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TRI-WEEKLY EDITION. WINNSBORO. S. 0.. JUNE 2, 1883. ESTABLISHED 1848 SOMEBODY’S WAITING FOR ME. "When the sunlight slowly fading Proclaims the dying day, And across the fields and meadows I homeward take my way. Just down the turn in the pathway, . ’Neath the shade of that tall oak tree, There’s Somebody, mild and gentle, Who watches and waits for me. She stands in the waning sunshine, With the lovelight in her eye, And her wind-swung tresses tioating O’er m check of eri!n<«*n dye. With a smile of joyous welcome, To meet me she gayly trips, And a tender kiss awaits me Prom Somebody’s loving lips. I name not her age or station, If humble or proud she be; Aut. of all the Heaven-given treasures, The dearest and best is she. Too kind for a thought of evil, E’er willing my cares to share, - The Queen of my heart’s deep centre is she who is waiting there. So, whatever of ill befall me Through the weary and tedious day, As the evening shadows lengthen. And I homeward take my way, My step and my heart grow lighter As 1 near to that old oak tree. For 1 know my darling’s watching And wail ing to welcome me. MY I.ADY COQUET. “Going abroad, Fred?” Why, what does that mean? When I last saw you such an idea was furthest from your thoughts, and here you give me twenty- four hours’ notice of your departure on an indefinite tour.” And the speaker, a tall, splendid- looking man. oi>ened his dark eyes in unfeigned wonder as they rested on the face of his friend. “I’ve hardly given mvself more than twenty-four hour’s notice, Max. Of course it’» a sudden notion, but to you, the oldest.and best friend I have in the world, I may as well own the truth, though you need imagine it no secret. A very large i>ortion of the fashionable world thoroughly understands my mo tives. I’m hard hit, Max, and I’ve got to go away. I want to feel an ocean rolls between me and the woman who has jilted me.” “Jilted you?” “Yes, jilted me. It’s not a pretty word, but I’m not in a frame of mind to look through the dictionary for ano ther that means the same thing. I loved Nora Fielding with a love you caiumt even dimly comprehend—you, who have lived for more than thirty years un moved by any woman's beauty, un thrilled by any woman's voice. I had some reason, God knows, for deeming my love returned. She smiled on me, as only soulless women can smile; she seemed glad when I came, sorry when I left her. Yet when, moved to mad ness, I put my love into w’ords, she smiled still, and told me that my love was folly. Of course, I should in that moment have scorned, despised her. So 1 did, perhaps; but it made my love none the less, my suffering no whit the easier. I can’t describe her to you, Max. I think she might entrap you in her meshes.” “A coquet entrap me? No, no, my boy! Forewarned, forearmed. Supi>ose we have a little trial of skill—I and this slayer of men’ffhearts. You’ve left her at the lieach, have you not? I was just contemplating a little trip seaward. What do you say, old fellow? Suppose you put your revenge in my hands?” “You may make the attempt, Max, right willingly; but don’t let the flame scorch you, in breasting it for my sake. Make her suffer, but see to it that she entails no i»ain on you.” “You forget, my boy, that you have bequeathed to me your scorn, but carry your love with you. Bury it at sea, Fred, and start fresh on the other side. I’ll take care of my Lady Coquet on this side.” The next afternoon, standing on the pier, Max Elliott watched disappear down the bay the brave ship on which Fred Ronalds was a passenger for the Old World—a self-made exile for a wo man’s sake. An honest bitterness welled up in Max Elliot’s heart as he turned away. Better than he had ever loved a woman, he had loved this man, who had been the plaything of a woman’s idle hour, who had had his honest love tossed back to him as though it were the foam upon a wave, and who had been driven to other lands to find the cure of absence perchance forgetfulness. When his brougham stopped in front of his club, he glanced at his watch. It was a sultry afternoon in July. The city was growing unendurable, and there would be barely tinle to hastily pack a valise and catch the 6 o’clock l)oat which would transport him to cool breezes, the promise of a sea-bath, and —his revenge 1 Such a thought was worthy to be acted upon, therefore, the next morn ing, Max Elliot’s name appeared upon the Ocean House register, to be greeted by an approving chorus of welcome from the dear five hundred friends already gathered there. As by natural instinct, he found his way to Mrs. Redfern’s side. Great friends as he and George Redfern were, he and George Redfern’s wife were bet ter. “What lias brought you here?” she asked, with a little quizzical smile. “Is not your presence a suttieient magnet for a less attractive place?” he answered, gallantly. She shook her head. “Of course; but I’ve been moping here for a fortnight, and have sent you numberless messages by George, all of which you have repudiated. Youdon’t deserve that I should