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WEEKLY EDITION. WINNSBOBO, S. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1882. ESTABLISHED Df 1844. t ? From Landen to Neerwlnden. Mfra sacred croes of England shone; Ehe lilies white of France were blown; The battie*teed3 were given rein; tWas heard the trumpet's wild refrain J?rom Landen to Neerwinden. T1"3fpoliahed swords flashed ont and crossed; field of blood was won and lost; And thro' the twilight's dusky vail P,Tbe victor-lilies glimmered pale fcrom Landen to Neerwinden. preast-high were piled the corpses there; Vrom dark till dawn the heated air {Although, no bell was heard to toll) Was thick with many a passing sool From Landen to Neerwinden. for twelve long months the slain, at rest, Lay underneath the earth unblest, Apd then the blood from every heart From out the dust began to start From Landen to Neerwinden. For there besran from friend and foe ? A million scarlet flowers to grow, And every flower a poppy red, Br. Until a gorgeous garden spread r . Jfrom Landen to Neerwinden. ?Minnie Irving, in the Century. BITTER-SWEET. ' - > - ^ A symphony of sound and light and fccent. A voice of many birds twitter^ ing delicately to each other from newlv^ built nests, amid boughs that swayed to anc iro in the wind, ana snoot tneir te latest buds into leaf and blossom. Into L th? woodland from far below came a r murmur of waves trailing on a shingly beach, and mingling with this murmur the talk and laughter of the fishermen mellowed by distance. Right down through the sloping woodland a brook ppi iqz leaped tiPKimg ana gurgling to trie r The dim fragrance and dappled lights and pleasant sounds of the day made a three-fold joy to a young girl who stood ^ beneath the trees in April noon. She FSV stood on a part of the slope -whence the ^ trges had drawn back a little, and the Hght fell about her just beyond the verge {of the shadow. Round her feet were dead leaves and living flowers, and Soft ffreen mosses full of the sweet rain thathad fallen all the previous night. a. With one hand , she shaded her eyes, the pf Oth^r was uplifted to fend back a branch "Which had barred the open space. Her hair was blown in a brown cloud about her face, and her hazel eyes shone with a serious joy beneath the shading hand For the first time in her life she was tasting that singular gladness which comes to mind and body when alone fee with nature in spring, after a long illness. To this dull content of hers all Ip' the long hours of fevered tossing to and fro, followed by tedious weeks of con?& valescence, were but a background. And now into her loneliness there rcame anotner numan presence?a young man, carelessly whistling, treading gayly over moss and flowers till he ? reached the rivulet and paused on the further side, looking at the tall, slim WL figure in the soft gray gown, crowned ft by the brown hair and wistful face. K Just one moment, and he turned off a H -little higher up and sprang across the B- stream. Only one look, and there might have been no second; their lives might have glided apart forever but for Hj^anaecident? or what we call an acciBpfentT^hich is really a strong link in Mfcany ?As-Jiis- foot ^to&hed the bank he slipped on the WT damp earth, spraining his ankle in the PiHJi. XLC UiCYY UIUBWU XiltU it bitHULg posture and leaned against a tree, faint with pain. The young girl came quick/ ly toward him. "I will run and get heh>," she said, atid meeting a grateful r look, for a moment went quickly along ^ the path that led to Cloverleigh, the Tillage where she and her father were staying. At a turning she met a tall, scholarly-looking man. "I was looking for you, Margaret. Are you. wise to go bareheaded, my cnna r ne saia, anxiously. _ " My hat fell into the brook, and it is A so mild- But, oh! papa, there's a gentleman hurt down there. He has sprained his ankle and cannot walk." And she waved her hand to the wood below. They "found him faint and white, but he made light of his sufferings as they helped him through the . fringe of apple and pear trees to his lodging in Cloverleigh. n. ! Margaret Townsend had lived alone almost all her life, with her father, a <ruiet student, lovinsr but his daughter and his books, and so her life was full Of associations, but not of friends. None of the bloom had been worn off her soul r _ "by that playing at lore called flirtation. She had read, with a certain solemnity, some old books wherein mention was . made of men who had died and done L .other things for love; and she may have bad dreams on the suhject, but filmy and fehifting as dreams generall^are. S I- . Her father had taught hei^iveek, and Br so " she had chanced upon tEjgr poets," "andtheir thoughts had given flavor to I her own. Some time before this had oo^ie illness; it had seemed at one we w? 4" ao l^ r? V? /% m awavt* UO AJL ouo JJLIUOO tuc JJ.CV11 u ? K und of time into the wide spaces of 1 - ^ernity ; but slowly death had let go r his hold, and she was well enough now to enjoy the change to the quaint Devonshire fishing village, perched in the rift of a headland among ancestral trees and bowers of ash and apple and pear. - It is unique, this village, with its [ Jrandred steps leading down to the quay and the shingly shore. The houses rise one above the other, and the quaint rooms in them are let in summer to ?r:. visitors with good walking powers. Tf? atiItt inn ie o nf Krin_o_Kro r? V/lii* urn XjO c* ujl ? and in summer is crowded with pilgrims visiting one of the shrines of nature. In this sequestered solitude the father and daughter and Dr. John Enderby were at present the only strangers, and the young doctor, after two or three $ays, limped into Margaret's sunlit iltting-roonj, into which theligbt filtered ^r-^through a network of budding apple 5^^^boughs. Here he would sit and watch L^largaret at work, or listen to her as she read some Old "World book to her father, her fresh young voice contrasting with the oft-times crabbed style; ?tnd as he thus watched her she grew rfcexpressibly pleasant to him. Pleasant, Sid that was all. But to Margaret ? Without one word of warning had come the crowning affection of her life. John was free to come and go as he liked in the blossom-screened room, holding learned converse with Mr. Townsend, meeting his daughter in the woods, now fullv leafed, sometimes P helping her over the rocks in search of F anemohes. On fine evenings the three would sit on the little semi-circular pier * that inclosed the "quay pule" and watch the sunset fading and the dark: - ness nestling down among the wooded ' headlands, and the great evening star suddenly appearing in the blue above the Y " paling primrose that touched the water. ^ After that the sky would swiftly fill on/1 f no r>">AAn xrAiilrl 0 OTXWJL W4JIV uiwu II VUA\? >S?