The Abbeville press and banner. (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, January 03, 1906, Image 6
1 \ ^? *"
i J\_ POIN
O V.
o ^7 V '
I 0
* X.
% ANNIE \ I
<j EDWARDS. \
CHArTER X. 11
Continued.
- "I have told yon that I wniked in my
garden with a feeling almost of rap
'iurons thankfulness on the morning of
-Sbe child's birth. At nightfall of that
<lay I paced along the same path, under
the same blossoming trees^ "with the
?lespaii' of death upon my heart. Mar-,
garet was finking fast. All through
that night I wrestled fiercely against
the well-nigh accomplished will of Cod;
I called Him as only those bereft of
reason call; I sought to turn away the
inevitable by my weak prayers, iny
J ,"1! iifrtmiofla fnv
/ JCSOJlilJUU.S, Ilijf |/Uddiuuair j/iu?novw
1he future; and I prayed in vain, Jane!
Soon after daybreak she died. She
never asked to see tbe child, nor took
any notice when they tried to rouse her
by speaking cf it. But a little while
. before death, I thought I saw more
light gathering in her eyes, and I asked
her to speak to nie once more. I suppose
some vague shadow of my meaning
reached the poor soul, just fluttering
out of its pain, for she spoke. Yes,
Jane, yes?she spoke?
"Not of me?not of my child?not of
anything belonging to tiie life in which
I had ever known her. The name she
called upon was not mine; the place
and time of which she murmured were
n place and time of which I knew nothing.
Faint whispers of love, faint parting
promises?none of them for me?
wei;e the last sounds I heard from
the lips of the woman I had made an
*Sdol of!
"Well, I have wished since tliat my
daughter had lived. The probabilities
arc that she would have loved me. She
would at least havt been something
for me to have called mine?my very
own?without fear; and sometimes now
I picture myself with a bright-haired
little daughter sitting beside my fire in
these gray November nights. But at
tbe time of my first stunned misery
the loss of that feeble little life could
bring no additional pang. A fortnight
after Margaret's death hr.r'gcave' was
* opened to receive her. babe, aud I stood
beside it, and heard ^the service read'
again, with a feeling, almost of relief .
that now, indeed, all was over! I had
no more to hope for, no more to fear,
no more to lose?all was over!"
"And the words, Mr. Follctt?" cried
Jane, -vho had forgotten herself and
-Ler own sufferings more than she had
dene for weeks, as she marked the
keen, passionate emotion of the vicar's
usually impassive face; "the last words
you ever heard hfer speak?"
"Were simply what I have already
said, Jane, words of Jove and promise
fiven to another man than me! I ought
to have told you that my engagement
Mfirrrnrot tvqs n v#*rv Rhort One. 1
met her first at a large village festival
in a remote part of tlie country, and in
less than two months she was my wife..
Her father was thq1 squire of the
parish, a man of considerable means,
and from the first it ..somewhat sur
f>rised- me that he and his wife should
look so favorably upon my suit, considering
that I had nothing whatever
to recommend mc personally, and only
a little village parsonage to offer to
their daughter. I understood afterward
why they were glad at her accepting
tlie offer even of a poor man's
'fove. Yes, Jane, I understood it all but
too*well at last.
"Margaret's mother was in the same
room when her daughter died, and of
course heard the words she uttered as
'clearly as I did myself. She offered me
110 explanation of them, nor did I dsk
for any, until after the child was gone;
then, just as she was preparing to
'leiive my house, I a6ked her?I was
quite calm and unmoved, I recollect?to
te^,me.what they meant.
... "A very few explanations sufficed to
?b*ow me the extent to-which I had
^een deceived. Margaret had engaged
> tierself, when she was almost a child.
' to a man of whom her parents disap
proved, but, after vainly trying every
'means to shake her in her(misplaced
attachment, they at length gave her a
tardy consent to the marriage, part of
the contract being that Margaret
should not marry till she was nineteen,
and that her lover in the meantime
should go to the We6t Indies, and
eet about the improvement of some
property he had inherited there from
his father.
*' "The story neither concerns you nor
me. Jane?I need not go into its details.