offer you any kindness in return, and I’ve a great mind not to present you to Nora Field ing to-day. Ah, you see how easily I have guessed your secret. I saw Fred Ronald’s name, this morning, in the list of passengers on the Scythia. Of course he told you how badly he was cut up. It was a great shame, and I told Nora so frankly, but the gjjrl is so pretty and so clever that I suppose she really is not wliolly to blame because men choose to detach their scalps, hang them at their belt, and then go about the world moon ing over their loss.” “Trust a woman to defend a woman, when jealousy is not possible to either,” answered Max. “For my part, I re gard Miss Fielding as utterly heartless and a flirt.” “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” replied the pretty little matron. “Yes, that is she,” she added, noting how the man’s eyes suddenly dillated, as a tall, slender figure, draped in close-clinging white swept out of the open door on to the piazza. “There’s no woman like her here. Of course she is conscious of her power, and uses it. But look in her eyes, Max, and tell me, if you dare, that Nora Fielding had no neart. No man has ever touched it, that is all.” “The idea of a woman’s eyes betok ening soul,” was the cynical rejoinder. But there was no timq for more, for he and Mrs. Redfern hail approached close to where the girl stood, and ere either of them was aware of her inten tion, they had been formally presented. He would carry on no slow warfare, detennined Max; and in that moment he liegan the campaign. “Beware, Nora!” whispered Mrs. Redfern, tliat evening, in the little, shell-tinted ear. “He is Fred Ronald’s dearest friend, and be sure he knows all regarding that little episode there is to know.” But the only answer the girl vouch safed this friendly piece of advice was a shrug of the white shoulders, gleaming through the black lace of her gown. A fortnight passed, and the hotel gos sips again found food in Miss Fielding’s latest conquest, for, by this time, so Max Eliot was deemed. He understood now the infatuation which had possessed his friend, not by experience—for he told himself that each day he learned to scorn this woman more—but listening to the low, musical inflections of her voice, and looking into her eyes, which sometimes softened to a marvelous softness, he acknowledged her acting perfect. Only to him who knew it to be acting was there involved no danger. But was he, intrenched in his own fortress, mak ing the girl feel? Was he gaining the power to make her suffer? Once his, he would employ it ruthlessly, but first he must know that he possessed it. Some times he turned in a moment from warmth into coldness. She made no comment on his change of mood. Some times he feigned indifference to her presence—indifferent still, when the other moths, kept in abeyance by his superior stronghold, fluttered round the candle; but, save by a little, tired look, lie saw from his covert and distant ob servation in her eyes, she welcomed his return to her, all unquestioning his all spice. He found himself growing irri tated, almost angry. “Will you drive with me this after noon?” she asked me, one morning. “Yes,” he answered. And at 5 o’clock, the perfect Jittle trap stood waiting its mistress’ occu pancy—tlie horses pawing impatiently, while the groom held their heads, ana h elonging near, waiting Miss Fielding’s advent. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and she did not come. The half-hour had struck before, with a hasty apology for her delay, she took her seat, and gather ing up the reins in her little gloved hand, gave the ponies an impatient-touch of the w hip, which made the groom’s scramble for his place behind almost a Waterloo. Max, quickly observing her, noted that her face was unusually pale, and although there was no redness about her eyes, he could have fancied there had been recent tears there. However, she talked merrily and brightly, as was her wont, and soon the sea air brought back the color to her cheek, and chased the latent look of sadness from her eyes. “What a lovely sky,” she exclaimed, as a sudden turn in the road brought them in full view of sky and ocean, and at that moment the sunset gun boomed from the fort. The horses made a sharp swerve. The road was very narrow, with large boul ders on either side. Almost before any one could realize how or when it w'as done, the wheel of the phaeton had struck one of these, and the girl, totally unprepared to- resist the shock, was thrown heavily to the ground. Almost as rapidly, Max was beside her. For the instant he thought her dead. Her head had struck a small stone, and a tiny stream of blood was trickling from her temple, making her pallor more ghastly. The thought tliat she might lie dead came to him with a sickening awfulness. Death and this bright, beautiful being seemed so wide asunder; and yet in a moment, perhaps, they had been united; but almost with the dread ful fear came its relief. She opened the lovely qyes, and the white lips quivered, while she made a feeble motion to rise. He