-^ into the airy silence, and her light woxild ^^S^*^Q?trate sky a^d sea ana cliff-hung vil0 - lights would appear one by one Kows a^x>ve? they would All this fed the warm friendliness he felt for her, which is often mistaken for love. The fragrance of her life filled his imagination, and he deter; mined to make her his wife. But of j that delicious agony, that glorious fear that makes p::l!id the face of the lover, the void in the life that must be filled by the presence of a beloved woman? what did he know ? Nothing. i His nature was as yet cold, hers was fI aorimr She was one of those women i passionate, yrt sweet and pure, with ! sensitive bodies that quiver with pain at any strong emotion. If she had never seen hi:n again it is improbable ; that she wouM ever have cared for an; other ; }> rhans she would have waited j in eternity f? r the sequence of that first j g'ance of his. They lingered on till the honeysuckle wooed the meadow-sweet in the deep lanes above Hie village, and the young summer was in its beauty. Then there came a monvnt when, the two being alone in the woodland path overhanging thr> sea. John :isked Marsraret to be his ; wife. It was the sweetest time of the j afternoon, jufct before sunset, when the j day has lost its weariness and the sky ! is calm and the sunshine is dimmed by | a soft haze. 3Ir. Towns'^nd had left them in order : to write a letter which he had forgotten, ! and the others had sauntered toward : the village in dreamy silence. Then she i became awar;? that lie was asking her to be his wife, tilling her that she was the sweetest woman he had ever seen. Whence then her sudden shrinking from him as in fear? "I am not good enough," she cried. She was afraid of her joy, for she was a timid woman, but in the midst of his wooing he was vexed at her humility, not understanding it, for he was only offering her a scanty armful of firstfruits, and she was returning him the full harvest of her soul, though she did not know its value. He drew her to him and kissed frhe brown head and laid it on his breast. She began to cry?she had been so greedy of joy lately, and here was its perfection. And he??well it was the sweetest hour he had ever passed in all his life. This girl, with her simple dress and -- t ? J nianuyr, aim uei aeiiuus wunucira ouu undertone of joyfulneso about her, satisfied the more spiritual side of his nature. And yet she was not the ideal of his past, which ideal had been compounded of soft-voiced Cordelia, passionate Juliet, bright Rosalind, witty Beatrice, and dear Desdemona?in fact, of all the sweets of many natures compounded into one. She was not his heroine, but he was her hero, and her gladness inclined toward sadness; for a true woman sees herself valueless at the moment she believes that the "man of men "sees in her a nrecious ieweL "Are you sorry?" he asked, half jestingly. "Sorry !" she said, and, with a frank yet coy gesture, she nestled close to his heart. in. Windborough is a country town, seated in the midst of a smiling plain which stretches to the line of lowwooded hills on the north and loses itself in the far horizon in every other direction. It is a^^epy town, full of ola traditions, and prides ltseli rather on. its rains than on its famous woolen manufacture. It is built in the form of a cross?indeed, its main street is called Crossgate. In one of the arms of the cross?the one toward Woodleigh, with its famous old castle?are the best houses, in which the smaller gentry and the professional men live. At the end of the Woodlcigh road was Dr. Enderby's house, large and old-fashioned, and hither he brought his wife Margaret not long after their first meeting in the Cloverleigh woods. It was a change from ths intense quiet of her girlhood to a large circle of friends and a few secret enemies. But she was John's wife, and her sweet gayety filled his house with sunshine; and she shaped herself a home in all gladness. In Margaret's room John Enderby loved to rest in his intervals of leisure, watching his wife with an interest and a strange timidity tha1; grew deeper day by day. Poor Margaret felt him further from "her, and a shadow fell across her life that the birth of her little son could not wholly chase away. When the child was about nine months old it happened that she was often alone, for it was an unhealthy autumn, and Dr. Enderbv's services were in great requisition, not only among the rich but also among the poor, for he was gentle as well as skill Till Vattt />amck in JL UJ-. AlVT* CfcLLVL (/UUU UCi ?1VU1U VV/JLLX^ AXi and resume his old habit of silently watching and listening to her talk about little Jack.* How she loved that child ! "What sweet music his tiny fingers discoursed on that mother's heart-strlngsj! One afternoon her husband came in as she was sitting with the child on her knee?a bright, fair-haired, brown-eyed boy, very like his father. The baby stretched out his dimpled arms to his father, then with a child's mischief withdrew them, and hid his face on his mother's bosom with a cooing laugh. She bent her head down on the fluffy curls, and caught his bare little feet in her hand (he had pulled off his shoes and socks, the tiny rogue!) and she kissed the rosy toes with lovely mother worship. "Look, John," she said, "isn't he the most wonderfully sweet child, this precious baby. What should we do without him?" She was flushed and laughing, arms and heart full too; but a sharp pang a t in nasiitu uu uugu xmi. He answered, quietly, "Yes, he is a fine boy for his age," and bending down, kissed him; but he went away after that without further speeeh. It often happened so now, and Margaret could not divine the cause; so she was hurt, and turned more and more to the baby for comfort. On this occasion the doctor went to his study, locked the door, and sat down oIca f/? tot J LU ?T XVXi JLLAAUOVAJh., ?i^V W VMO. i stock of his forces for that wrestling. Terrible and sweet revelai:on to the man! He had, as the phrase goes, fallen in love?fortunately with his wife. This, then, was the meaning of his silence, his jealousy, of the tearing away of his old pleasant friendliness toward her. This love of his was no flame that would flash and die out, but the strong white heat, the very soul of the heavenlv flre. He remembered now how she had said, ! "I am not worthy." Now he understood i ?she had loved him at that time?how j far away it seemed?with the whole ! force of her being; and he?well, with i self-depreciation and some well deserved i self blame, he saw his blindness and the j terrible risk he had run. He wanted only his wife, his Margaret; but what i if fie, Margaret's husband, had never i felt this delight in tier? JUignt lie not I have met some other woman for the i sake of whom he would possibly have ! been tempted to repent his marriage, ! He was a good man, upright and true; ! but he had often played at love before I his marriage, "ere life-time and lovetime were one," and he was being punished now, for he doubted whether her love had not declined into that friendli i ness which he had given her before, and she was absorbed in the child. Was she, then, one of those women in whom the instinct of motherhood is stronger than all other ? lie worshiped her now with the full sacred passion ol his manhood, and was Ms own child tc come between and shut him away from ! her? She would be always sweetly | dutiful, he knew that?but duty, wifely duty! A man is nothing if he does not want more than that; and what was his life to be if she and the child dwelt apart in a little paradise of their own? He was jealous of his own child. At this point the man threw himself on his knees and finished l is conflict there, ! and it was well for him that lie did so. IV. The very names c-f Eliphaz the I Temanite, and Bildad the Shuhite, and Zopharthe Xaamathite, carry us back in thought to the world's dawn ; but their modern antitypes are to be found everywhere; in the fullest perfection among women, sad to say, and more perceptible in a country town than in a city. And when poor Job?feminine Job especially?is sitting in the ashes of desolation, then do they, softly seated on the cushion of self-righteousness, proceed to comment disparagingly on the sufferer's past behavior. "NT/vo- "Fli'nhs? ? . Cr> wpre not want ing in Wincfborough society, and in the case of John and Margaret soon perceived "the rift in the luteand being low, mean souls, they set to work to find a low, mean cause for it, having no idea of the higher love between man and woman. They were three middle-aged spin sters, wno naa laiiea to enter me uoiy estate of matrimony in spite of an earnest desire to do so. When the roses of youth and riches were no longer for them they would fain have culled the chrysanthemums of life' s autumn ; but, alas! even those sad and scentless flowers were denied them. So these three had been soured, or rather were unloved through a certain sourness of nature which the masculine portion of mankind had had sagacity enough to ~+/-v ova?