/
THE
"X.
VOL. IV.
PARLINGTON, S. C., FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1894.
NO. 40.
THE tVOEST OF ENEMIES.
I do cot fear an enemy
Who all his days hath hated me.
Ido not bother o’er a foe
■ Whose name and face I do not know.
mind me not the small attack
Of him who bites behind my back:
Bnt Heaven help pie to the end
’Gainst that one who was once my friend.
—[John K. Bangs in Harper's Weekly
H FEEBLE BTOW.
"’E’s tipseyl” "’E’s 'aving a
rest!” “What is it?” “Only a
sandwich man!” One of the mise
rable gutter file had slipped and fal
len on the Stnrnd pavement. With
the imperial air of the neophyte medi
cine man, Talbot Villiers parted the
crowd. A Samaritan stood by with a
little brandy in a glass. Talbot put
it to the human advertisement’s lips.
The man opened his eyes with a look
of gratitude. The look touched the
young medical student. lie held up
his finger for a cab, then ho assisted
the fallen man into it and took a seat
opposite.
“ ‘Where to?’asked Talbot. ‘Where
do you live? I am going home with
you.’
“ ‘Talbot street, Westminster, No.
5,’ murmured the other feebly. ‘My
name is Stern, John Stern.’ ”
Talbot gave the direction to the
cabman; then he examined his com
panion more closely. He was an el
derly man of refined features. His
clothes, though shabby, were remark
ably clean, his linen was clean, and
be was clean shaven, in fact, such a
surplus of cleanliness in one of his
late occupation was rather suspicious.
Stern bore the young man’s scrutiny
with visible uneasiness. He leaned
suddenly over to Villiers.
“Sir,” ho said, “if you are going
home with me, will you keep my
carrying of the boards a secret? I
don’t want it to come to the cars of
my daughter. I am pretty nearly
useless for work, but I wish to help
her all I can, and that is why I come
into the city to carry these boards.
She thinks I work in an office.”
“I quite understand,” said Talbot
pityingly. “Your secret is safe with
me.” The words of the man had
aroused every generous instinct of
his nature. “What made you faint?”
“Hunger,” replied Stern laconi
cally.
Talbot made a hurried motion to
stop the cab. Stern laid his hand on
bie arm and restrained him. ‘’No,
sir.” he said. “I am indebted to you
already. You cannot help me furth
er; I cannot take anything from you,
even food. But I thank you, all the
same."
Stern’s tone was decisive, and Tal
bot i ^d him in amazement. The
first answer showed him what little
way he had made in medical diagno
sis; the second, how little ho knew
of human nature. The pride that
prevented a hungry man accepting
food was to Talbot preposterous,
This feeling gave way, however, to
one of involuntary respect. At last
the cab stopped. Cabs seemed a nov
elty inJTalbot street, for a face ap
peared at nearly every window. A
girl of about twenty was looking
from No. 5. As the cab drew up sbe
turned very pale and rushed to the
door.
“My daughter, Kate,” said Stern.
“Remember your promise, sir.”
“All right,” replied Talbot; then
as the girl came to the cab door, he
raised his hat. “Don’tbe alarmed;
your father hnshnppcnd with a slight
accident. He slipped on the curb,
lie’s all right; but I thought I had
better drive homo with him from the
—oflice.”
At the sight of her father walking
from the '•nb, the color rushed back
to her cheeks in such vivid and deli
cate tints, and showed so clearly the
beauty of her complexion, that Tal
bot stood gazing at her in silent ad
miration. His eyes lingered on her in
a most embarrassing silence. They
took in the lines of the slight grace
ful figure, the nut-brown huirund the
honest steadfast eyes.
“I’ll call to-morrow,” he said, with
a start, “and hear how ho is—that
is, if you don’t mind.”
It was evident that Kate regarded
him as a junior member of some un
known and eminently Christian firm.
“You are very kind,” she said—
“very kind indeed.”
“Don't mention it,” stammered
Talbot. “Good morning—I mean
good afternoon—Miss Stern.”
He re-entered the cab, and telling
tho cabman to drive anywhere, es
caped from Talbot street in some con
fusion. But ho was true to his prom
ise. He called tho next day and the
day after, and many more times.
