can’t sleep o’ nights furwoiryln' ober It. I shall take advantage of dis occashun to explain sHttin things toyo'. ■ “Fustly, our.system of bookkeeplc crazy," irtfE JOKER’S TJtTDGET. JESra and\arns 'MEN PRESS, Cook’p Dubious Compliment--Mi*. construed - - N arrow Escape-- Pro-* ceedieg Cautiously--Btp.,M-iSr >. cook’s hxfyioffs COMPLIMKN'T. Exasperated young Mijit-raas— 'bf’ fttir society (after a wordy argtfmetTt with, hor — J -- cook)—Why, Urldgotz it’s t)«.(fectly absurd 1 Either you or’I must ho- •[+. i POIXTE iEQfieslt Hfr—L. hftve' somcfJhng t6 say t« yflu apart. wlH-put ijCcr; • JWHBJJ^IIBY AM! tlfiT - ' i fcr RetvBrhed’-'^PrOveie/— Whafo'.ySu; might Ball" the society t girls among, the native paVages wSitr riiigs h^tb{u- OS in ttaiteMt*' a, uj-mz. HES •. me together agairt-A-tfrath ment-c.Mli. & .WHiyf^TttEY amc I Bridget (proudly)—Sure and I ♦rOuldn’t he so bold os to think ye _ had no more sinhe than to keep a in pjmn hin&wrjtlp I cney cook.—[Truth. in. it’s de same | ' ' ^o^tmiku. ' ' ~ Mamma—Robbie, why didn’t you speak to Mrs. Baifglo when you met hor just now? Robb e—You said I must always think twice before I speak, anil I couldn’t think of anything to thiiiR. —[Inter-Ocean. NARROW ESCAPE. "Maria,” said Mr. Billtis, “that young man with tlie blond hair and * ue pale mustache seems to ho a good deal stuck on Bessie.” “I wish you wouldn’t use coarse slang when you talk, John,” replied Mrs. Bill us. “What is the young fellow’s name?” “His name is Leech.” “Maria,” observed Mr. Billus, after a thoughtful pause, “you see I wasn’t talking slang.”—[ChicngoTri- bune. PROCEEDING CAUTIOUSLY. “Has that young man proposed yet?” “Not yet, mamma; but ho has been inquiring if your cough was anything serious.” —[Indianapolis Journal. PROPER DISPOSITION. Author—I have hero an article called “Powder and Shot,” which I would like you to publish. Editor—Why not send it to a mag azine.—[Philadelphia Record. A CITY boy’s CONCLUSION. Wilbur—Do they always keep that big bell on the cow? Papa—Yes, Wilbur. Wilbur—I suppose it is to keep her from fulling asleep in this quiet place.—[Harper’s Young People. THE ONLY ONES THAT ARE FUNNY. Editor—See. here! This joke is old. Paragraphic Serf—Is that so? Um-m! It struck me when I was writing it that there was something funny about it. HIS PREFERENCE. Jack—What are you going to take up as your career—law, medicine, or what? Will Mangold—Matrimony, I think. lost ms WAY. Happy Pilgrim—I’m going to the better land— Conductor—You’re on tho wrong route, then, Mister. This train goes to Chicago.—[Puck. BEST KIND OF LUCK. “Did you have good luck fishing tho other day, Bally?” “Yes.” “What luck?” “I didn’t fall in and drown.” hain’t made up of ‘debjt’ credit, mar sliendizo an profit an loss. Wheh »e. take in any money, it Is put right down on do baf‘ as cash tooke when we pay out. Dar am no profit —no loss. De figgers am right dar an can’t git away nor fade out. “Secondly, our treasurer am not only under bonds, but wo doan’ trust him too fur. We ’low him to walk around wid about 50 cents of our money in his pocket, but dat’s de limit. Once a week we investigate, an wo doan’ let go till the figures balance. “Thirdly, it takes fo’ of us to draw any money from do bank, an our office safe is nebber opened ’cept in de presence of three members. Jest at dis time dis club lias about $18 on hand. To git dat money five mem bers would have to entjr into a con spiracy an dodge around fur three or fo’ weeks. We nebber keep above fo’ty cents in do office safe, an should a pusson tackle dat safe he would fust be cotched in ab’artrnp, den he would be shot wid buckshot, den he would bo blowed up by dynamite, an at’de next moetin all de evidence wo should find of him would be a few eye lashes stickin to the ceilin ober- head. “Dis club does not employ a confi dential clerk. Its treasurer does not play de races nor w’ar diamonds. It does not wait till dc eand oh de y’ar to balance its books. It believes dat all Its officers am honest, but it doan’ offer any of ’em no chances to git- hold oh do boodle an skip. We nei ther loan nor borrow. Dar am occa- shuns when Samuel Shin wants to put up his jacknife as collateral for 15 cents, or Shindig Watkins will git two members in good stnndin to in dorse his note fur a quarter, but I al ius advance de money from my own pocket and take all de risks. De time may come when Paradise Hall will bo struck by lightning, but none o’ yo’ will live long ’null to diskiverdat our treasurer am 17 cents ahead of de game. “When we look around us heah to night wo miss de absence of Brudder Sundown D.ivis, who was our janitor fur ober two y’ars. Am he dead? Am he lyin’ on a bed of pain? Am he fur, fur away from homo and can’t get heah! My friends, Brudder Da vis will meet wid us no mo.’ Ho am healthy and well and right heah in town, but sunthin has happened to him. Brudder Davis alius felt sensi tive about his reputashun fur hones ty, He knowed I had un eye on him an it hurt his feolins. At the meetin a week ago to-night I left a cokernut on my dcisk as a test of his honesty. When I drapped in heah next day as ho was cleanin up, dat cokernut was gone. Brudder Davis felt his hones ty insulted when I axed him if he had sawn it. De bare idea dat I should suspect him of eben lay in his paws on dat property made him so mad dut he threatened to resign. Dat vartuous look which ho put on might hov stood some folks off, . but it didn’t skeer me. I stood Brud der Davis up in a co’ner and pur- coeded to s’arch him, an perhaps it am needless to say dat I found my missin cokernut in de busum of his flannel shirt. No experts war called in to examine his books, and I didn’t ’peal to de police. I jest took hold of him an wrenched an shook him an banged his head agin do wal till ha hollered fur mercy. Den I accepted his rcsignashun without waitin fur de cjub to act, an’ Brudder Davis won’t meet up wid us no mo’ in dis cold world. “I want to say right heah and now dat if dar am any odder highly sen sitive pusson in dis club—pussons who handle our cash or hev charge of our belongings an feel dat a little watebin degrades ’em—dey had bet ter offer deir rcsignashuus right away. Our assets am gwino to keep right on bein $18 an our liabilities nuffin’t all, an if we hurt anybody’s feelins dey am not obleegod to stay in de club. Dar am not do slightest occashun to worry ober de safety of our finances. Eben if do bank busts up I know whar de president libs, an 1 know dat three or to’ of us kin rake in $18 wuth of his Leghorn chickens an make dis club solid befo’ 10 o’clock on de night of de calamity. One word mo’: Our treasurer w’ars what ’pears to be a $000 diamond pin, an some of de brethren feel skeery on dis ac count. Dar am no call fur it. Dat pin cost him jest 25 cents, an if it should git run ober by an ice wagon nnd could be fixed up agin fur a nickel he’d hev to raise de money on a mortgage or throw do pieces away.” —[New York Recorder. WEATHER PREDICTION. Weather Prophet—I hit it again. I never fail. Ordinary Man—Hugh! The ther mometer lias dropped 20,degrees, and it is raining pitchforks. You pre dicted fair and warmer. Weather Prophet—I predicted fair and warmer, with increased humid ity. I may have 1 been a trifle off on the fair nnd warmer, but you can’t deny tlie humidity, Sir—no, sir.— [New York Weekly. The Hebrew year commences Sep tember 0. A JJarvelons' Little Linguist. Not Until January will Ifttle Fannia Erdofy reach the mature ago of four years, and yet she is perhaps tho most mplisMd ytfung lady of her age ew Ybrk. Fannie illustrates iu Some re Lave rings round their eyes.—[New York World. SHE HAD EXPERIENCE. "First Hen — There seems to bo trouble hatching in China, if the papers are tolling tho truth. Second Hen—Well, that is all I have ever been able to hatch from O.Wna, nnd I have tried a long time. —[Indianapolis Journal. THE RIVALS. Dusty Rhodes—I’m too lazy to breathe these days. Fitz William—I’ve quit closing my eyes when I sleep. DISCORD. Ho did not think she was so sharp And repartee did not admire, He said her voice was like a harp, She said his voice was like a lyre. —[Judge. NOT EXACTING. Young Munney—Ah! fair one, he mine; 1 will give up wealth, fame, position, yea, even family for you. Miss Pretty Sliopgurl—Well, Hen ry, if you still insist 1 suppose I must say yes; but I won’t be hard upon you clear, you need give up only the latter.—[Boston Courier. THE OTHER WAY ROUND. Tagleigh—What did that cashier abscond for? in his accounts? Wagleigh—No; lie was ahead, bank was behind. BEGINNING LAST. “Now,” shrieked Mr. Barnes Ter mer, in the great melodrama, ‘ 'Fished from the Ferry,” “now is the time to act.” “By gee!” shouted one of tho two men in tho gallery, “I fought it wuz purty near time for him to begin actin’ if ho ever wuz goin’ to.”