/1 "VTrscc pel V/CX V C (uiu i.v arviu. Brown and Miss Jone** -were friends, and much of the mischief in Windborough might be traced to them. For instance had they not discovered Mr. Blight, the curate's shameful flirtation with little Miss "Wilson ? and here was Dr. En derby taking to his old flirting ways again! If he had married a sensible, intellectual person she might have cured him by carefully looking after him but now his attending the meetin <rs of the book club without his wife. ? ? and walking home with little Miss Fry and her Quaker mother, boded no good. So said they, shaking their heads. This was after morning service on Sunday, and they resolved that on Monday morning, while the doctor was away on his rounds, they would call and enlighten his wife. " It will do her good poor thing," they remarked. So the three came on Monday morning, and after a few commonplaces Miss Moss, who was a faded beauty, and therefore the bitterest, began: " Now, my dear Mrs. Enderby, we can see that you are suffering, poor dear, and t?a nr/vn r? or yy 11V ? ? VMVIV4 Margaret looked at them bewildered. " I am quite well," she said. ' But about the doctor, my dear; we have known him so long and understand his ways. If you had been a little more experienced you would have looked after your husband." " But he is not ill," answered the wife, still more bewildered. "Not in body," remarked Miss Brown, with a significant smile," but in mind, we mean; he pays great attention to the Frvs next door, you know." " And Miss Fry is vert' pretty," added Miss Jones. If she had not been so angry Margaret would have laughed! John had walked home with their neighbors twice, and she was very fond of them. John might not love her; that she had found out, she thought, but she knew him to be the very soul of honor. She was generally so quiet that when her anger blazed out they were startled. " Will you be so good ;is to leave my husband's affairs alone ?" she said. " If you wish to be wicked, there is no need to show such bad taste as to come here " ? ?- - J5_T ana enaeavor to uu uamu And then they, feeling that for once they had been vanquished, quickly took their departure. But their words had left a sting behind them. Was it so visible, then, even to these gossips, the fact that she had found out some time ago, namely, that she was not to him all that he was to her? "When she had discovered it she had determined to take thankfully what he could give; but, alas! beloved, who will be grateful for a few crumbs seeing a full ? vj i r\-f fkn oaiii ill till UCVU1IU . J.UC IlUllgCl VI lUb OUUI cannot be stifled; it cries out for food. Well, she tried not to blame him; he had mistaken his feeling for her and was tired of her; but there was her baby. She never told her husband of that visit, though she believed he regretted his marriage; he only clung to the child ?such a frail little thing to lean upon. And one day it broke. It was Sunday?one ot those sweet days in the late autumn which nature saves cut of the summer. The trees had lost their leaves, and the sunshine showed all their delicate irregularity? their beautv of mere form which had been hidden by the foliage. The golden asters and red geraniums still brightened the sheltered garden. A ball was lying on the frosty grass, but the tiny fingers that played with it would never touch it more, for Baby Jack was going fast to a land in which, let us not say, there are no toys for the angel children. This little child was dying of croup. His mother could only hold the form on her knee, v/hile John krelt beside her - - 1 j; ?. 4. trying useless remedies w cuuuui i- ua. At last he stood still, looking down sorrowfully at the signs of ebbing life. Suddenly he knelt and touched the little clenched hand with his lips, and heavy tears plashed down upon it?his dear little boy; it was hard. Margaret bent forward. "You do love him, John!" She was jealous for him that he should have his full share of love before he went. John understood, and his look answered her. What instinct had made her ask ? The fluttering breath grew shorter and shorter ; it was near the end now, and little Jack opened his eyes and said, for the first and last time, quite clearly: " Mamma." This was all she was to have?the one word," and the angels i.i i it. 4. rr? would lutve tut? rtatu iciauic, a ? xuii> mysterious d?*ath had borne away the spirit of the babe and left only the little body cold and white as a snowwreath ; but a smile hovered on the tiny face. At that moment the bells rang out for morning service, filling the clear air with their solemn merriment. "And the bells of the city rang again," said John, softly. Margaret coidd weep then, and the nurse took the dead child from her arms and went softly out, shutting the door. v. So John comforted bis; wife, but her . grief grew silent. She was gentle to him, but her thoughts were with the . dead child. She told herself that it was i better that he should be with the angels, [ and he would sing hymns and perhaps : play in the golden streets; but she had i! a hurt feeling, for he would never be i her own baby again. .Mothers' hearts I are hungry things, and she felt that j she had nothing lefc. Her husband , divined this mixed feeling, but in the i shyness of his new love could not pene; J trate her silence. 1 After a while her strength failed; , and, in great anxiety, he brought her back to Cloverleigh, to the old rooms that had been bowered by the apple 1 AfCAlY* f On/1 Vll r<l O UlVddVlHd j U UU LI lO C4AAVA, VA1 ViO were all gone now. Here Margaret grew restless; her thoughts turned from little Jack for the first time, and the afternoon after they came she wandered out by herself to the woods above the house. The sun was shining, and there were one or two late daisies in the grass. She stopped and gathered them. Her baby had been fond of them, and she had made him so many chains of them in the past sujtnmer, and he had broken them, with his little coo just like a bird. She went on, dry-eyed and desolate. She started. Here was the place where John had asked her to be his wife, and with a pang she remembered the intensity other joy. Ah I how the petals had fallen from the flower. It had been unjust of John to take her without loving her. lie had sought her find wooed her, and now she was so lonely. She heard his step and turned to hide from him, bat the trees were bare now. Half curiouoiy she looked at him. He had not soon her yet, for his eyes were bent on the ground. Unconscious of her nresence he took no Dains to hide X~ ^ - A. his despondency, and she could see how grief worn was the handsome, kindly face. Contemplating him thus she forgot herself, and the old strong love shone in her eyes. He looked up and saw her pale and slim in her black dress, but there was that in those eyes which drew him to her to murmur in tier ear how much he loved lier, and she turned to him as she had never done before. " I am not worthy, dear," she said, having also learned the divine humility. So the bitter changed entirely into sweet; not suddenly, for it took some time for Margaret to lose tier jealousy of the angels. And that time was chronicled in her soul as "the winter our baby died, and I first knew how dear I was to John."