The tribune. (Beaufort, S.C.) 1874-1876, September 20, 1876, Image 1
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* - 1 * ? " ? -
The Beaufort Tribune
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VOL. II.?NO. 44. BEAUFORT, S. C., SEPTEMBER 20, 1876. $1.50 PER ANNUM.
Mj Ship on the Ocean.
Yob, somewhero far off ou tbe cocan,
A lover is sailing to me?
A beautiful lover?nurse found him
Ono night in my cup after tea.
1 laughed when she said it?who wouldn't ??
Yet often a thought comes to me
Of the ship that is bringing my lover?
My lover across the bluo sea.
Whenever the cruel wind whistles,
I think of that ship on the sea.
And tremble with terror lest something
May liappou quite dreadful to me.
And then, when the moon rises softly,
I hardly can sleep in my glee,
For I know that its beautiful splendor
Is lighting mv lover to me.
Itnt nl, I* I.. .1. 11 ""
?#ui. vu, uu ouuuiu cume : wdj, Dureoj,
I'd hide like a mouse. n?*ry m",
What nonsense it is ! Bat jou shouldn't
Be fludiug such things in my tea.
?St. Nicholas.
THE LAST LEAP.
A small, ol 1 fashioned cottage where
a w -trnau sits working iu the porch. As
she sits there alone, Mary Sullivan is
dreaming the old dreams which have
cheered her through her ten years ol
widowhood?bright but never impossible
dreams of the future of her only son
?and she is glancing backward, too,
over her own life, woudering a little,
just a little, if many women of her age
have seen no more of the world than
sho, who has not spent one night of all
her life?r.or ever wished to do bo?be
yond this village where her husband has
been a schoolmaster. Is it to be always
so 1 A steadfar-t light oomes into hei
eyes, and her quiet lips break into n
smile, ma le beautiful by proud and loving
triiHt?' That shall be left to Davy,"
she snys, uttering softly the one name
which now menus all the world to her.
" iLi.s choice will be my choice."
Sio does not know how intently she
is listening for his footstep upon the
gravel. not how her face brightens when
he comes in at last.
? Mother 1" '
" Oh, Davy, Davy I"
The gree ting bursts from tho hearts ol
both, in tlint first moment; then the
b >.v's lips are clinging to his mother's,
and her arms hold him in that entire
lovo which a widowed mother so often
1 wishes upou an only son. He is home
to spend his vacation?a whole month?
from school.
The first vacation of David's passed
like a dream to his mother, and now
that the last day has arrived, she feelt
as if only a week had speel, though she
has so regretfully and hungrily counted
(eaoh morning and each night) both the
days that have been spent and those
that are to come.
Another long absence follows; anothei
bright home coming (in tho frostj
Christmas darkness now), another ab
sencc; and so on, and on, and on, until
David comes home from sctrol for the
last timo of all.
He meets his mother jnst within the
porch, where the flowers bloom thai
summer as they have bloomed throng!
every Hummer or His life, ami he has nc
oloud upon his face. But, later on, hii
mother's anxious question is answered i
little sadly.
" Yes, mother; I heard from the law
yer yesterday. Orandfather's will doei
not mention either of us. He has givei
me all the help he meant to give. Well
he has been very good, and now I an
ready to make my own start in the world
But I must go at orcc. One delioioui
day with you here", Ihen for London
Don't look ro sad, my mother; this shal
not be a loDg separation; not even e<
long as the old school terms, for I wil
soon come back to fetoh you."
80 after this one day he goes, laugh
ing over his scanty pnrse, b< cause hii
hands are strong, ho says, and his for
tune, hope and oourage. But when h<
looks back, it is only through a mist o:
tears that he can see the little cottage
where he leaves his mother iu ho* lone
liness.
After David's departure tho days pas*
for Mrs. Sullivan just as the old scboo
days have done, except that now she hat
a daily excitement in his letters. Nevei
can she settle to anything until the post
man has come up the garden path, anc
given into her trembling hand the lettei
JJavid never fails to send ; the lettei
which does his mother's heart sucl
good.