—[In dianapolis Journal. NOT COWARDICE. “Listen,” said the first striker, “I hear a band. Wo got to git.” “Git nothin’,” said tho other striker. "Think I am goin’ to run from a lot of kid soldiers!” “Oh, I ain’t afraid of, tlie soldiers mcself. But the band is playing the ‘Washington Post March.’ ”—[Indi anapolis (Ind.) Journal. A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT. Mr. Jones (handing a silver dollar to tlie joy of his household)—My dear, do you know this reminds mo of you. Mrs. J.—Indeed, why so? Mr. J.—It makes up in beauty what it lacks in sense! (And Mrs. J. do- 1 not know whether to bo real mad o il glaci.) STILL A c .‘TLEMAN. Chollie—Chappie, denli boy, you aw pwasitively and gwossly intoxi cated—you actually have a jag on ! Chappie—Haw! Is it on straight. —[Indianapolis Journal. SYMPTOMS OF ILLNESS. dreadfully anxious I’m afraid lie’s not Wife—I feel about Howard, well. Mother—What are bis symptoms ? Wife—He didn’t growl about his breakfast once.—[Chicago Inter Ocean. THE PEOPLE WE KNOW. “Don’t you feel afraid to let your wife drive that horse ?” Husband—No, not now ; all the people know how to dodge out of her way."—[Chicago Inter Ocean. READY ANSWER. Mrs. De Fashion (to her Chineso cook)—John, why do tho Chinese bind the feet of their women ? John—So they not trot toe ’round k'tchen and botlicreo cook.—[Phila delphia Press. bank Was lie behind Tlie 1US METHOD. Bradford—Higbee makes money go as fur as any man I know. Robbins—How docs he do it? Bradford—Gives it to foreign mis sions.—[Philadelphia Life. UNDER THE WEATHER. Hicks—Your milk was pretty bad last night. Mrs. Hicks—I expected that thun der shower to affect it some. Hicks—Thunder? Our can was hit by a cloud burst.—[New York World. VERY PLEASANT. Under tlie espionage of tlie gallant and witty cashier, a party of ladies were going through the vaults of a big Detroit bank and gazing with awe at tlie wads of wealth stored therein. “My,” exclaimed one of the party as they came out into tlie corridor, “how chilly it is.” "Naturally,” smiled the courteous cashier, with a bow, “there's a cool million there.”—[Detroit Free Press. METEORIC DIAMONDS. Pro- Queer Origin of America's duct. Though diamonds will never lie an important product of tlie United States—only an occasional gem of tiiis kind being picked up here and there—such vast quantities of them are consumed here that the geolog’ • cal survey has thought'it worth while to prepare a monograph on tlie sub ject, which will soon be issued. The fact lias been established that the supposed diamonds found in meteorites near the Canyon Diablo in Arizona are actually such. This is a matter of profound interest, indicat ing us it does that such stones exist on other planets. Some authorities assert that diamonds, like coal, which is so nearly of tlie same chemical constitution, could not possibly come into existence without previous vege table growths to generate their ma terial. For tliis reason they infer that the finding of the gems in the meteorites proves that there must have been vegetable life in tho place whence tlie meteorites came. If there was vegetable life there it is a fair presumption that there was ani mal life also. All this may bo un true, says tho Providence Journal, but it affords the first guess glimpse ever obtained into the greatest prob lem that mankind .lias attempted to handle, namely, the quest ion whether life exists in other worlds than ours. It seems strange to take a couple of ounces of charcoal in one’s liar.d and to consider that one is handling tlie pure material of tlie diamond If you could transform it into crystal line form you could sell these few pinches of stuff for $1,000,000 perhaps. No wonder that chemists are eager to discover tlie secret of effecting this change. To assert that they will never learn how to make crystals of carbon would bo absurd. By means of tlie voltaic battery real diamonds of almost microscopic size have been deposited upon threads of platinum. But, even if a successful process should bo discovered it might be that the cost of making a diamond by i would be bigger than tho price of a stone of equal size and purity from the mines. One recalls tlie experi- ments of Professor Sage, who turned out