?Argosy. How She "Won Him. I have just heard the most remarkable story of the evenness of female temper, in iact it seems so surprising tome that I think some record of it should be embalmed in the archives of Quiz. It is a beautiful little fairy story and may appropriately be called "How She Won Him." Indeed it was quite enough to win a far worse man, if the worse men are ever won, which I dare say they are not. It happened here in Philadelphia, and is on this wise: You know, or rather you don't know until I tell you (for how should you?), that there was a beautiful dinner given "many years ago," and she sat opposite him and looked ever so charmirg in a wine-colored silk with a square neck, and otherwise array<ni as never were the lilies in any valley of this poor earth. Well, the idiot of a waiter, in handling the soup, upset the entire contents of a plate right in her lap. Just think of it, girls ! The whole front breadth utterly ruined, and fo^' the world it could not be matched. Well, what did she do ? Did she faint ? Did she say you horrid man? Did she scream? XTrtf of oil. ctio r\;?ccor? t.he> t.hinor nflF in Ii.1 VU au <*OJk y ?J11 V v?v WM> .u some witty remark about fiery baptism and calmly resumed her dinner. He, of course, was delighted; thought her a most remarkable woman, and indeed she was; became attentive to her and finally married her. One evening, long after the event, t'aey were sitting before the fire, the children having gone to bed, and were talking about old times, when he said: " My dear, I never told you, I think, how I first thought I would like to marry you, did I ?" " Why, gracious goodness, no, never." " Well," he said, " do you remember that dinner at Mrs. Simkins', where your dress was spoilt by the soup ?" " Indeed I do," she replied, "I shall never forget it as long as I live." "Well," he continued, "you behaved so well about it that I thought you a perfect jewel." "Yes," she answered, "I remember behaving very well about it at the time, but, good land, you should have seen the mark of my teeth on the bedpost that night." Now wasn't that just too perfectly romantic for anything??Philadelphia Quiz. A Millionaire's Pets. The Hartford Times of a recent date says : W. H. Vanderbilt's great trottincr r>air. Maud S. and Lysander, are domiciled at Charter Oak park. They are in charge of TV. TV. Bair, under whose guidance Maud S. was developed and by whose driving she has made her most wcr.derful performances. The stalls occupied by the pair are very large. Opening out of them is a large shed in which the horses may be allowed still further room for exercise. Maud S. presents a very handsome appearance in the stall and when her blanket is stripped off her soft chestnut coat and exquisite symmetry show to perfection. Since last year she has fattened im rnncirfArahlv and now weighs eiffhtv pounds more than when at CharterOak park iast year. She receives the attention of visitors as a queen should, simply deigning to raise her large Hambletonian head and push forward the ears for which the scions of this line are noted.' In the next stall to her is her companion, Lvsander. a superb chestnut, fit mate for the great mare. He has proved himself one of the finest horses to pole in the country, and although when Mr. Vanderbilt purchased him his record was only 2.20?, on many occasions since he has gone much faster and can trot away down in the teens. The stable equipments which accompany the horses are admirable and attract the attention of all horsemen who see them. Mr. Bair has brought with him the Caffrey sulky which was presented to Maud S. when she made her greut time of 2.10^ at Rochester. It is a marvel of the carriage-maker's skill and weighs but forty-seven pounds. The wheels are almost like webs, and the fastenings are light and strong. There is also a trotting" wagon in which the pair will be exercised.and a curious vehicle, the first that h;is ever come to these narts. It is what is known as the Chicago driving cart. The running gear and shafts are similar to those of a village cart. In front and between the ? TiiircDL.lil-o arrnnrrom&tit. in I SUctilO ID CL J^uiov-uuv a which the driver's feet are placed. The seat swings back of the axle, and is so arranged that the driver's weight just balances the shafts, making the cart very easy on the horse. It is fcr use on rostds, and cannot be evertttrnecL ODDITIES OF INTERMENTS. Notes on Some Happenings* Romantic, Odd or .Sensational* at Recently Reported Funerals. During the last few months the papers have published a good deal oi interesting matter concerning interments. The learned physician, Ami Bone,who died not long ago at Vienna, declared in his will his desire that his funeral should be of the simplest kind, that none of his academical colleagues should follow his coffin to the cemetery lest they should take cold, and that his friend, Dr. Forstner, should open his thorax "in order that I may positively be spared a terrible reawakening to life in the tomb," a request which contains a queer compliment to th'c medical skill of his fellows. The Rev. C. N. Gray, of Helmsley, refused to allow the widow of a Wesley an minister to be laid beside her husband ill consecrated ground, and even forbade the mourners to enter by the principal gate lest they should pass over holy grc&nd. At the Leeds workhouse,not longvSgo,after the clergyman had duly read^the service over the supposed body a pauper, the remains were found |jing in the dead-house. In Leeds thij^ia called a burial scandal. In Germaiire takers do not exhibit their., wares, But build coffins as they are needed. A fewyears ago an enterprising? undertaker in Basel, Switzerland, staged business in the American style ancJrput a couple of small coffins in his winifow. Crowds gathered at tne unwome? signi, ana before the end of the week the police gave notice to the shopkeeper that "the unseemly exhibition'': must cease. Some scandal has been caused in London by an undertaker -wlho sent out "private and confidential^-xirculars to all the doctors of his district offering them a commission on \any "cases" they might put into his hands, the commissions ranging fnim five per cent, on a ?5 funeral to? twenty per cent, on a ?20 interment.! The late Congressman Hendrick B. Wright directed that his ."body should be kept till decomposition:- had. set in,! that there should be no display at the funeral nor any special sermon and no silver plate on the coffin. He preferred that his children should not go into mourning. Mr. Ralph Bernal Osborne left careful written instructions concerning his funeraL The expense was not to exceed ?50; there were to be no hearse, mourning coachou, mutes, hatbands or hatchments, nor was any mourning or crape to he distributed to any one. The Princess of Beauvan in Jani?A/7 4- Av 1>A V?** ^ TTT^ 4" V* Allf Ut?r WUi UCS11CU l/U DO. 1/t.ixicvi nii/uuuu trappings, tapers or funeral pomp of any kind; the money thus saved from the ordinary cost of the interment of a woman of her position was to be distributed in alms. Mme. de JServille, who died about the same time, desired that no one might be invited to attend her funeral. " I know my. Parisians," f Vi /-V <n*T*Af At 44 fVlATt ItTAIlW tflll' rtf oii^ niuvcj fmgj IT vuau vv*utw VJ. VUV latest play behind the hearse." A Catholic congregation at Marlboro', Mass., has resolved hereafter to have no more than two carriages at funerals of its members. In Jersey City, Father Hennessey has refused to allow more than twelve carriages to accompany a hearse, and Father iCorrigan, of Hoboken, has also carried put this rule laid down by Bishop Corrigan, of the diocese of ifew Jersey.