The state of Stern’s healt h seemed to
become a very serious matter. At
last this pleasant fiction exploded.
He came one afternoon when her eyes
were weary with typewriting, and the
sight mnddener. him. Ho clasped her
in his arms. “Kate, my own dear
Kate,” ho cried. “I love you and I
want you to bo my wife. Will you,
Kate?”
Kate looked into his eyes. He
needed no other answer; and they
passed the afternoon building up a
quiet little Bloomsbury practice.
Stern was to be made a dispenser.
Over the teacups Kate told her father
of Talbot’s proposals. He kissed her
and sighed. It was not in him to
spoil a love-dream; but he scented
danger. Talbot Villiers was a gen
tleman in every sense of the word;
but Talbot Villiers had undoubtedly
a father. Who was he? Villiers,
senior, would without doubt have his
say, unless he was a very mild father
indeed.
Early the next day when Stern had
“ copying” to do in the city, a letter
arrived from Talbot enclosing two
tickets for the theatre. The letter
ran : “ I want you and yohr father
both to see this piece. It was pro
duced last night with the greatest
success, • After you have both seen it
I’ll tell you why I am So anxious you
should go. I have enclosed some
press cuttings which will give you an
idea of the plot and the way it is
staged. I’m sorry I can’t come; but
I have a little business to transact
with dad.” '
It was the first time he had men
tioned that ominous person. Dad sud
denly loomed up very large in Kate’s
thoughts. Villiers, senior, unac
countably depressed her. She tried
to throw this depression off by tell
ing her father about t’.a theatre. The
play was culled “A Woman’s Love.”
Stern had carried the boards that
advertised its'‘lirst nTght.” To Kate’s
great astonishment, her father re
fused to go. She pressed him why.
“I can’t go,” said Stern, gravely.
“Don’t look so grieved, Kate. Let
me tell you why; then perhaps you
will understand me. A long time
ago I wrote a play ”
“You wrote a playl” interrupted
Kate, breathlessly. “I knew, you
dear, old father, you were clever.
Talbot said you were clever. He said
you had a clever face.”
Stern smiled sadly at this innocent
tribute. “Writing a play, Kate, and
getting it acted are two very different
things. I wrote this play in want,
in misery, and with an ailing wife by
my side. I wrote it in the odd mo
ments snatched from my work. I
built high hopes upon it, my dear;
I put my whole heart into it, and I
fondly dreamt it would lift from mo
a burden of debt and give me a home.
I signed it with a nom de plume, and
sent it to a dramatist called Fielding
Clark. I called upon him afterward
and asked his opinion of tho play.
He told me he had lost it. Then,
Kate, I lost heart. 1’overty drove
me from pillar to post, and of the
many things I grew to hate, the thea
tre was one.”
Kate threw her arms’ round him
and kissed him. “And to think but for
that accident,” she cried, “you might
have been a great man 1 Never mind 1”
“No,” said Stern, wearily passing
his hand over his forehead, “never
mind. But what have you got in
your hand?” *
“They are the press notices of the
new play. They came with the tick
ets.”
“Well, my dear, I’m just going to
have a pipe at the back of the housb;
I’ll look over them. Perhaps I’U^o,
after all. You are entering soon on
* -life, timti I*
should throw aside such prejudices.”
He fondly kissed her, and took
down his pipe. When her father was
gone Kate drew in thought to the
window. To think how narrowly she
escaped being a dramatist’s daugh
ter! While her mind was thus exult
ed, she observed a gentleman of mid
dle age attentively scanning the
houses. He was not a prepossessing
gentleman. He was dark, slimly
built, and of a sarcastic aspect. ’ At
last he fixed his eye on No. 5 and
opened the gate. \\ ith a vague mis
giving, Kate ran to the door.
“Bardon me,” said the visitor,
blandly, “but is this Mr. Stern’s.”
“Yes,” answered Kate,feeling cold,
“this is Mr. Stern’s.”
“And if I judge aright,” said the
stranger still more blandly, “you are
Miss Kate Stern. May 1 have the
honor of a few minutes’ conversation
with you? My name is Burry Vil
liers.”
Talbot’s father! The ominous dad
in the background 1 With a very pale
face Kate ushered him into the house.