drew a bran dy-flask from his pocket, and made her drink; then, when she liad grown a little stronger, he lifted her into the carriage, and supporting her with one arm, drove slowly home. As they approached the hotel, she called strength and will intp action, and gaining the first entrance, escaped with but little assistance into the house. By mutual consent they made no mention of the accident. For a day or two die was confined to her room; but when she reappeared, save that she was a trifle paler, she haa never before looked more lovely. “I thank you so much, Mr. Elliot, for your kind care of me,” she said, as they stood together on the moonlit pi azza. “Do not mention it,” he answered, ifoldly. These past three days had been filled to him with a strange exiierience. His revenge hail grown distasteful to him, he told himself. It could not mend Fred's broken heart, and his own could only harbor scorn. The next week he saw but little of Miss Fielding. He avoided her wher ever he could do so, although he noted that she was growing wan and pale. “What are you doing, Max Elliot ?” asked Mrs. Reidfern, one morning, as she came upon him seated by an open window of the long drawing-room. “I told you once that Nora Fielding’s fault lay not in her non-possession of a heart, but that no man had touched it. I could not say that to-day. Have you no scruples, no remorse?” “None. If what you tell me be true, I should only exult. What could I fee. but scorn for a woman who could lead a man on to wrecking his life at her feet? But you need have no fear. Miss Fielding is a capital actioas, tliat is ail. “Mark what I scy—you will recall those words,” prophesied the little mat ron, sweeping angrily away. “Never!” mentally ejaculated the man, vaulting through the low window to the piazza with a sudden feeling that the house stifled him, but not prepared to find himself face to face w r ith Miss Fielding’s self. Site had been silting with an Open book disregarded in her lap, her eyes gazing seaward, and she had heard of necessity every syllable which had been uttered. “Yes, I have heard all,” she said, in reply to his questioning look, “You came here to revenge your friend, Mr. Elliot. Well, your revenge shall be complete. You say he suffered. So you have made me suffer. Why should I seek to conceal what is acutest pain to confess? Was it my fault that I could not love Fred Ronalds? Was it my fault that his own love made him blind? If so, I have been punished, and my pun ishment is your reward. To it I add the humiliation of this avowal.” Never had she looked more lovely, never more proud, than when she stepped from the throne to the level of suffering womanhood. His scorn, his triumph—where were they? Swept away as by a mighty flood, and revealing the naked truth, of all which yet might be, of all which so nearly he had lost. Before she liad divined his purpose, he had gathered her two liauds in his strong grasp. “Nora! My darling, forgive me!” he murmured. “I love you, and my love has made me blind indeed! Oh, my dar ling, I came to mock, and I stayed to worship! I give up my revenge to you. Will you, more generous than I have been, refuse to take it?” “Not that!” she answered; and now the bright eyes were filled with dimning tears. “But in taking it, it is to give in return my love, my heart, my life! Ah, Max,” she whispered, softly, a little later, “is it always the woman’s fault that men say she has no soul? Shall we expose our one priceless jewell to the gaze of every curious by-passer on life’s journey?” And he, with the jewel forever his, safe-locked in his stronghold, is fain to admit her words are true, even while he thanks God its radiance has never dazzled another’s eyes—not even those of his dearest friend. AMtnnMote Dm* Han tar. Sunflowers. That the sunflower follows the sun in its westward journey is well known, but when doefljt turn its face back again to the east to greet the morning sun? Mr. 0. A. White, of Washington, in a letter, relates an incident which throws some light upon the subject. One evening, he says, during a short stay at a village in Colorado in the summer of 1881, I took a walk along the banks of a long irrigating ditch just as the sun was set ting. The wild variety of Helianthua anuus, Lin. (H. lenticularis, Douglass) grew abundantly there, and I observed that the broad face of all the flowers were, as is usual in the clear sunset, turned to the west. Returning by the same path less than an horn' afterward, and immediately after the daylight was gone, I found, to my surprise, that much the greater part of those flowers had al ready turned their faces to the east in anticipation, as it were, of the sun’s ris ing. They had in that short time re traced the semi-circle, in the traveresing of which with the sun they had spent the whole day. Both the day and night were cloudless, and apparently no un usual conditions existed that mightliave exceptionally affected the movements of the flowers. I doubt not, adds Mr. White, that many persons like myself have supposed that sunflowers remain all