-'The former clergyman said when > vindicating his action: "In nine cases out'of ten this absurdity [leaves families without enough to eat." Both in England and in the United States of late the courts have given some exemplary warnings to executors and undertakers not to lavish the estates of dead men upon their obsequies. Thus where a bill for $900 was brought in for burying a man who left an estate of $4,000, the referee cut down the bill to $75. A Philadelphia girl left $700 and her aunt gave her remains a $350 funeral; the courts cut this down to $100 at the request of her brother and sister. A Xew York court decided that a $700 monument was good enough for a man who left an $11,000 estate, so that the executor who spent $1,455 on one found himself seriously " out." A Maryland court refused to pass an executor's bill for dinner and horse feed, though it was proved that it was customary to entertain the mourners after a " burying." The widow of Joseph Autran, the French poet, settled a nice point in funeral etiquette by providing in her will that her heart should be buried with her French husband, but her body repose beside that of her first husband, who was an American. When Mr. Henry Coy died in April at Palmyra, X. J., the bodies of his three children that had died .twenty years before and that he had always carried witn mm m oronze coifins, were buried at the same time. In May Miss Abbie Taylor died at Newport. With her own hand she wrote the telegrams to her friends in New "icork, Brooklyn, Jersey City, Asbury Park and other places which conveyed the intelligence of her death. Twenty minutes before she died sh<3 called for pen, ink and telegraph blanks and in a trembling but legible hand announced to those whom she desired to attend the funeral: "Miss Taylor is dead," following the premature Intelligence with the request that they would attend the funeral. Thirty-five years ago Captain Stone, of Moundville, TV. Ya^ conceived the idea of raising his own coffin, and planted two apple seeds, one of which sprouted and grew. A short time ago the tree was blown down in a storm, cut into lumber and sent to a Pittsburg (Pa.) firm. A coffin waj made of the lumber ?nd sent back to him, and he was buried in it at once, his death having followed hard upon the falling of the tree. Mr. Joseph Copplin, of Pleasant Kidge, Ky., being ninety-three years old, expects soon to occupy his coffin, which was made with his own hands. The coffin is of white pine. The sides and the bottom are painted red, white and blue, and the lid is covered with American flags. Near the head, covered with a small .American flag, is a picture of Mr. Coppin, taken when he was in the prime of life. The pine from which the coffin was made was grown on his farm. Mr. John Babcock was recently placed under arrest at Norwich, Conn., for destroying the stone that marked his daughter's grave. The marble had Koeri mil. in nlnro hv the dead trirl's vvv" f"~ " f -v o betrothed and Babcock had forbidden it. At a fuDeral at B?echwood, Ont., not long ago, the coffin containing the remains was placed in a tomb. Just as the friends were leaving the place they were frightened by a moan which seemed to proceed from the coffin. Thinking it might be a case of suspended animation, an investigation was made, when it was found that the moans proceeded from a large owl perched in the vault. A prettier incident was that reported at the time of the burial of Mrs. Caroline RichingsBernard, as follows: "Early in the morning a mocking-bird escaped from its cage in the upper part of the city, and though diligent search was made its owner could not find it. In the .evening, as the last clods of earth were being thrown on the grave of the opera-singer, a aaeeewion of trills and I clear warblings was poured forth from j the throat of a mocking-bird perched ! in a tree near by, and was continued ; until the minister pronounced the bene- '< diction. It was recognized as the j missing bird, and at sundown it re- j turned home and went back into its j | cage, which had been left open in the i window." ~ A Black Spot in the Arctic Region. j The San Francisco Chronicle, in a I j recent issue, says: There are, in all j j probability, not more than about i I twenty white people living wno nave ; I ever set foot on Wrangel Land or Plo- | ver Island, two names by wliich the j | maps of the day distinguish an incom- j j pletely traced shore line in the Arctic j ocean from the black dot further to ! | the south named Herald Island. The | youngest person who ever roamed over j the insular waste is unquestionably ; Frank Smith, of the American ship Alfred D. Snow, now lying at Vallejo street wnarr. j.ouug cmim ?<? uuc of the crew of the steam whaler I3elvidere oil her lust years whaling cruise in the Arctic, under command of Captain L. C. Owens, who has penetrated the frozen regions., of itfee-i'jSwfif: for ^''successive"" seasons for over a quarter of a century. The Belvidere had spoken the revenue cutter Thomas II. Corwin in August, 1881, in the Arctic, and learned of Captain Hooper's purpose to take possession of "W ran gel's Land, which, until the boating party of Lieutenant Reynolds, of the Corwin, had always been supposed to be a vast continent, he being recorded as the first to land there. One week after the Corwin hnd left, tiift Belvidere made for the southeast end of the island. Two boats were sent out from the Belvidere, and she cruised about for two days. Smith was one of the party, and his impressions ;ts narrated to a reporter were as follows: " As soon as we got ashore we saw the signal planted by Lieutenant Reynolds, a small American ensign, fastened to a slender piece of driftwood, driven into the soil, such as it is. The T-io^o oKtmr*f7v frnm thr> though not precipitously. There is no beach to speak of, the land having an average elevation of ten feet above the surface of the water. It is surrounded by deep water, and from surroundings that our party made we found an average depth of ten to twelve fathoms at a distance of ten feet from the shore." ""What is the nature of the soil?" asked the reporter. " There is no earth to speak of," replied this youthful mariner, laugliingly. " The soil is formed almost entirely of what seemed to be Large black pebbles of a sandy nature. Between these grew a green and tlun tDree-oiaueu grass, resembling very much the woodtick grass of the Eastern States." " What was the size of the island ?" "I should judge it had a circumference of about one hundred and fifty miles. The island is flat table-land. As you go toward the center you come across numerous ponds and marshes of brackish water. The only vegetation you see there is a small pinkish, odorless flower without petals and the familiar rock moss. The soil is what you might call peat. It is not mushy, but elastic, reminding you when you walk on it of the 'give' in cork. Everything is black, just as if it had been smeared in coal-tar. You find piles of drift-wood everywhere." ""Washed up by the waves?" " They would have been," was the reply, " but the fact is that the island during some se;isons is entirely submerged under the ice. It is a well-known j faot. that in snmn seasons the island ' is lost to sight, and that is undoubted-! Iv the reason why Captain DeLong, of the Jeannette,did not,as he was instructed to do, leave any account of himself. There is no animal life on the island. I was told that there were squirrels, but what would they find to feed on? I did not see anything. Ducks and birds make a resting-place on the island, and in open seasons the Mesinker natives comc from the American shore to fish and to hunt -walrus. These are the natives from which the relics of the lost whalers Vigilant and Mount j "Wollaston were obtained. Desolate and uninviting as the island is, it was a sort of a two days' picnic for us; and our party was glad