He politely wailed for her to seat
herself, then sat down.
“1 fear,” he began, “I have called
on a rather unpleasant errand. My
visit concerns u flirtation between
you and my son.”
Kate caught her breath. “There
has been no flirtation, Mr. Villiers.
Your son has told me that he loved
me, and I am not ashamed of return
ing his love.”
Villiers bowed. “A boy-and-girl
attachment,” bo said, airily. “I
heard of it from my son’s lips to
day. Of course, it cannot proceed,
it is folly; but then, when were
lovers wise? 1 can assure you, Miss
Stern, though fully appreciating
your affection for my son, that you
must give up all 'thoughts of this
marriage.” lie smiled.
“Give up all thoughts of it!” cried
Kate, with pale lips. “Is that your
son’s message?”
“No—of course. I am here to rea
son with you. You are a mere child;
I am a man of the world. We look
at different standpoints. But a mar
riage is impossible. Y’our posi
tion ”
“You mean,” interrupted Kate,
“that you are rich and 1 am poor.”
“Exactly. In all other respects
you are, no doubt, my son’s equal;
but this unfortunate circumstance is
sufficient to restrain mo from giving
my consent. I cannot see my son’s
prospects blighted. I am willing to
pay any price ”
Kate’s eyes blazed. The suave, in
sinuating manner of Talbot’s “dad”
roused her. His way of putting a
price on the affections brought back
her color. “My price,” she said
scornfully, “for what? The love I
bear him?”
Villiers coolly changed his tactics.
“Pardon me; I was wrong. 1 ought
not to have made such a suggestion.
But you say you love my Son. Well,
his career is in your hands. Will
you blight it? It rests with you.”
“You are putting tho whole re
sponsibility of his future on my
shoulders,” she answered bitt rly.
“Is that tho act of a gentleman? Is it
the act of a father who loves his
son?”
Villiers regarded her more atten
tively. IDs suavity diminished.
“You are more clever," he said, cold-
ly, ‘ than I thought. I will sa; •
moi'e. If Jroll take my friendly :
in thin Spirit, I ettn do fiotlilfig. I '
you may take it as my last word Ui-ti
if my son marries you he does so a
beggar; I cast him off; I utterly dis-
Otvfl hittb ”
“Afid yet,” efisd Kate, “you say
you love himt"
Villiers took up his hat; he fixed
her with a keen, cold glance. “I do.
And here is my check book to prove
It. 1 will pay any sum to release him
from a degrading marriage.”
“Degrading 1” The girl staggered.
“I will prove to you,” she^aid, in a
quavering tone, “which love is the
strongest. I will give him up; I will
tell him solrom iny own lips. And
if ever you veil your Son of this in
terview, you may say that I refused
to marry him because I loved him.
That is my answer.” She sank into
the chair from which she had risen,
and covered her face with her hands.
Barry Villiers’ face lengthened.
“My dear young lady, I have
wronged you. Pray, make some al
lowance for a father’s affection, Lei
mejeward you for this act of self-
sacrifice.” He pulled out his check
book and stood beside her, apparent ly
considering the sum, when the dooi
that led to the back opened and Stern
walked in. Ho looked first at his
daughter, then at Villiers. As theit
eyes met, something like an electric
shock seemed to pass from one to the
other.
“Fielding Clark!” cried Stern.
Kate gave a start. Barry Villiers
was Fielding Clark’ the dramatist.
Talbot’s father was the author of the
play for which they had received the
tickets. She turned an amazed look
upon her father. His face frightened
her. It was exultant and denuncia
tory. For a moment Stern’s face
seemed to have the same effect upon
Barry Villiers. He seemed discon
certed, U1 at ease. In Stern’s hands
were the press notices crumpled into
a ball. Villiers was the first to regain
his composure.
“Sinclair!” he cried, “John Sin
clair, this is a surprise.”
Stern turned to his daughter.
“Leave us for a moment, Kate,” he
said. “I have a few words to say to
this—4his gentleman.”
Kate rose, and with a worfdering
look at her father quitted the room.
When.she was gone he fixed a search
ing look on Barry Villiers. That
gentleman promptly held out his
hand. Stern contemptuously disre
garded it. i '•
“I don’t know why you are in my
ItAjUse,” he said slowly.“But up doubt
are g, man wqp could explain anythin".