night with their faces to the west, as they are when the sunlight leaves them, and until they are constrained by the light of the rising sun, to turn to the east again. It is not my purpose to offer any explanation of the cause of the phenomenon here re corded, but it seems to me improbable that it could have been an exceptional instance; and I could only regret that no opportunity has since occurred to me to repeat the observation. Recreatiou lor the HlUion. It 18 not given to every one to cross the ocean and make the tour of Europe; to revel in the halls of dazzling light of New port or Saratoga; to repair to the sea-aide or the mountain top, and there tor five dol lars a day to drink in the life-giving air. The spirit may be willing but the means are wanting. And yet the same need for recreation exists in the life of those of mo derate means as in those of the ilcb. This larger class, however, will be glad to know that the Pennsylvania Railroad Company rr ooees to continue during the season of 1883. its popular daily excursions between Jersey City and Newbuigh, a route f am is’ung many objec-s of interest, and an infinite variety of scenery. The magnifi cent steamer, Richard Htockton, under tbe command of Captain Lawrence F. Fr&iee, wilt leave the Pennsylvania Railroad docks, Jersey Citv. every morning at 9 a m., (excepting Thursday at 9:30 a m.) and arrive at Jersey City on the return tnp about 6:30 p. m. This steamer is sub- etantially built, fully equipped and with a capacity tor 2500 passengers. On the route such points ot interest as Weebaw- ken. Ft. Lre, Yonkers, the Palisades, Tar ry town. Bing Bing, Sleepy Hollow, Stony Point, West Point, Iona Island and New- burgh, with a privilege of remaining at the three last named for a tune varying from one to two hours. The tickets are put at very reasonable rates, and we know of no way in which a day can bo so pleasantly spent, with s trifling expense as on one of these trips up the Hudson on the Btocktea. Dr. Siemens has expressed the opin ion that is the near future steel will take tbe piaoe of wood and iron in the construction ot buildings ot all kinds, where it ean be need. He claims that steel is without a rival where strength tud magnitude are both required, be sides giving more security than wood, and ooabng less. A blind man should not judge of col ors. A Wandering; Jew. A Western Editor writes while hunt ing in the pineries of Minnesota I once met an old half-breed who taught me more in a few days than I ever learned before or since. It was when I compar ed my scanty superficial knowledge with his sound practical lore tliat I discover ed the lamentable extent of my ignor ance and how much I had to leam. This old veteran was about fifty years of age, and he had hunted deer for more than thirty-five years, making it a spec ialty. It can be readily understood that his advice was worth taking, and I am only sorry I did not prolong my hunt with him, as every de&. brought out new stratagems, and every mtnrc wu* checkmated by this unepiug, steady old Nimrod. He Was a re&dkl nouud, and cOuld find more game than three ordi nary hunters; but, what an anomaly! he could not shoot. Actually, if a deer moved, or even wagged Lis ears, the old fellow would quietly wait, till he was stock still, and then blaze away. Some times be would kill, but that was by no meaii8\sforegone conclusion; and as he w’ould insist on using a single barrel muzzle-loading rifle, of course the deer was off before he could “do it some more, ” To miss with him seemed rath er a matter to be expeoted than one to get mad about, so, nothing daunted he would reload his rifle, sit on a log, light his pipe, soliloquize and ascribe reasons for his maladroitness, and make wise resolutions for f\e future, and having put in about haJ an hour, go ahead, take up the track of the doomed deer, and eight times out of ten get another shot, witli varying results, inside of an hour. How he did it I could never tell! all tliat I know is tliat I have followed hifh for days from morn till dusk, and have seen him shoot three or four times at the same deer in a day, and generally bag him in the long run. When we became better acquainted, it was mutually agreed and understood that he would do the finding and I the shooting; and by that means we generally had the pleas ure of hanging up a deer or two a day without his firing a shot. At first I ascribed his finding the deer merely to good luck, but I soon got over that. He would follow a fresh track a short distance, and without giving any reason, and guided by an unerring judgment, which was simply supernatural, would leave it or strike out at right angles and shortly come upon the same track or else point out the deer, periiaps fifty or one hundred yards away, sniffing and watching his back track, while his foot were either on his flank or rear. On such au occasion it was merely a matter of target shooting with me'and not in- terestiug, being uatirel? , so that I frequently purposely made a noise to start the unsuspecting stag es give him a chance. This