to get an opporturitv to stretch our legs a little. The Belvidere was the last to see the crew of the Arctic relief ship Rodgers on the 28th of last October, the crew being then at St. Lawrence bay building their winter quarters." What the Zulu Kin^Saw in London. Cetewavo was disappointed at the sight of Mr. Gladstone, having expected to see him in his war paint, his head surmounted with a tuft of feathers and a string of glass beads round his neck. He wanted to know why the prime minister did not occupy the speaker's seat and nurse the mace upon his knee. He took a great fancy to that gilded bauble, and said that 4f he were ! king he would himself preside over the ; deliberations of the commons, and j when the Parnellites obstructed busi- | ness he would correct them vritli the mace. Cetewayo mistook the occupants of the ladies' gallery, come to St. Stephen's to hear the debates, for a select contingent of the speaker's wives, and the speaker he mistook for the prime minister, and the speaker's chair he mistook for the queen's throne, and the speaker's i full-bottomed horsehair wig he mistook for that august functionary's own hyacinthine locks. "When the dusky monarch was assured that the right honorable the speaker has only one wife, he appeared puzzled at what seemed to him a strange want of good taste. Cetewayo considers that it is making an invidious distinction to pick out one woman and place her in a position where she would be supposed to enjoy special priviliges denied to the rest of her sex. Consequently, when he was told of the large number of ladies, said to be attractive, employed in the ballet at the Alhambra, he desired his cousin and intimate friend, Ungeongewana, to make them an offer of marriage on his behalf. The house in Melbury road, Kensington, where the Zulus lodge, was formerly occupied by an artist, who left 1 * "? 3 1 -^'1 4- % -w\ 1*AV ^till /\-f ! D0D1I1Q mm it Jiipuiiiitrn mi iju.v iiin vil i tubes of oil color. Xow, it happened j one morning lately that Umkosana, he ! who led the Zulu army at Isandida and j Ungobogana, the general in command | at Korke's Drift, came across the paint | box, and, with the curiosity of their j simple savage natures, they opened it. j Both braves had seen the passengers on board the Arab cat shrimp paste. I That may have induced them to squeeze i some portions of flake white, yellow j ochre and Indian red upon slices of j hrpad and butter, and to consume the ' same in the belief that they were par- J taking of a particularly appetizing j British breakfast delicacy. The introduction of the mongoose j has proved an immense boon to Ja- j maica, wliose rats used to eat thousand ; of dollars' worth of sugar annually. THE RISOG OF THE >HE. An Annual ETent of the Utmost Importance to Egypt. Perhaps, says the London Daily News, the most striking idea of the effect of the Nile water is obtained from standing on the summit of the Great Pyramid of Geezeh. The pyramid stands on the desert, but close to the cultivated soil?the cultivated soil in tlris>- case means the land which has been covered by the inundation of the great river. To the height which its waters have reached the color is green from vegetation; where it has not touched is desert. So distinct is the line of green with the buff colored sand that looking down from the pyramid it seems as if you could put one foot on the cultivated and another on the unir rigated ground. The sharp, defined edge of a well kept lawn and a gravel path will picture the state of the case to the mind of any one. Gazing on this from the pyramid?and it can be seen as far as the eye can reach to north and south ?the importance of the Nile water is realized. As high as the inundation rises there is growth and cultivation; , food for man and - beast is produced;;where the water has not moved on the surface there is the desert, sterile and bare, with a hot, monotonous sun glaring everywhere. The essential cause of Egypt's greatness in the past is re allzed as well as the continued political importance of the country to our own times. In other days the overflow of the Nile was looked upon as the union of Isis and Osiris, and when the canals were opened in ancient times to let the water flow over the land, sacrifices are said to have been offered. A ceremony is yet performed which is supposed to have descended from these rites. It is now known under the Arab title of " Ilaroost 'e Neel," or " The Bride of the JS lie." The youn;? devoted bride Of the fierce Nile, when decked in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks Into the tide. ?Lallo. Rookh. A pillar of mud now represents the bride; it is made at the opening of one of the canals at Old Cairo, and it is Swept away by the waters at the ppening of the dam. The Mohammedan tradition is that one of their rulers substituted the mud pillar for a virgin which the Christians sacrificed every year. Sir Gardner Wilkinson doubts $nd believes that in A. D. 638 the Araos continued ine custom irom the Christians, who received it from the Egyptians. He does not think it likely that the Christians would sacrifice a human being, and that it is quite possible that tjie Bride of the Xile was Only a mud figure even in the older Eyptian period. Thi? ceremony is now gone through about the 10th of August, when the inundation is supposed to be approaching its highest. The first indications of the rise appear in Lower Egypt about the middle of June and continue till September, when the full overflow is reached. In November or December again the waters have disappeared and the Jsile is generally reduced to its ordinary level. The ancient Egyptians -^ere in the habit of closing up the dams after the full rise, so as to retain the water on the fields, and thus secure a fuller deposit of mud, as well as a longer continuance of the fertilizincr element. The Wfiite Nile sends down the largest amount of water for the inundation, but it is the Blue Nile which supplies the most important material for the alluvial deposit, and which is of such value to the crops. Ii is this deposit which has been slowly raising the level of the surface of Egypt?a rise which has been very exactly determined in late yeass. It was first observed in the case of the Memnon statues anil in the obelisk which still stands at Ileliopbli3?the base of these monuments, remaining as fixed points, were clear evidences of the rise of the soil. Sir Gardner Wilkinson puts it that at Elephantine the rise has been nine feet and at Thebes seven feet in 1,700 years, or about four inches in a century. There have been many learned efforts to show that this increased elevation has led to a decrease in the height of the inundations, but the authority above referred to gives it as his opinion that the rise of the JSile is now the same as in former times. Ttye height of the inundation was of the greatest importance to the people of Egypt at all times, because ail extra high rise was equally disastrous with a deficient one. Pliny states that "a proper inundation is sixteen cubits, * * * in twelve cubits the country suffers from famine and feels a deficiency even in thirteen, fourteen causes joy, fifteen security, sixteen delight." The rise is not the same in all parts. In the confined space of the Xile valley above Cairo the height must be greater than in the delta, where the surface widens out and the channels are numerous. According to Herodotus a rise of eight cubits was considered a sufficient height for the irrigation of Egypt in the time of Moeris, and this lorms one of the grounds on which it has been urged that the elevation of the land has changed the conditions of the yearly inundation. At the present day a rise of eighteen feet at Cairo