A few weeks after Margaret's
lover left England news came to her
father that the vessel in which he
.sailed had foundered.
"And Margaret's heart broke!" cried
Jane; "she ought not to have married
you. Mr. Follett!"
"Jane, I don't much believe in breaking
hearts. It is a favorite figure of
' speech, but I don't think we have much
evidence to go upon in the suuject.
"This I think, that if they had let her
take her grief naturally, and from the
hand o_ God. she would have got
through as other people get through
such strokes, both to body and mind?
as I, in lime, got over my loss in her.
But they were afraid, her mother and
father and friends, to tell ^jer the truth
.at first, and in their wisdom they invented
a falsehood. Her lover, they
told her. was faithless?ha?l married
another woman even on his passage
out, and she need never think of hiir
again.
"She took down his picture from the
wall, and all the presents he had
given her, and Lis letters, and burnt
t&m, one by one; and when she had
done she laughed, and told them never
?to mention his name before her from
that hour; and she went about the
house as usual, and was quite gay and
excited, and insisted she would go, 'to
show peopie she was not broken-heart ed,'
to a public ball that was to be held
.next night at the nearest county town.
"I suppose, once carried away by
^ _ - nr^jr' fill
\ FOR HER fe ,
X, FATHER'S ? {
X SIN. fe ;
Vv ? 1
?F \ & j;
10N0R; \ | i
t
their own falsehood, they had none of ^
them the courage to go back to the ,
truth. At all events, they let her go ,
to the ball?dressed, her mother in- ^
formed me, like a bride in white, and
with, bright ^flowers upon her hair, and ,
in her breast. My poor little Margaret! <
she never wore a white dress and liow- .
ers again, save once?and that was on t
a day well-nigh'as fatal in its results, j
the day she became my wife."
The vicar stopped. j
"And at this ball she was told the j
trnth!" cried Jane. "Oh, Mr. Follett, j
who had the heart to tell it her at such ^
a time?" (
"Well, Jane, 1 don't understand much
about these things, but I fancy your j
sex?far too tender-hearted though they
are in general?have some merciful and j
special faculty granted them for not j
feeling too deeply the distresses and (
disappointments of each other. At all t
events it is, I hear, froYn women's ^
hands, not men's, that the most Spar- j
tan stabs to "women invariably come. .
Nearly all the people at that ball knev/
that Margaret was ignorant of her
lover's death, and men danced with
her, her mother told me, and looked {
grave, and constrained, and as though t
they wished the:dance was over, while ,
she rattled oiyfull of bigli spirits and -J
excitement, and with a brilliant flush j
upon her face. But'just before supper j
two girls?young girls of her own age, {
and friends of hers?were speaking, j
perhaps unintentionally, of Margaret,
as she passed witb one of her partners, j
and saying how well dearest Maggie ^
bore her bereavement, and what a wonderful
. blessing it was to have such iron
nerves, and wouldn't people have '
thought sbe might, at least, have ap
pcared at this ball in mourning? ^
"Sbe walked straight to her father, ,
with a face cold and white as the face j
of any corpse, and bade him take her j
houie at once. She never upbraided
him or her mother; but from the hour f
she knew the truth, she seemed callous '
to everything in life, and utterly cold
to their grief and to their remorse." .
Her lover had been deaxl about a .
twelve-month when I first met her,
and some likeness tha't she. saw, or t
thought she saw, to him in me }
awakened the first sign of life and
spirits that she had yet shown.
"I pass over needless details, Jane? *
the poor deceit toward me, the dc
spairing hope of her parents tnat iu
marriage she might forget the past,
the passive indifference that I mistook ^
for angelic, girlish diffidence. I have ^
told you the facts; she married me; j
she never loved me?you can imagine
all the rest. She married me and died; ^
and -with her buried, not love alone,
but my youth and my belief in happi- t
ness?all that a young man's heart
sums up in the word 'life.' From the {
hour that I knew that Margaret had
never loved me, I was. old. I have,
never felt any spring or vivid hope 'or \
black despair since then. With me, r
these things died a.sudden.death. .In t
natural lives, you know, they molder
with the slow decay of on-coming
years. Who shall say which is best, ^
Jane?to know intense happiness, and s
intense misery, early, and then have '
done with both; or to have them spread n
out, at intervals, over twenty, thirty, j
forty years of ordinary life? I am inclined
to think I am as content as |
most men. T. would not exchange my .