Perhaps you can explain this?” He
held up the crumpled ball of paper.
“These are press notices of a "play
produced last night. That play was
mine. You stole it. You are a liar
and a villain 1”
Villiers put down his hat. “Sin
clair,” he said, and histones were al
most plaintive, “you will regret those
words. Yet, they were spoken in the
heat of the moment, and I forgive
you.”
His retort was so staggering that
Stern gazed at him dazed. Ho nearly
apologized.
“Nodoubt,” pursued Villiers, “you
think the worst of me. it is not un
natural. But there are extenuating
circumstances. I own the play was
yours. I own I used it. But at the
time you came to me it was really
lost. I bad mislaid it. I had no
knowledge of your real name—I take
it that the agreeable young lady who
has just left us is your daughter—I
bad no means of reaching you. I
sought for you; I advertised for you
under the name of Sinclair; in the
tide of London life you were swept
away. Then, Sinclair—I mean Sterft
—I was tempted. There came to me
the great temptation of my life. I
was worked out; a manager stood at
my elbow and I took your play. It
was culpable, very culpublc; but
the question is: ‘What are you going
to do?’ ” He paused and looked, not
altogether without anxiety, at the
man he had wronged.
Stern stood before him dejected.
To a third party he might easily have
been mistaken for the one who was
most to biaine. What was he going
to do? Tho hoifire of vengeance bud
died from him. He stood now with
only the cold ashes of lost hopes.
“Of course,” said Villiers, *‘you
could harm me, prosecute me; but it
would bo unchristian ;” Stern thought
of the sandwich boards and glared at
him. “Give mo the opportunity,"
he went on, hast ily, “of making atone
ment. We are both middle-aged men.
Why live in the past! Why should
we cloud the happiness of others?”
“The happiness of others? What
do you mean?”
“ITlexplain,” said Villiers. “You
know me ns Clark. Villiers is my
name, and Talbot Villiers is my son.
You may not have noticed the like
ness He takes after his mother.”
‘ Thank God!” cried Stern,fervent
ly ; but the relationship troubled
him.
“Ho loves your daughter. Tho
match seemed to mo an undesirable
one, and I came here to-day to break
itjoff. Now it is the dearest wish ol
my heart? Why should wo blight
their lives?”
Stern g.i/.ed at him amazed. Hero
was a fresh sophistry. Villiers had
robbed him, and uow held out a net
for him. Stern’s brain grew hot.
“I say ‘we,’ but, of course I mean
you. I have no power to do any
thing. You have the power. If yot
are so unchristian ns to expose mo,
you do so at tho price of I heir happi
ness, at tho price of youth and inno
cence. You shall have all the money
I took for the play. I may be a vil
lain," said Villiers, with a virtuous
burst, “but-1 have a conscience.
This is a feeble atonement, Stern;
call it, if you liltd, the iesinnfng of
one; but do you accept ii."
Stern could make no reply. Tfco
desire for vengeance had fled; buE*fii
Its place Was a dull longing for jib-
tice. Theri lie thought of Talbot, of
the afternoon in thd Sifatld. “Go*-
now. I’ll send you my answer.”
He walked as if he were carrying the
sandwich boards into the phadow of
the room and sat down on a chair.
Barry Villiers etood in the sun
light. He gazed anxiouslf'it Stern,
and was about to open his. mouth
when his eyes fell upon the door of
the inner room. It had opened; and
Kate Stern stood on the threshpld.
With a smile of relief the man pf the
world bowed and went out ulf the
frontdoor. f'
Kate approached hor fat$$r and
laid her hand on IflMfaqnjde''. Stern
looked lip and saw the traces of re
cent tears. He kissed her, and thus
love conquered both the desire to re
instate himself and be quits with the
man who had robjied him.
“My dear,” he said, “you shall
marry Talbot.”—'[Chambers’s Jour
nal.
THE COCOPAH DESERT.
A Veritable Valley of Death In South
ern California.
For a trip across the, Oocopah
Desert in southern California, you fill
your zinc canteens at the spring in
the Canada de las I’almas; then by a
gradual descent down the canyon, the
heat noticeably increasing as you de
scend, you pass out from the cooling
shades of the towering Sierra Madres
in that veritable “Valley of Death.”