conduct on my part was sure to be followed by a blessing from the vet- erau, wiio recognized no rules or laws governing such shots, dud as I seldom missed, it was difficult to make him per ceive the difference, as in any case the deer was “venison.” One day I missed clear and clean, and as the doe kept out of my sight I could not shoot again. The old man, in a fit of rage at my blundering in having made the deer run before I fired at him, threw up his rifle and, without taking any aim, let fly. Down came the doe, all in a heap, shot through the neck, and dead as a nail. The funny part is that to this day the old fellow thinks I did the killing where as I only fired one shot and that was away high. This man’s antipathy to a breech load er amounted to actual hatred, and it was only after repeatedly showing him its advantages that he so far condescend ed as to allow me to hunt with him while carrying my repeater. I shall never forget the queer expression ou his tough, weather beaten countenance when at last I convinced him of the superiority of the repeating rifle. Homa of tbe tbe Blue Crane. \ Mr. Dunlap has returned from a hunting expedition in Spencer Co„ Ky. The only trophy he brought back with him was a gigautic blue crane, which measured five feet from tip to tip, and was exactly six feet in height. Mr. Dunlap tells a very curious story of a resort of these cranes. About two miles from Taylorsville is an island in Sayre’s creek whdse area is perhaps ten acres. The island is a favorite haunt of these peculiar birds, who annually resort there for the purpose of rearing their young. Notwithstanillng the fact that the crane is a wading bird it builds it nest in the tallest tree it can find. The island is not cleared up, but is covered with gigautic sycamores tow ering eighty or ninety feet in height and the loftiest of these are selected by them for their nests. One of the trees has twenty-eight nests upon its topmost branches and another has twelve. The nests are rude, ugly structures, built in a slovenly manner of sticks, leaves and twigs, and are guarded jealously by the birds throughout the breeding season. Tbe cranes have been in the habit of resorting to this island for p. term of years beyond the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Here they have been left undisturbed, until it has become a royal domain on which nothing else of the feathered leuce of meval ping of the! chance man. The ,re iutrude. The si- broods over the prj- okeu save by tlie Aap- , or it may be the wandering sports- four miles around is frequented by flocks of the birds who here seem to lose, at least for a time, their solitary instincts, and become sociable and gregarious. They leave annually about the 1st of September, returning the 1st of April, and have been doing so for years and years. Their number upon the island is al most incredible, and old citizens of that country say it must be fully 10,000, perhaps much mure. For a number of years past the people in the southwestern portion of Con necticut have been mystified by a man, clothed in tattered leather, who appears at regular intervals, something like Scott’s “Old Mortality,” and passes on without divulging his origin or destina tion. Our Orange correspondent writes as follows: “That strange char acter, the ‘Leather Man,’ takes in the towns of Woodbridge and Orange in the retrular course of his travels, and was last seen passing through here March 9. lie has been over the sapie route for many years, appearing reg ularly after an absenut of about six ■weeks, always going south In the direc tion of Bridgeport. When in this vic inity lie spends tlie night in an old bam standing alone by the roadside. It has lieen his habit since the beginning of his travels through this region to stop for breakfast at the house of the writer, who had become accustomed to his reg ular comings as to recognise his pecu liar rap on the door, even when it was not known that he w r as near. Several times attempts to enter into conversa tion with him were made, but with in different success, and on one occasion when we told him that ‘they had been w'riting about him in the newspapers, the information did not seem to interest him very much. However, since we have been the owner of a large dog who sometimes greets his appearance with a lusty bark, he no longer stops at our door, but coolly trudges by on the other side, without even deigniug a glance. Notwithstanding the little interest he evinces in tlie world and its goings on he has been seen seated by the roadside with a newspaper in his hands, appa rently deeply absorbed in its contents, and at another time near a brook, wash ing some article of—we will not say underclothing, for tliat would spoil tlie tradition, but something that closely resembled it. Without ins wonderful suit of leather he would be an object of curiosity, appearing as lie does at regu lar intervals and always traveling in one direction. Whatever his aim or purpose, he trudges along as if he had tlie most important business in the world to per form, and