is looked upon as approaching a famine year. Up to twenty-seven feet is good, and no bad effects result; but above that height it becomes a flood and dq?s damage by carrying away the dykes and other works connected with irrigation. In addition to the ruin of crops a high in UJJLUtttlUil ildO Ot W vyvtciv/v/ disease, not only among the inhabitants, but among their flocks as well. The rise of the river was carefully watched, and the guardians of the Oleometers announced the height daily. There were Oleometers at various places. The one best known to those who visit Egypt at the present day is at Rhoda, near Cairo. The daily proclamation of the rise was to prepare the people for the proper time to open the canals. When this had been done and all the country was under water, as all occupations were suspended and none of i <? i i a ij tne wonts 01 nusoanary couiu ue performed, the ancient Egyptians betook themselves to amusements. They had games'and gymnastic exercises, wrestling matches and bull-fights, to which were added a plentiful supply of eating and drinking. In this way they passed their time till the waters subsided. R. B. Forbes, of Milton, N. Y., has a mocking-bird hanging under the piazza, and near it recently was a rob- j in's nest with young birds. The robins,! while bringing worms to their brood -,j were twice seen to stop, angnt on ine cage of the prisoner and drop worms into his mouth. Another Western man is on the high road to fortune. A Chicago barber advertises for ten deaf and dumb assistants.? Philadelphia Press. The sting of a bee is only one-thirtvsecond of an inch long. It is your imagination that makes it seem as fa&g as a lic^haudle,?Fret Prtui CATTLE OX THE PLAINS. The VastiGrazinf Interest of Nebraska, and Wyoming. There may be said to be three great ! cattle belts in the country, to be desigj nated respectively as the Xorth, the J Northwest and the South belts. The j first takes in Montana and Dakota, | and is tributary to the Northern Pa cihc road; the second mciuaes ine western half of Nebraska and the Territory of Wyoming, and is tributary to the Union Pacific road; and the third consists of vast portions of Texas and the Indian Territory, and seeks an outlet through the Iron Mountain, the St. Louis and San Francisco and other roads leading to St. Louis. Of the three the Northwest belt is at present the most important, but that to the north of it is growing the most rapidly, and with the com" pletion of the Northern Pacific railroad will gain and maintain the supremacy. I realized this fact from the manner in which the stockman laughed at me when I inquired if it was possible for cattle to go through the hard winters of that section unfed and unsheltered. '^:"VyTiy,:aWa^ i? in Dakota," was the reply, "the cattle come through the winters better than they do in Texas." I mav here remark that anvthine like housing or feeding cattle in the winter is utterly impossible in any of the Territories. There is not timber enough in the Territory of Wyoming to make sheds for the cattle owned there. And it is quite as unnecessary as it is impossible. The cattle ranges of Nebraska begin about 200 miles west of Omaha. There is no line to mark where agriculture leaves off and grazing begins, but at about the point named timber and water become too scarce for profitable agriculture, and the ranchmen take up wnat ine piowmen. can t use. xue land is owned in equal parts by the rancheio and the government, but is enjoyed free of rent by the cattle men. The ranches vary in extent to the size of the herd and the run of the water course. The first essential in u laying out" a ranch is water. As for grass,' there is always plenty of that, summer and winter. A moderate estimate is said to be two miles of water front, running twenty miles back, for each 1,000 head of cattle. So that a man with 20,000 head of cattle?which is about the largest number owned by any one man, and more than twice the average of all? would require forty miles of water front, running back twenty miles. It is not always an easy thing to find this. When found and occupied, however, the rights of the finder and oc i. ?i?v? cupani are respecteu uy ui? uiutuci. stockmen to the extent that he is allowed to remain in unmolested possession. It is a maxim among them that " stockmen respect each other's rights." There are persons called jumpers, however, who look upon the stoikmen as having no rights which they are bound to respect, and who make it a business to pick out the best land in a range and settle down upon it under the Homestead or Pre-emption laws, remaining just long enough to be bought out, when they move to another range to play the same part. The stockmen complain grievously about this, as an annoyance from which they should be protected by law. They cannot buy the hind from the government in quantities to suit them, and they think Congress should pass a law allowing them to lease it for a term of years, so as to allow them to improve it, and to give them a fixed tenure. The cattlemen have their own association and their own regulations, which seem to be intended not only for the benefit of those who ;tro in, but for the exclusion of those -who are out. No cattleman has ever been known to encourage an outsider to embark in a cattle-raising enterprise. After a good deal < f cross-questioning and figuring I arrived at some conclusions as to the profits of cattleruising as a business. I met one man, for instance, who had just arrived from Chicago, where he had sold a thousand head of cattle at an average of $40. They were a little ovt r three years old, : and had been on his ranch two years. He bought them in 1880 for $8 a head. Counting interest, care-taking, loss by i death, and all other items of expense, : tney stood mm, wnen pui on tne cars, at $11.50 each. Add to this an average of $5 each for transportation from Ogallala, Xeb., to Chicago?$100 per car the actual cost, and an average of twenty head to the car?and the animals on the market have cost him $16.50 cach, leaving a net profit of $23,500 on the herd. This was simply one?and not a large one?of many transactions made in the course of the year by the same stockman. Indeed, it ' was in the nature of an outside trans- action, because the rule is to raise the cattle from birth, instead of buying them at a year old. This gentleman : has already sold 16,500 head of cattle < tliir vear. and now has on his ranch 13,500 head, of which he expects to send about 5,000 head to market before the close of the season. It is very safe to say that "a man starting with 2,500 head of cattle can, after the second year, keep up his herd and sell $25,000 worth of cattle every year; that is to say, he can net that amount after paying every dollar of expense. But 2,500 head of cattle are considered a small ranch. The average is more than twice that number. Of possible and actual losses to the i business there are really none to speak 1 of. Two per cent, will cover all the : losses by death for a good year, "winter ! and summer, and, strange to say, the ] losses are greater in summer than in i winter. In a very bad year, when < disease is prevalent, the losses never < exceed five per cent. < The stockman's year begins in May i with what is called the " round up." ! At the close of the season in i the early winter, the cattle < are turned loose without herds-men, and allowed to roam through the ; whole of "Western Nebraska and ] Wyoming, finding food and shelter as 1 they can. When the spring opens a < small army of cowboys is employed? 