If you are inexperienced, a “tender
foot,” never attempt the trip without
a guide, and not then between the
months of April and October. An
Indian will pilot you across for a few
dollars, or you may fall in with some
old prospector. If so, bis first ques
tion will be with reference to your
facilities for carrying water. There
are no lundmaks by which to shape
your course, so a guide is an absolute
necessity. Hero and there about the
plain are sand dunes, varying in
height from, little hillocks to sixty
feet or more. Lay your course by
even the tallest of these and you are
lost, for in a few hours it may have
entirely disappeared, only to bo re-
builded by the wind at right angles to
your course several miles away. If
you uro alone, and inexperienced,
your only infallible guides will be the
sun and stars; if these are obscured,
camp and wait until they reappear,
if your water supply will permit; if
apt. tha» push on through that
take pity oil you.’ ft you are exper
ienced, the rocks and tho cactus
bushes will tcli you which is north
and which is south.
Opinions differ as to the length of
tinio a man can go without water in
that desert and retain his reason, but
the maximum limit for one unused to
desert travel is eight hours. I know
of two leather-lunged old prospectors
who were thirty-six hours without
water, and yet had sufficient sense
and strength to follow their old bell
burro, whose animal instinct led them
to a water hole hitherto unknown,
personally, I have gone twenty-two
hours without water there, and then
slaked my burning thirst in hot,
muddy alkali water that had collected
on a bear’s track, and, although I had
fought with a big, black mountain
tiger for the coveted draught, it was
the sweetest I ever quaffed.
There is gold in tho mountains,
silver, quartz and placets, but there
Is not sufficient water in tho entire
town to supply the domestic necess
ities of an average camp, to say noth
ing of a stump mill. There is ab
solutely no timber, scarcely enough
hard wood for camp-fires, and ship
ping the ore is out of the question,
fabulously rich must be tho ore that
can pay for sacking and packing on
burros 100 miles to the nearest rail
road station.—[St. Louis Globe-Demo
crat.
Eleven Millions In Jewels.
THE JOKER’S BUDGET,
JESfa AND YARNS BY FUNNY
MEN Of THE PRESS.
The Russian crown and other state
jewels are valued at the enormous
sum of #11,000,000, taking United
States money as a basis of calcula
tion ; the crown itself is worth nt least-
$(»,000,000. It is adorned with hun
dreds of diamonds, individual speci
mens of which arc valued at all the
way from a few dollars up to enor
mous sparklers worth thousands upon
thousands of dollars.
Besides the diamonds, which make
tills costly headdress look as if it had
been buried in a shower of falling
stars, there are fifty-four pearls,each
without a flaw, set around the rim,
a ruby of extraordinary size and bril
liancy being used ns a centrepiece.
The crown was made by Panzie, the
old-time Genoese court jeweler, and
was first used by Catherine the Great.
—[New York Journal.
A Fighting Swordfish.
Saturday C. McVey, a fisherman,
returned from a swordfislii'ng trip
snd reported a thrilling experience,
lie had just thrust the iron into the
great fish, when it turned and rushed
for his dory, stril.ing it with such
force as to send its sword through
the boat and to overturn it. All
McVey could do was to hold on to the
bottom of liis capsized boat. He said
that lie remained tour hours in that
uncomfortable aosition before IiMp
came. Then lie saved his dory and
secured thg fish, which had died.
This strange experience took place
off the South Shoals.—[Portland
(Me.) Press.
Tho new weaves of alpaca make
capital gowns. They are so easily
brushed and made “fit” after a long
day’s journey, and have sufficient
warmth to equal tho light-weight
serge or flannel.
And Now They Do Not Speak--Evi
dently a True Story--Utilizing Hl«
Wft—In Japan, Eto., Etc.
* AND NOW THEY DO NOT SPEAK.
Ho—Did you know opals were in
•gtUflT
She—No | how do you know?
He—At the hop Tuesday an opal
pendant was worn by Stoutly,
snspended by a fine gold chain.
She*-I shouldn’t have supposed a
.Sne gold chain would hold her.
EVIDENTLY A THWH STORY.