lot?with that of any man blessed with
wife irnd children in this county. No
great affliction can come upon me. The ^
sun can rise upon no day that will find s
me robbed of. all I care to live for by
night. What happiness I have is self- ?
contained. I think it is best so." g
"And I think such a state unnatural ^
and dreadful!" cried Jane, with sudden '
energy. "I think it is death in life; a
and I say better real death, a thousand j
times, than live in the selfish, stagnant,
lonely content that you say is so
satisfactory. Mr. Follett, you deceive
yourself in thinking you would not
exchange it for .the common cares and i
chances of affliction that fall to the lot <
of lives whose happiness and whose t
misery depends upon others." I
The blood shone through her frail 1
cheek; her eyes glowed; a strange '
tremor, not at all aesthetic, made itself t
felt at the heart of the Vicar of Ches- I
terford. It came before him strongly
wliat n fool Gifford Mohun had been; -1
what a jewel beyond all price tills was i
that he had thrown away. <
"Jane, is it better, do you think, for <
men and women to be content with the 1
inevitable"?and, whatever the tremor 1
at his heart, the vicar's voice was *
usually cool and steady?"better be '
content with human life as it must and :
ever will be. or to bewail the glories 1
oi! our lost Eden?the Eden at whose I
gate there stands a fearful arigel, the 1
.spirit of our own dead youth, waving i
us back for evermore." }
"Mr. Follett, I think, though my ac- 1
tual life is to be loveless, I am glad to ?
have the time to look back upon when i
?when Gifford oared for me, and that l
I would rather keep that recollection I
of him and be miserable?God help me! 1
?as I am. tlr.m forget him and grow f
happy in such a state as you describe." i
For a man of eight and thirty, who 1
had fully done with ycutb, Mr. Fol- <
lett was smitten with a strange pang J
at Jane's words. He remembered suddenly
and with a great clearness that
he had come as a priest to console one' .
of the little ones of his flock; that .
with this girl's lovely waxen dieek and
delicate clasped hands he had just as t
much to do as with the angel carved .
in stone that hovered above the altar
in Chestcrford Church. He had come .
tu console her, and, with this exclusive (
aim, was laying bare the secrets of
that distemper of the heitrt called
love, through which, in his long sealed
youth, he too had passed. What mar- j
tered it to talk of himself or his last |
hopes, save in as far as they afforded i
him?the machine, the priest?a clew I
J
o 1lie souroc, and so, perhaps, to somching
like u cure, ol' Lis poor listener's
orrows?' ,
"I thought as yon did onre. Jane, ns {
ill mourners liave ever thought, that '
o brood inactive over a grave was less
)itter work than to let the grass grow
here naturally, and to come back to
he commonplace duties of a bereft
ife. Don't think I mean to reach to (
rou, child!" for Jane turned her face
tway impatiently at the first whisper
cminding her of Miss Lynch and of
idmouition; "I don't think it is in your
lower to feel differently to how you I
eel. I only tell you that I once hei
bought the same, felt the same utter th<
epubnance to the very thought of a
consolation or forgetfulness, as you do
low, and rallied from it, Jnne; that is
lie real reason that I have been talking
o you so long. I recovered from the
nortal stroke that laid low every hope
ind interest I possessed on earth. Will
r-ou let me tell you how?"
"If you please, sir. But remember
ill constitutions arc-not equally strong.
Il'ou strike me as being made of Iron;
- - - ?- ?? -1 ?f? ? Ka1/1
iiui l?i am very wean: jmj? one uciu
ip before him two little, warm hands,
/ail anil transparent as porcelain. - '
'What would be a blow to you would
)e just death to me. I have no rallyng
power, bodily or mental. Miss
_.ynch says so; Mr. Huntley said so?
Nhen he saw his tonics weren't going
o do me any good."
"Huntley is a fool!" exclaimed Mr.
?ollett, warmly. "I beg your pardon.