if it was a matter of life and death tliat he should reach a certain destination at an appointed time. This strange creature’s life in its unbroken silence and stated goings and comings closely resembles tliat of tlie veritable ‘Wandering Jew.” Rare fun In court. Pulling hi* MuHtache. “There he sleeps as peacefully as an infant,” said an old maniiointingto the sleeping figure of a slender-built, heavv- mustacheiT young man across the aisle of the train, “and no doubt he dreams of the innocent days of childhood, be fore he had fallen into the depths of crime.” “What’s the matter with him ? Who is he?” a§ked several passengers ex citedly, eying tlie sleei»er with suspi cion. “He sleeps as calmly,” continued the old man abstractedly to himself, “as though he had never murdered hLs part ner, forged his name to a check for $50,000 and skipped to Mexico. He thinks, probably, that no man can pene trate his disguise, but I should know' him in the dark with a mask on. Ah, Miles Gashwell, now I can confront you with proofs of your villainy!” Quite a crowd had collected around the two by this time. “The idea, ” con tinued tlie old man, turning to tlie awe struck bystanders,” of his trying to disguise himself by a false moustache and wig. One of you fellows jerk that moustache off and see how it changes his expression.” Nobody seemed disposed to unmask tbe villain until a strapping six-footer pushed his way into the midst of tlie group, and taking the mustache by both ends, gave it a yank that fairly lifted the slender young man to his feet. The latter let off a yell that would have paralyzed a Comanche Indian ana struck out wildly in the air with his fists. “Great Scott!” he shrieked, “are you trying to jerk the top of my head off? Let go of that, will you,” and he kicked the six-footer vigorously in the pit of the stomach. “What the deuce do you want of me, anyway ?” “Why, we thought you had on a false mustache,” ventured one of the crowd timidly. “This old man said so.” They all turned around to see what the old man would say, but he didn’t say. He had gotten off when the train slowed up at the last crossing. ’What I* thS nse of Snakes? Persons who dislike snakes continu ally ask, “What is the use of them?” That they are not without a use, will, I hope, appear in the course of this note, were it necessary to preach that all things have their use. But in one habit that offended Lord Bacon, namely of “going on their belly,” lies one of their greatest uses, because that, to gether with their internal formation, and external covering, enables them to penetrate where no larger carnivorous animal could venture, into dark and noisome morasses, bog jungles, swamps among the tangled vegetation of the tropics, where swarms of the lesser reb- tllee, on which so many of them feertj would otherwise out-balance the harmo ny of nature, die, and produce pesti lence. Wondrouslyand exquisitely construc ted for their habitat, they are able to exist where the higher animals could not; and while they help to clear those inaccessible places of the lesser vermin, they themselves supply food for a num ber of the smaller mammalia, which, with many carnivorous birds, devour vast numbers of young snakes. The hedgehog, weasel, ichneumon, rat, peccary, badger, hog, goat, and an im mense number of birds, keep snakes within due limits, while the latter per form their part among the grain-de vouring and herbivorous lesser creat ures. Thus beautifully is the balance of Nature maintained. —Canning oranges is the latest Flor ida idea. —A Denver Indian has been convict ed of forging a check. Tlie preseut Judge Hutchins, of the Sinsirior Court, of ■ the north pa stoni judicial circuit of Georgia is the son of i Nathaniel Hutchins, so well known by many of the older citizens of Elbert as one of the cleverest men and ablest jurists in Georgia. He was the pre decessor of his son on the same bench now occupied by Colonel Hutchins, of Gwinnett, and was popularly known all through the upper portion of the State. During the progress of the Superior Court at Carnesville last week'this amusing incident occurred, which was related to a New South scribe by Sena tor Phil Davis: Colonel Thunnond, of Athens, an attomey, had an instrument of writing in court, the validity of which needed to be proven and which could only be done by the owner of the signature found tliereon swearing to tlie same. The witness was called and an old gray-haired man, who had lived over his three score and ten, took the stand .iud Colonel Tlnuinond handed him the paper and asked: “Is that your signature, sir?” The old gentleman looked at tlie pa per closely, and said; “Wa’al, I’ll, fell yer, Ize gitting old, and my eyesight are not so good as it wunst was, but if someluxly will loan me a pair of specks, praps I kin ciplier it out.” A pair of glasses were furnished him, and he scrutinizingly gazed at the document again. “Well?” said tlie lawyer. The witness continued to jieer at th pajier. “Very well,” Colonel Thurmond said again, waiting for tlie witness to decide. “Wa’al,” said