“John,” said tho wife to herself,
as she proceeded to disrobe her hus
band, who had gone to bed with his
boots on, “John told mo lie had
studied for the bar in his youth I
can well believe it, for I think lie
knows every bar -in town.”—[New
York Press.
UTIEIZINO HIS GIFT.
“What became of that boy of yours
with the powerful voice, who was to
study elocution and prepare himself
lor the stage?”
‘That project fell through.”
“Has he been able to utilize his
gift at all?”
“Oh, yes; it got him a position.”
“Of what nature?”
“He is selling circus lemonade.”—
[New York Press.
IN JAPAN.
Japanese Secretary—You say you
want to serve us?
American—Yes, sire!
“And you are from the United
States?”
“I am, sire!”
“And you understand military
matters?”
“As a book, sire 1”
*'Wliat military service have you
seen in America that would make
you valuable to ns?”
“I’m a pension Attorney, sire!”
—[Cleveland Plain Dealer.
THE WELCOME VISITOR.
She did not love him, she, the beau
tiful daughter of a merchant prince.
Yet her heart was tender and she
knew that to lovo is to be happy.
He had been coming to tho house
every day for four years, and she was
always glad to see him, and many,
many times she had run joyfully to
the door, to meet liim.
..knoweth^S own
He was the mail carrier and he had
a wife and eight children.—[Detroit
Free Preos.
ROMANCE THAT COST.
“Marie and George have quarreled,
you know. He told .her one night
that when ho was out of town he al
ways felt as though ho would give
$10 for just a word with her.”
“Well?”
“And so the next time he did
leave town she put him to tho tost
by calling him up on a long-distance
telephone and making him pay the
bill.”—[Chicago Record.
THE ONLY THING NEEDED.
Six-year-old Alice, traveling’on the
cars, regarded a fat lady near her so
long and so earnestly that the lady
remarked pleasantly, at last: “Well,
my dear, what do you think of me?”
“I think,” replied Alice, “that you
would be a very nice-looking lady if
you could only be slimmed a little.”
—LY'outh’s Companion.
HIS OBJECTION.
“How do you like the young wo
man from Boston?” asked the young
man’s sister.
“Oh, very well. Only she uses
such big words. I gave her a flower
and she wouldn’t call it by anything
but its scientific name.”
“But you always liked botany.”
“It wasn’t her botany I objected
to. It was her haughty-culture.”—
[Washington Star.
TO BE CONGRATULATED.
Teacher—For what were tho an
cient Romans remarkable?
Dick Hicks — They understood
Latin.
ON WITH THE BALL.
Arizona Pete—I should like very
much to go to the dance with you,
but, you see, I didn’t come dressed
for it.
Fewclothes — Never mind that,
partner, I can let you have a couple
of guns.
IT WAS HER FAULT.
A little boy, after helping himself
several times to water, finally upset
the glass, upon which his mother ex
claimed impatiently:
“My son, I knew you were going
to do that.”
“Well, mother, if you had only
told me in time I would not have
done it,” said the boy.—[Philadel
phia Times.
A HOT WEATHER WISH.
Oh, for a lodge in u wilderness
Of icebergs, ten miles high,
And snow so deep that a man could
sleep
On top of it next to the sky.
Oh, for a polar sea in town,
Where a man could swim all day
And sleep at night in the moon’s pale
light
On an ice floe in the bay.
Oli. fora sea of lemonade,
Ice cold, which ho might quaff;
Oh, for a cold-cold-cold-wave flag, ■
And the North Polo for a staff.
—[Detroit Free Press.
THE DIFFERENCE.
The difference between large ships
And farmers, you’ll allow,
Is this: The large ship plows the sea,
While farmers seize the plow.
A BORN GALLANT.
A DeirOit home has among its la res
ct penates a small boy who will hi? a
Chesterfield in point of manners at
least, if given half a chance. He has
a great admiration for his mother,
and yet there are times when she is
compelled to punish him. Such a
tiling occurred the other day.
“Now,” said she, after she had
concluded a vigorous spaSking for
willfulness, “I hope you haze c.iaangod
your mind.” /
“No, mamma,” he sol/ed. ^’ “I al
ways said I’d rather be "p;, 1 inked by
you than kissed by any omer lady in
town, and I think so yet.”—[Detroit
Free Press.