Tane; I mean Huntley talks about
hings of which he is most profoundly
gnorant. No rallying powers! "What
Iocs he know about rallying powers,
he struggle of life against death?th*
greatest of all the mysteries that lie
iid in us?when he doesn't rightly unlerstand
what spirit it is that moves
me muscle iu this poor little liand?of
ours?"
He took her hand,'and Jane long aferward
remembered that his own sir
remblcd; then he dropped it suddenly, co:
md began?as one'may return to the foi
ead'ihg of a book?at the exact point fit
. . 1!??? i,? llo/1 h0
n U1S own narration ut nuiui w- ?
eft ofl'. i think ho found that drawing en
my but an indirect parallel between thj
lis case and Miss Grand's led liim into wl
ather different roads to those lie had thi
aid down for himself when he quitted an
lis vicarage gate an hour before! inl
"My wife's mother left my house, su
Taue, and I kept up no further ac- of
luaintance with her or any person
.-onuected with Margaret's family.
Dne or two female relations of my own
cindly proposed, when they heard of
ny bereavement, to come and keep my
louse lor me, but I refused all their
>ffers. I should have shuddered to see
mother face save hers at my table;
itter silence was better than to hear
he sound of any other voice than hers
n my study. Besides," what communty
of interest could any alien life have
vith mine? I had had one interest, one
lappiness, one intense, passionate deight
in living, and it was gone. All I
isked for or desired was to be left
ilone, to hear, to see, to read nothing
eminding me of a world beyond "this
lftrrow one that hemmed in my o'fn
xistence and its misery.
"I am telling ytffc what Imppened
ifteen years ago?a y?jf before I came
o Chesterford, and tirst saw your little
ace, child?yet every individual and
listinct torture, out of the crowd of
ortures that made up my life then, is
is vivid to me as though I had gone
hrough them not a year ago.
"For a great many days sfter t?e
irst blow fell on me I remained as one
lupetied. The long summer days, the
hort, bright midsummer nights
Irngged over me?one dreary nightnare
of dull pain?and I gave no cry
o heaven-forrhelp.
"Margaret had never loved me?Margaret's
lips had never given me one
Jss of true love; and she \eas dead,
tnd my child was dead, and I was
ilone. I realized each fact thoroughly,
ind repeated them again, and again,
tnd again, as the brain involuntarily
nultiplies one sickening image in bodly
fever, but I felt nothing in the last
iegree approaching to sorrow for myielf
or for what I had lost.
"This was the first natural stage, the
irst stunned condition to which mind
md body are alike subject, you know,
tfter any very violent blow? It passed
Lway in an hour, in a moment, as a
lervant asked me for some direction
ibout a common domestic matter in no
v*y bearing on my affliction?it passed _
tway, and I awoke to know real and w,
lassionate and despairing grief.
(To be Continued.) jn
A Russian Deathbed. C8
A scathing arraignment of the real
ulers of Russia?the priests of the Or- tr!
hOdox Church?is a leading article in dm
ho World's Work. Mr. Percivai Gib- th
Jon, in his account ot' "The Church's '
31ight on Russia," tells the following ac
ncident to show the fatal grip of a tu
>esotted clergy on the ignorant Russian th
peasantry: th
There is a dreadful tale which I have tic
old before in another place. It was pi;
;iven me as authetie, to illustrate tho th
:ondition of the prieslhood of the Or- in
hodox Church. Let it be a picture. A ap
ir.t, in which si man lies dying, sodden tu
ivith fear lest he may pa?; ere the last be
sacrament be administered to him. '
Ike shaggy, long-robed pope has come, fo
ind the gear is laid ready; but ere he qi
rvill get t<? his work and unburden the bu
loor soul he will have an enhanced fo
?rice for it. The wife of the dying fo
nan comes from the side of the
---1 --J -> TT?1
squaiia oea auu picuus ?uu mui. Ji?r
leers and is obdurate. Tlien a son -w ill 1
compel him, aud they tight about th? of
room, wbile the shaking patient stares W
from bis pillow. The priest seizes the P1'
bread and tries to break it. for broken tr!
bread may not be blessed, while the P'{
son of tbe dying man grasps his arm to
save it, and in tbe wrestle tbe little 110
loaf crumbles at last, and tbe sick maw 'jn
closes bis eyes with u sigh of despair, s"
igniting damnation. 9'(l
Love mill Cookery.