1 each stockman contributing to the 1 force in proportion to his interest?to i range the whole plains, gather up the 1 cattle, and drive them to certain ; stations or places previously agreed upon at a meeting of the stockmen : held at Cheyenne. From these immense gatherings each owner selects the cattle bearing his brand, and forms them in to a herd to be driven to his ranch ; ho also brands the yearlings of his herd, who have up to this time run with their mothers. After this grand division the cattle are put in charge of cowboys for t.hp summer. The. cras-s is fine and they improve rapidly, and are ready for "the market in June or July. For the largest ranch the expense up to this time is not over $600. The cowboys get about $30 each for the "round up," but no stockman is allowed to furnish less than twelve, no matter how small his herd may be. Some are taxed as high as twenty cowboys. The matter is all arranged at a meeting of the stockmen, held under tha aunnifffli nt fikvdimim'* uimI. * \ V ation. "When the cattle are all gatnereu in and branded for the summer the, only help needed for the rest of the year is a sufficient number of cowboys to watch the herd, which is generally done by sleeping in the grass under .. some friendly shade. Three cowboys will take care of 5,000 cattle, keep them all together, and drive to the railroad station such as are to be sent to market.?St. Louis Globe-Democrat A Battle of the Deep. "We were swinging idly at anchor off Mahukona, island of Hawaii. Swing- ^ ing idly at anchor in the South sea on a summer's day is eminently poetical, but one may get too much of poetry. Suddenly there were wild exclamations of delight and excitement by some native passengers, who pointed a little way off, where at first we could see only occasional foamy spurts of water. * ' The captain, who had just came on deck, looked with increasing interest at the commotion in the water, and finallv said, decidedlv; " It's a thrasher and sword-fish attacking a whale, and if they only come this way you'll see some fun that land lubbers seldom see ?meaning no disrespect for the ladies." It was seldom that our cap- . tain displayed as much interest as he did then, so we all the more eagerly watched the nearing fight. H^gavt? no further explanation then. For some time longer we saw no bodies, but the disturbance in the water steadily grew plainer as it came nearer. The water would be upheaved and then lashed into foam; there would be flurry, and then the water would subside into a bubbling wake. Finally, so near "to us as to be almost startling, the ponderous body of a whale plunged through the water almost beneath us, and with a swiftness that in so huge a thing was frightful, rose to the surface, dashing the waves with its irreat blunt head afar on either ^ side. Almost before the sparklir.;; . showers had fallen the steam-like breatn of the monster shot up in a jet, but only for an instant. A great ugly fish, fiat like a flounder, but larger than a shark, darted through the water and almost - * J leaped upon the whale, covering with its great flat body the whale's blowhole. The jet was as instantly and completely cut off by this astonishing operation as is a faucet stream of water by a reversed spigot. The great clumsy monster struggled as if for me. its tan aasaea tne smocui sum- ? -m mer sea into a fury of foam, and the whole great length of its body seemed shaken by a tempest of rage and agony. The whale sank slowly, and as the troubled water became clear, we saw it part off again, but pursued and at tacked by a swordfish that with lightning-like strokes would plunge its weapon into the whale's body, draw back for a fresh start and shoot ahead again, inflicting wound after wound upon the tortured monster. Stabbed from below, deprived of its breath from above, the whale wildly plunged ahead silently, followed closely by the thrasher, waiting for its turn to attack. Soon they came again; not quite so close to us as before. Again the vast body upheaved the waters; again the thrasher cut off the persecuted whale's desperate struggle for air; again the great thing lunged af? lurched about in awful, frantic efforts to free itself of the merciless enemy; ^ again it slowly sank to be again attacked from below. This most strange battle raged about us for fully half an v hour, the intervals between the. sur- . face attacks becoming shorter as the whale's increasing exhaustion prompted it to rise more frequently." The attacks of both its enemies gave the impression of utmost ferocity. The silpnrA nf t.liA warfarA. too, added to its terrible aspect I have spoken of it as a battle, and such it was, although the small, savage attackers were, of course, never injured in the tremendous plunges the maddened whale would sometimes direct toward them. Gradually the scene of action drifted further from us, and ; suddenly ceased, the whale sinking ; * j|| finally out of sight. Then, we turned . " ':'0 to the captain and asked of that worthy individual 'an explanation. Of course, he had one ready, and it was this: There was another fish highly interested in the battle that we had not seen. This "was the fish that came in at the death. " I'm sorry." the ca.nta.in said, "that the whale was not finished near enough for von to see, for then you would have been astonished. Now what do you suppose that thrasher and likewise that sword-fish was giving that kind of battle to that whale for? Now none of you know, yet some people think they do." - ;Mj| " Some people," the captain continued, "mostly scientific chaps, think they know all about the matter. I had one of 'em down here once. I think ho was a skipper or somebody high up in the 'Cademy of Science in San Francisco. Well, what yc?|g ao you tniiiK that cnap says? Why, he spins a yarn like this: lie says, says he, that the thrasher, which the same chap had a Latin name for as long as a capstan bar, the thrasher. he says, eats the same kind of small fry as the whale takes kindly to. Well, the thrasher don't like him on his ground, natural enough, and he can't . drive him off alone; so he hires the swordflsh, a kind of a pirate fish, to help him. Now, there's a yarn for you. But the yarn I tell, which the same any sailor who has been whaling will make affidavit to, is this: That sworrfSsh sticks the whale from below ?.> make it rise, and the thrasher calks up his spout-hole to make it open its mouth. But why don't it open it* mouth at once ? And this same I asks of the scientific chap. "Why don't ho open his mouth at once?" "Why ion't the whale open his mouth tuo first time the thrasher covers hi> ' 3pout-hole? Because it knows byinstinct that the instant its mouth is opened its tongue is bit out." "I spoke," resumed the captain, "of a, little fish that you didn't see. "Well, he follows close along, and whenever the whale becomes ?0 used up for want af breath that it must open its mouth then the little fish darts in, bites off the big fellow's tongue, and is away with it in a jiffy. The little fish, the swordfish, and the thrasher divide the tongue, rUlU it S> LllOv invioca tuc uuyic uovvxc 10 ^ v_^? for." Since the captain tcld us the story I have heard the same thing asserted by land authority. A canary belonging to a lady in Dubuque, on being given its liberty in a room one day, flew to the mantel, whereon was a "mirror. Thinking he had found a mate, he went back to the cage and brought a seed to offer to the sfi stranger. Getting no satisfactory reply, he poured forth his sweet notes, pausing now and then to watch the effect. Finally lie went back to Ins perch, and, with his head hanging, remained silent the rest of the day. George TV. Brown and wife, of Yell county, Ark., had a child born who h:w living two parents, three grandparent?, three great-grandparents, and thrr-e great-great-grandparents, all but one uriafinY?ucofutf< ^ joy - ^ H