AN EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN.
The Friend—Have you seen your
hushand’.s mother yet?
The Bride—I have, and she is the
most extraordinary woman I ever
heard of.
The F.—How is that?
Tho B.—Why, she thinks me good
enough for her son.—[New York
Press.
MURDERING HIM.
A local band was one day playing
at Dunfermline, when an old weaver
came up and asked the bandmaster
what that was they were playing.
“That is ‘The Deatli of Nelson,’ ”
solemnly replied the bandmaster.
“Ay, man,” rema -ked the weaver,
“ye liae gien him an awfu’ death.”—
[Dundee News.
ANGULAR.
Clara—You want to bo careful,
dear, when you have on your new
wrap, not to lean your shoulder
against anything.
Maude—Why?
Clara—You might make a hole in
it.—[Philadelphia Life.
. CELTIC PHILOSOPHY.
Brannigan—There’s another wan o’
them rieli banker fellers, as has just
lost two million dollars in wan day.
McManus—Bogob, an’ its better
than if it happened to a poor workin’
mon.—[Truth.
CAREFUL HORACE.
The stately steamer ploughed its
way through the blue waves of Lake
Michigan: “Oh, Horace!” moaned
the young bride, who a moment be
fore had paced tho deck with smiling
face and love-lit eye, tho happiest of
the hafpy, “I feel so queer! Let
me lean on your shoulder.”
"No, dearest, don’t do that!” ex
claimed Horace, hastily; “lean over
the side of the steamer.”—[Chicago
Tribune.
EASILY EXPLAINED.
Henderson—Why did they turn
Skinner out of the church?
Williamson—He sold the pastor a
horse.—[Life.
THE PLACE TO FIND IT.
•
“America has no standing army, I
boliove,” said the foreigner.
“It’s clear you haven’t spent
much time in the street cars of this
great country,” replied the native.—
[Truth.
TRULY PENITENT.
TJic Judge—I should think you
would bo sorry for having so far for
gotten yourself as to throw a plate at
your wife.
The Prisoner (penitently)—I am,
your honor; that plato cost ten
C“nts.—[Buffalo Courier.
NAMING HER POISON.
“If you were about to commit sui
cide,” said the'pale, mournful girl,
“what poison would you select?"
“I would select tyrotoxicon, a poi
son which I understand is obtainable
only in ice cream,” replied the girl
to whom life is a pleasure.—[New
York Sun.
IN THE PROFESSIONAL SLANG.
The Sarcastic Barnstormers (after
the bombardment from tho gallery)
—I have eggs enough now, thank
you. Will no one send up an accom
panying ham?
The Gallery (with emphasis)—It’s
on the stage now. —[Chicago Record.
THE RETORT COURTEOUS.
She—But how can you think I’m
pretty, when my nose turns up so
dreadfully?
He—Well, all I have to say is, that
it shows mighty poor taste in back
ing away from such a lovely mouth.
—[Philadelphia Life.
A MATTER OF QUESTION.
Maid—Please, ma’am, I’d like to
~ e you ft week’s notice.
I (stress—Why, Mary, this is a
» prise. Do you hope to better
yoursell?
Maid (blushing)—Well, not exactly
that, ma’am. I’m going to get mar
ried.—[Truth.
THE WRETCH.
Fogg pretends to have made the
discovery that “better half,” refer
ring to one’s wife, was originally writ
ten “bitter half.” That means
something, he says. The wretch.—
[Boston Transcript.
UNLESS THEY ARK WATCHED.
"Your city seems to be pretty well
cut up by electric railways,” said
tho visitor.
“It is,” responded the resident.
“And so are the citizens.”—[Chicago
Inter-Ocean.
TO AVOID CONFUSION.
He was quite frantic by this time.
He would have knelt on tho wet
sands at her feet had lie possessed a
change of trousers.
“I give you my heart,” be cried.
(She smiled pleasantly.
“Would you like it checked?” she
asked. “Hearts arc so much alike,
you know.”
It seemed to him that he must die,
but ho did not.
He was spared for other things.—
[Detroit Tribune.
'CHILDREN’S COLUMN.
grandma’s punishment.