the old man, “that ar is my fist.” “You can come down, sir,” said the lawyer. But instead of “coming down,” the old man turned his byes on the Court, and after gazing at him for some time, he said: “Jedge, is you old man Nath Hutch- in’s boy?” ' “He was my father,” answered the Cou.it. “Wa’al, give me yer hand, Jedge, kaze I loved yer daddy, and I is awful glad to see his boy followin, in ids foot marks.” Tlie Court gave tlie old man bis band, and affor shaking it heartily, the wit ness stepped from the stand and stalled out of tlie court room. When he liad gotten out of the bar, and was about midway tlie hall, he turned abruptly alxmt, and said in rather a loud tone of voice: “Here—here’s them at sneoks. if any of youns wants ‘eni.” The court room was in an uproar of laughter, but tlie old man never smiled, as lie returned the glasses and left the house. Tbe Bunko Game. A man who tlunks that, without any familiarity with tlie swindle that sud denly confronts him, he can cope with its operators who have devoted much study and practice to perfecting it, fool ishly overrates his own shrewdness. It struck me, for instance, tliat if I should be taken into a bunko den, and tlie gamblers should accept my check for the amount of my loss, I would not be at all concerned about it, because I could go straight to the bank and stop pay ment. When I said this to a detective, he replied, “You wouldn’t do any such thing.” Why not? Simply because that important point in the swindle has been looked after by the bunko men. I have never seen this feature of their work described in print, and you may care to use it. When the rascals get a subject who has a" bank account, and lead him into making a check, they know very well that he yvill lose no time in stopping payment on it, unlessthey manage by some clever device to pre vent hiifii This is the way they do it: A newspajier lies folded on the table, as though carelessly thrown down. When the check has been made out and signed, the operator who receives it places it between the folds of the paper, and in that way blots it. Then he seems to take it out and hold it up before his eyes to examine it, but tbe real check has been left concealed in the paper, and he has taken out a blank one, previously placed there. Atrthis instant the stool pigeon, who is stilvguring as the inno cent friend of the victim, exclaims, “This is a swindle, and we won’t stand it.” He snatches the sham check from his confederate’s hand, tears it into very small bits find scatters them on tlie floor. “Now let us go but,” be says. There is a pretence of barring the way, but be and the victim'are soon in the street —the latter profuse in his thanks for having been rescued. Of course, he doesn’t go near the bank to stop pay ment on the check which he believes to have been destroyed, for he is not anx ious to expose his verdancy needlessly, and the swindlers thus gain time to go and get it cashed. The End of a Hermit’s Career. The remains of Jesse E. Williams,tlie “hermit of Chester county, Pa.,” has been recently interred in Philadelphia. He lived in a small shanty on land known as “The Barrens.” in West Nottingham township, in the county whose title was a jiart of his surname. He was gener ally thought demented, but it is known that years ago he was one of Philadel phia’s most prosperous and honored merchants. He is said to have often entertained Henry Clay, Daniel Webster and other eminent men of their time at a sumptuou home. He formerly owned a farm ne. . Consliocken, but he prefer red politics to business and failed finan cially. With his fortune went his friends; his wife became divorced from him and he was deserted by his children. For years he wandered over the State and finally settled on the spot where he died, which is on tlie edge of a large pine for est. Poultry was his hobby and all he cared for in life was an improved breed of chickens, about which, it is said, he at one time or other wrote a book. Live-Stock In Midsummer. A IiAwybb is not anything like ss great a curiosity as the champion thin man, bat it costs mare to see him. Tlie latter part of summer is often very tryiug to live-stock. Pastures are short, old grain is high, the new not yet fit to feed. Milk may be in great de mand and the farmer loath to cut in upon his corn-fodder, intended for cur ing, to feed off the aftermath; he is lucky who can tuni his young stock of cattle and horses into mountain or high wooded pastures, where they will have water and may make at least lialf a living upon underbrush, etc. Early sown fodder com comes in well now for milk cows, and there is really no other good use for it. If cut for curing it is bard to dry without molding and decaying, and if left to stand until after the middle of September, when it will cure well, it will be as woody and tough as “corn stalks.” When fed to milch cows, fodder com ought to be cut short and sprinkled with two to four quarts of corn-meal per cow each day. There will then lie no complaint of the quali ty or tbe quantity of the milk. If these {ye fed without the