Among tbe middle classes bad cookrig
is quite as universal as in tbe work- j
ing classes. If only English women ^
would not turn up their pretty noses ce]
it cookery mid tbe art of housekeep-. 60|
ing, they would tin;! themselves amply tje
rewarded in tbe affection of their fnm- eff
ilies and tbf domestic proclivities of thi
their husbands, says tbe Loudon S0]
Urapbic. jn,
The styles which will prevail in furs
(he coming season are tbe various 1)0
grades of muskrat, natural, blended M
and black, only tbe backs, and not tbe
bellies, being used. i:, . .
V
V
few York City.?There is no coat <
tter liked or more fashionable than \
i blouse Eton and none that suits j
greater number of occasions, n is j
i
||?. ;
iart, jaunty and very generally beruing,
it involves fewer difficulties
r tlie amateur than do the tightly
ted coats, and it can be worn at all
urs of the day. Here is one that is
iluently simple at the same' time
at it is eminently chic and 6mart and
lich appropriately can be made of
e light weight velvets, velveteens 1
d broadcloth!, and, indeed, all suit- I
js that allow of being tucked with ]
ccess. As illustrated, cloth in one i
the new shades of sage is trimmed <
<T
1 uiked Blouse T
Ith velvet and handsome buttons, but
ire again there is opportunity for
dividuality, for the collar and cuffs
n be made of broadcloth on- rough
fiterial, of the material braided or
[mmed with banding or of moire or,
deed, of any contrasting material
at may be preferred.
The coat is made with fronts, back
id centre front, all of which are
eked. The ncck is finished with
e collar and the closing is made at
e centre front, the tucked centre por>n
being booked over invisibly into
ace. The sleevfs are quite new ones
at are full above the elbows, laid
tucks below, a trimming band being
plied over the upper edges of the i
->i-o -r^iiita fiiaro finished with <
?' ""I
coming flare cuffs.
The quantity of material required
r the medium size is four and a
mrtor yards twenty-one, three and a ,
ilf yards twenty-seven or two yards .<
rty-four inchfs wide, with one yard ;
r collar, cuffs and belt.
KlbboiiH anil Trimmlnjr*.
Rib#r>ns of taffeta and satin weaves,
very limp textures and in plain
lors, are those which have part
incipally in the making and in the
mining of the models in headwear
*ced on recent exposition. But
w.*h faille and moire ribbons wero
ticeable on some of the latest of the
ported hats; and. as in the piece
ks, shot colorings in the ribbons, be[p
oifilii coloring.*, were to be taken
jount of ? Millinery Trade Review.
Fre.ilciPliner* In Hntft.
j'reakishness, without doubt, will
utinue to obtain as a feature in
rtain of the brims of the new seal's
bats. Yet there are some evinces
of an inclination to modify the
ect of the capricious by varying
sin with brims of simple design,
me of which are very little unspring*
in adjustment or irregular in outies;
and the flat brim of the sailor
ing reckoned among the approved.?
illiuery Trade I!eview.
- An Invisible Plaid.
LLke?^lltl>e irst of these suits this
; 1 *
.
smart example is an invisible plaid of
the ever favored blue and green mixture,
is tight fitting and has sleeves
i trifle more roomy than the coat
sleeve. In reality this coat is an Eton
jacket to begin with, the skirts being
stitched on like the front and sides of
a man's Prince Albert. The Velvet collar
and coffs are finished with folds of
blue, green and russet cloth.
/
Severe Tailor-Madea.
The plainest, most severe tailor cuts
are smart this y^ar, while half-fitted
nnd tight-back coats are both worn
Not the box coat?this is ever an ugly
fashion and, saving for ($]J(J.ren, nevei
becoming. Coat 6leeves are ail large,
leg o'mutton, but fuller than in the
spring. Turned-back cuffs, embrodd
- ? ? A-V XVJ I
ered or or silK or veiret 10 muicu un
collar, make an attractive finish to i
model otherwise a trifle too plain. #
,A Drebsiue Jacket.