gold pieces in his laboratory from gold extracted from tlie ashes of cer tain burned vegetable substances. Tlie result was beautiful, scientitical ly speaking, but tho expense of n ing in this way one $5 pieee was about $2.'). Tlie value of rougli gems of nil sorts produced in this country in 18!l:{ was $50,000 less than the output for the year before, amounting to only $262,000. The decrease was mainly owing to tlie industrial de pression. The precious stones of tlie United States are sold in large part to tourists, who purchase them as souvenirs of localities visited. Tanned elephant skin is over an iiivb thick ai d brinps very high prices. LITTLE FANNIE ERDOFY. her charming little personality tho ir resistible law of heredity. She speaks fluently four languages, and when it is explained that her mother speaks and writes six languages aud that her father has a glil) acquaintance with ten, be sides numerous allied dialects, this ex traordinary infant is accounted for. Arthur Erdofy, who is a registry clerk and interpreter at Ellis Island, was born, thirty-two years ago, in Buda-Festb, Hungary. His wife in also a native of the same ancient city on the Danube. Ho has the char acteristic Magyar features ai well as that special linguistic aptitude which distinguishes his race. Ho speaks English with great purity, and has the further polyglot accomplishment of speaking Hungarian, German, French, Italian, Spanish, Greek (Romanic), Turkish, Finnish and that most turgid and dif ficult of all tongues, Basque. Mrs. Erdofy speaks fluently English, Hun garian, German, French and Slav onian, and so little Fannie has lived all her life in a philological atmos phere, whore the air was thick with prepositions, adverbs aud conjunc tions. She speaks German like a Bor- linese, French like a Parisienue, Hun garian as would tho daughter of a Boyar, and English with a Harlem ac cent. She is very fond of Central Park, and as she lives within two blocks she is a frequent visitor to its attractions. Her mother has observed that after even a short visit to tho park Fannie cannot be induced to talk any language but English for some hours, but when her father returns from his duties at Ellis Island his little daughter always greets him ia French. Mr. Erdofy intends that Fannie shall acquire Italian and Spanish by tho time she is live years old. The ditti- cuity is not iu teaching her a new lan guage, but in preventing this marvel ous child from acquiring one. The Last King of the Muniaiiks. John Hannibal, or King Pharaoh, the last lineal descendant of the onoo powerful tribe of Montank Indians, died at tho homo of Mrs. L. Atmos Youngs at Mattituck. a short time ago. King Pharaoh was known to al most everyone on Long Island’s east end, and at tho time of his death was eighty-seven years of age. With him ends the long lino of Montauk kings, as his only child died many years ago. King Pharaoh wa» born in old Mon- tauk’s rocky heights and bis love for the rugged scenes of bis earlier child hood was ono of the old Indian’s strange characteristics. Even in his advanced years he would walk miles to spend a day at his birthplace and among the favorite retreats of his fore fathers. His mother was a fnll-Dlood- cd Montauk squaw. Through her came to him his title, King Pharaoh. When but live years of age ho was taken from his tribe at tho request of his mother, who desired that ho should he educated aud apprenticed to Jeremiah Huntliug, of Eisl Hampton. Even at that early ago King Pharaoh would not suffer himself to bo placed under restraint and he ran away tho very first night. In inky darkness tho boy walked tho twenty miles back to Montauk. Ho was afterward induced to remain with Mr. Huntling until he became of ago, when ho went to live THE LAST MONTAUK CHIEF. with Thomas Tallmado Parsons at Frauklinvillc. He was a faithful servant to tho Par sons family for sixty-six years. His death occurred at the homo of Mr. Parsons’s daughter, Mrs. Young, who tenderly watched over the obi Indian in his declining years. Ho was buried in tho Parsons’s family plot in tho Franklinvillo cemetery, tho funeral being attended by a large circle of friends who respected King'Pharaoh for his many virtues and sterling qual- tics o. heart and mind. Sun spots, now believed to have an eft*.a t on meteorological phenomenal were ‘irst observed iu Mill,