meal, the milk will surely lie thin, and the cows are ex hausted by the increased flow, and soon fall off in yield. Horses in pasture are often extreme ly annoyed by flies. If they can stand when not in use in dark, sweet stablax, by all means turn them into the pasture only at night. Gnats and mosquitoes are of little annoyance to horses, but the larger day flies, and the (Estrus or Bot-fly, set them almost crazy. Ewes and lambs are usually separated in August and while none of our domes tic animals is more often used as a type of maternal affection than the ewe, yet the agony of separation will be of short duration, and not esi>ecially painful if the two flocks, dams and lambs, can bo pastured so far apart as not to hear each other’s calls. It is well to put with tli lambs a few withers as flock-leaders, or a ram or tw r o if there is danger of an noyance by passing dogs. The ewes should be penned and their milk drawn enough to relieve their udders several evenings in succession after taking tli» lambs away. Wounds on any kind j' animals are liable to be fly-blown aufo very annoying. The best treatmeri that we know of is an application strong carbolic soap. Tliat w'hich is sold as sheep dip is very good; but be careful not to use the arsenical sheep dips or anything of that kind. Soft soap or semi-solid soap, strongly impregnated with crude carfiolic acid, is good, and anyone can make it. It will be round good for all kinds of raw sores, galls, bites, scratches and the like on man or beast. Tlie place for pigs at' this season is in tli£ orchard *, tbA* «it * wormy, unless, indeed, a gale shakes off sound fruit, and the pigs unconsciously slay thousands of injurious insects. How to Breathe in Reading. M. Legouve tells the anecdote ot Talma watching the actor Dorival from tbe prompter’s box until he had dis covered his secret, which consisted in always taking a fresh breath before the last one was quite exhausted, and in doing bis best to conceal the beginning of each phrase by starting whenever he could on au a. e, or an o,—“that is to say, at the point wrhere the fact of the mouth being already open makes it possible to take breath lightly, without tlie action being perceived,” Again, Delie Beuie, the celebrated singer, could run up aud down the scale in front of a lighted candle without the flame waver ing. “How is tins done? It is because he employs exactly the quantity of b.e th needed to carry the Bound of the uott s, If yon or I were to try it we should simply waste our breath.” In thq, chapter on “Pronunciatien” M. Legouve insists, and the point can hardly be too much pressed, on the valne, the absolute need, in fact, of clear articulation as opposed to mere exertion of voice. This he illnstrates by a story of Bouffe, when he was ploying Pere Grandet in the “Fille de TAvare.” When he came to the most touching scene of the piece, when the old miser fends that he is robbed, the actor began to scream out the words as he was ac customed to. At the end of a few min utes the sound died away on his lips, and he was compelled to continue in a murmur. What happeneu? That he was a thousand times more true and more touching than before, because he was obliged to make up for weakness of voice by force of articulation. It ia true that one cannot speak without a voice, but voice alone has so litt.e to do with diction that there are readers, orators aud aoion to whom the very extent of their voice is a drawback. Unless they are skilled in articulation the volume of sound devours the sense. Roadway Con*trucUon. In a paper recently couunuaici.ted to the Society of Engineers, London. Mr Cop land described the principal systems of roadway construction now In vogue aud pointed out the extent to which he consid ered they met, or failed to meet, the re quirements of a well-adapted roadway— namely, safety, easy traction, nuiaelessness, freedom from dust and mud, durability, facility and cheapness of construction, maintenance and repairs to itself and to the gas and water mains, etc. He also explained the principles upon which with a lew to avoiding the defects of other systems, he had designed the ae- phaltic wood pavement, the use of which is now increasing. This pavement con sists of a bed of concrete, with a layer of asphalt over it, and upon this are laid transverse course, of red (due blocks with intermediate spaces; the latter are filled in partly with heated manic asphalt, and then with coarse lime and gravel grout, flushed with hot air, to the surface of the roadway; about an inch ot coarse gravel is then spread in a uniform manner over the whole surface of the roadway thus prepared, aad left to be worked la by the traffic. 7 ' In regard to the expense of construeticu and msinienance of the various systems of roadway, tbe author concludes that tfaougC for town roads, macadam ia tbe cheapen m original c tat, it is by far the moat ex pensive ovsr a term of years—whereas, although the asphaltic wood pavement co»ta more at first, it la cheaper, over a length ened period, than macadam, or moat other roadways,