A charming negligee, or dressing
jacket, as it is generally known, i!
made of cashmere with a band of satil
ribbon near the edge. The cat is cir
cular and the upper revers-llke pari
forms deep points at the sides and i|
the back, while in the lower part ari
places for the arms to go through.
" Blouse TValat With Vert. *
Vest effects are greatly in vogue this
season and are to be' noted upon 'many v
of the newest and most attractive
blouses. Illustrated Is one . which
is much to be'deslred, both for the en- :
tire gown and for that separate blouse
without which no wardrobe is complete
and which allows of variations
galore. As illustrated it is made of.
plaid silk with the tucked front, vest
and cuffs of plain but harmoHdaiBg
color finished with a plain but simple
'i I
Valet, 32 to 40 Bust
banding.- Any contrasting materials
could, however, be used with suceess
and again the waist of plain color can
be combined with plaid or with stripes
or with the same material trimmed, or
again the little ve?t might be of velvet
with the tucked front of plain silk.
The waist is made over a fitted lining,
which closed at the centre front,
and itself consists of the fronts, centre
front vest portions and back. The;
back is plain, drawn down in gathers
at the waist line, but the front is
tucked to give a box pleated effect at j
the edges ?u'd to provide fullness from
the shoulders. The closing is amie
invisibly beneiith the edge of the left
side. The sleeves are the favorite ones
of the season (hat 'ire full above the
moderately deep cuirs.
Tlie quantity of material required
for the medium size is three and a half
yurds tweuty-one, three and threeeighth
yards twenty-seven or twe/
yards yards forxy-four inches wide,
with three-quarter yard any width for?
centre front, vest and culls" and three
and a half yards Of hnnding.
POWHATAN hHH
k Good Old l^dlin Name
Survives.
Toe name of that old Tn<l!:^H^flH^M
r. ho ruled over most of ea$t^^^H0R9fl
ginia in the earliest Colonial
not called as much now as HMB
fornieily. It survives in good
bawtan County and in the Po^HBE^BH
pipe, and in six different posto^HQ^HH
different States of the Union. N
sas ti}ey have Powhattan,
suppose is a mis-spelling, fo^^HJ^H|
a mispronunciation of Powiiatal I
many people of this generatio^^^HBBa
forgotten, if they ever knev^HHj^^B
King Powhatan's summer
was about a half mile beIo^flflH^^|
mond, while his winter quarter^^^H^H
In Gloucester, and that he wa^^^H^H
nately a good friend and a'greatl^^H^^B
of Capt. John Smith, and that
the father of Pocahontas, from
descended many Virginians of
I H
But so it was, and all that -fl H
thing makes us close conuecti^^H^^H
I bis; However, be was of a roviil I
position and moved bis town of
tepees?from place to place, an^HH^^H
.''back driver's history" only
died at bis sometime bome nea^^HH
city, known as Powhatan.'We
do not fail to remembei^^RMH^
Powhatan was the name of the
River before the colonists int^HnRH
their ships and skiffs upon it?'buH B
is another story.
Once, it was quite common foi^^H^^B
<rinio hnv hnhlf>K? to be chrislHH^m
"Powhatan" and gifls "Pocalioi^^B^H|]
but not so dow. We can well u^Hfl^Vj
stand how the latter name ceas^^^nEg
be agreeable to ladies since the
diminutive of it was "Pokie," butH H
the royal name of Powhatan slfl B
have fallen into disuse is not
vious. However, a period came
provision had to be made for the^^^^Hj
petuation of the fame of George
ington, Thomas Jefferson. Lafaj^H^^H
Jo mi . Marshall, Patrick Henry afflH
other "patriot fathers." Then
drew Jackson and Wihfield SeottJB H
-to have their day, and yet later
Beauregard, Ashby and other Con^^^^H
erate names attained popularity.