"Can’t Ben div me a peath, grand
ma?” whimpered little Betty Brown,
wistfully following her brother from
the goose-yard, where the cross old
gander was still scolding and mumb
ling a great rough “pit” Ben had
thrown at him, down to tho porch
where grandma was darning stock
ings.
“Peach, Ben! Why, what’s tho
child teasing about! There aren’t
any peaches nearer than Ma’am
Thomes’s 1”
“Ben’s dot some—a whole potick-
ful—an* ho won’t so much as let mo
smell of ’em!” complained Betty,
twirling her hat by tho strings and
scowling a little.
“Why, Ben, you can not have been
down to the Thomes’s peach-tree?”
and grandma held her daruing-ncedlo
aloft and looked at Ben severely.
“I found ’em over tho wall, any
way, side of tho road, in the tansy.
Don’t peaches and things in the road
belong to folks?
“Why, yes. they belong to folks
that own tho trees, certainly, Ben—
not anybody going along the way.
How many have you got?” and
grandma put down the “clouded foot
ing” and thrust her hind, darning-
needle, thimble and all, down into
Ben’s’ swollen pocket.
“Three—four—six—nine 1 My pa
tience alive 1 There’s enough to buy
Ma’am Thomas n pair of kitchen
aprons!—and she so poor, too! How
could yon, Ben?”
“But grandma, I didn’t know—I
didn’t think—” began Ben, in great
confusion.
“I feel sure you didn’t,” said grand
ma, helping him out "It is true, tho
road is laid through her little place,
and whatever is needed to keep it iu
repair is right to bo used. But no
one has a right to tho fruit that hangs
over or drops into it, any more than
if the tree were in tho middle of her
garden. She needs every one ot
these peaches dear now, to buy her
‘necessaries.’
“I’ve eaten one, grandma,’’said Ben,
penitently.
“Well, dear boy, I’d carry tho rest
right back, so tho luscious things
couldn’t tempt me any more. I know
just how’tis, deary,” said grandma,
sympathetically. “I remember a les
son I once bad when I was a littlu
girl, and a severe one it was; but I
think it did mo g .od in the end and
taught me to respect the rights of
others.
I was staying with my Aunt Merrinm,
helping to take care of tho babies and
going to school. It was a new town
then, and there weren’t many upplo
trees. Aunt Merriam had only two—
‘marm’s graft’and ‘pa’s graft,’ they
were called. Marm’s graft did not
bear at all that year, and pa’s graft
only had a few apples in the very tip
top—late ones.
‘ ‘Like all children I was fond of apples
as n hungry pig. On my way to school
there was quite an orchard belonging
to Deacon Horr. To bo sure, the ap
ples at this time of yeai were green
and puckery, but that didn’t make
any difference; I ate them, cores and
all—not only picked them up by the
roadside, but I’m ashamed to say, Ben,
I got over the wall into tho orchard,
I was so greedy 1
“It went on sometime, till one day
while mending my dress Aunt Mer
riam found apple cores iu tho pocket
that I had laid by to nibble after I
went to bed.
“Well, there was a reckoning, and
tho truth came out. Auut Merriam
was greatly shocked, for sho was very
strict in matters of right.
“And how do you think she pun
ished me?" asked grandma. “Sho
tied my feet together when she sent
mo to school next day—I could just
take short stops—so that I couldn’t
jump the walls,’ she said.
Oh, how shumed I was!—for tho
children laughed at my awkward
shufflings. Ma’am Lyddy, the teacher,
pitiedme. She sent me homo at noon,
and Aunt Merriam took off tho hate
ful bauds, after talking to mo kindly
of my fault.
He who would steal a pin
Would cteiri a bigger thing.
I hope isn’t always true, dearies, but
there is no danger of being too careful
in looking after tho small Kins. Re
member, ’tis tho little foxes that spoil
tho vines.”—Youth’s Companion.
Wild Honey.
It is reported that while workmen
were digging a well on n farm near
Bandoro, Texas, they unearthed n pet
rified tree at a depth of forty-six feet.
Tho tree was hollow and tho eavitv
was filled with honey. The comb was
in a perfect state of preservation, and
the cells were filled with honey that
tasted sweet, fresh and pure.—New
York World.