fashions change in names as thej^^^^B
in riothes and iust now, there
tendency to turn back to old
registers and reproduce the namefl
the. long ago and it may be that^^HH
shall have soon a new crop of "PHHH
hatans." We are not so hopeful abHHH
the ^establishment of "Pocabont^^^H
in public favor, the reason why H M
have already given. But rocalionj^H^Bj
other Indian name was "Mateo,
"Matoaca," and that is pretty, an<SH^N
not liable to any objection, so farHHH
we can see. W H
When fcbe and John Rolfe had "mafl^H
n mntrh." she embraced Christianl^^H
and was baptized under tbe name
Rebecca. But, all that aside?we cc^^JB
elude by expressing our ardent liol I
tbat tbe new Powbatan babies m^RjH
bave their names correctly piHHH
nouneed. We can tolerate no
tlon of tbe sound of "Manhattan." j Let ^
it be good old-faisbioned, Virginia ]fl
Powhatan, with the "h" silent, and tbe
second accent * on "tan."?Richmond
Times-Dispatch.
Modern Borneo and Juliet. *9
Juliet was the ideal age, about four- ?
teen. She wore a red coat tbat just I
came down to her boot tops and ?he B
Viionb- hat thflt mrtlv |
JJUU Vii a uig ? * ? m ^
shadowed her strikingly pretty face, sfl
She bad just come out of Sunday- v
school with a companion who was too
young to flgnre as the nurse, by cojjparison,
yet was old enough to sympt ' <
tbize with the commotion that wa^[^
raging in Juliet's heart. ^:1J
Side by side the two girls walked !
slowly up the cross street and then, *]*
as if they were measuring their steps. I
they turned about and returned to the , 9
corner. When they reached a point - I
whore Juliet could see a young man r J
who was standing half way down the I
block talking to a group of his friends,' I
she cast a demure glance in bis direc- > I
tion?but quite as thongh she were ! I
looking miles beyond him?and then in J
turned about and retraced her steps
up the side street Slowly she walked nm*
* "1? 11-?,7 Krt'rtl- offain 2, f
up &D<1 SIOWIV Hilt 1VJHCU Ud\.a Uf,uni.
Just as she reached the. corner?it lar
was beautifully timed?Romeo crossed ^
her path. Romeo was at th& stage in
his youth when he probably would
fer to the maid as "a little gh*l,"rao<
though she was almost up to his shoul-u?
der. He. was undeni&oly good looking,
and he was also courteous; for he Jg
bowed to the two g*rls and took off his'
hpt, with a sweep as he met them. T~j
But he went on his way, leaving Juliet
standing on the corner with an ecsta- ;
tic glow in her - eyes and one hand
pressed to her coat over her heart.? i
New York Tress. <
>o Cbarjfe Tor Insect*.
Anent the curious habit of that fam- l
ous naturalist, Francis T. Buckland, b
l woe nenn 11 v Accompanied on his g
nuu iiuo ?
travels by his pet monkey, the follow- *
ing story is told: '
At a certain railway station the
naturalist applied for a ticket for the
animal. The man at the booking office
went 'carefully over his schedule of ;
charges for animals.
"Cows is cows," quoth he, "and so 1
is donkeys. Cats is dogs, and fowls
is likewise. Sir, that'll have to go
as a dawg," pointing to the monkey.
"Well, what will this go as?"
laughed the naturalist, pulling a live
tortoise from his pocket.
As to this the schedule did not afford
any i?:ormation, and the clerk
turned in scorn from its perusal.
"We don't charge nothink for them," 1
he said; "they ain't nothink. They're \
an jnseek!"?Chicago Journal. \
" ?
The Mission of the Drama. ^
The temples of the drama are scat- 1
tered everywhere, in the small towns 1
"" oo itt rho Tpjtt
tto ?rv?* * * o v ?v, 0. -
doors are open not Sundays <^MH9HE
every day of the week. Its c^NflH|^HH
gladly, and
sense of duty, or at the prit^H^H^o^B
conscience. They are in a
mood. The seen
comes directly to all classesfl|Hj^^H|
to every age. A grea|^R^N^HB
quantity of what they see
taken into their con^^^^^flB|H
and, unknown to themsel^B^^f^^H
fleeted faintly or strongln^^^^fl^H
own and their own
yet we, who think oursel^|^^^H|^H
people, let this potent in^H^^BMHI
good or bad find its guidanJ^^^^^^^^f
| ever bands it may chance
Metcaif, in the Atlantic.
Mk MM