At last one letter comes in which h<
tells her he has fonnd employment ii
an accountant's office; employmenl
which is very easy to him, and which h<
likes, thongh the salary he is to receive
is mnoh smaller than he had antic ipatei
when he so hopefully began his search,
" But I will work so well," he writes
"that the firm will raise my salary soon
and then I will come for you. Ah
mother, I can indeed work hard anc
long and steadily for that good end."
"So, i n the cottage, Mary works hare
too, oonAdent in the realization of hii
plan, and living with him, tlirough hei
long day dreams, in a London whiol
exists in h er imagination only?a wide,
calm oity w here all the young men hav<
David's face and David's nature, anc
guide skillf ully the maohinery of th<
world.
But the time goes on, and Davie
only earns what lie earned at first
" Aud so," ho writes, a little sadly now
" the home with you is still out of mj
reach, for poverty here, mother, wouli
be to you a hundred times worse thai
poverty at home."
When ho has been absent for a yeai
he com* s home to spend his birthday
with his mother ; a summer day whicl
they have spent together for all tin
eighteen years of David's lifo. Thoi
he goes hack to his work, still hopefu
of the rise which his oarnest and nntir
ing servitude is to win.
Six months pass, and then, one Sun
day night, David walks unexpectedly
into the cottage kitchen, where hif
mother sits beside the lire, softly sing
ing to herself a hymn which she ha*
heard in church that day. When sh<
starts up?her face, in that moment o:
surprise, white as death?David soei
how littlo able she is to bear any shod
where he is concerned. But her do
light, one minute afterward, makes u{
for all, and that Sunday night is out
which both will love to remember.
* *
>jaj vuu uot stay one uay f tn<
mother pleads. "Must yon really gc
back to-mcrrow, Davvf"
" To-day, you mean, mother. Look
wo have chatted till after midnight, al
ready. Never mind, we have fotu
whole hours more, thanks to tho nev
railway. Don't go t-o bed, mother ; 1
oann )t spare you for that time "
She had never thought of leaving him
so beside the cheerful fire thoy sit auc
talk ; first of the lives which they hav<
separately lod, and the i of that lift
which they are presently to lead to
> gether?for David has como home or
> purpose to bring joyful tidings: Th<
> long talked of home will be ready soon
1 for ho is earning a high salary now, ant
all the old bright plans are to be carriet
out.
' " But, Davy," Mrs. Sullivan says
when she rises at last to prepare tin
tarly breakfast, "how very hard yor
i must bo working, only to be spared foi
i one day, after a whole twelve months o:
I st1 vice 1"
" I could have had one holiday be
i tween,"he answers, "but I would noi
> take it. It was wiser not, mother, a;
" this is an expensive journey, even now
i that we have the railway."
<< A ...J 1 1 '
xi.liii juu uuvc ueuu seinung me you]
money, David.'*
> " Bat I am earning so much now,'
the youug man nays, with a bright ex
cit? mont in his ryes.
> " And are you happy, David ?"
' " Very happy, mother?thinking hov
i soon * verytbi.ig will be as I planned r
long ago."
" But for yourself alone, are yoi
happv. dearf" she askp, wistfully,
f "1! Oh, yes. mother, quite happy.'
? Another good bye??' But tlio last,'
, David says, as again nud ngaiu ho kissei
> hi?< mother's shaking lipr.
i
David had said that ho* would spo^t
- Ins birthday at home?that June da;
wl.ieh has slways been the o ie holiday
I of the year to the wid< wed motl or?t?u
' on the morning befoie arrives a 1 tte:
wl ieh tells her that he is oblige d to do
i lay his coming. London is very full, h<
I says, imd he is very busy; so ho canno'
> gtt that day's holiday.
> J a every lino of this letter tho motlic:
cau read his disappointment, as well aj
" tho sorrow it gives him to disappoiu
' her; and tears como and blot out tin
loviug words, as well as the proud de
I seriptions of the home which is all read;
> for her now, out ia one of the pleasan
northern suburbs. They blot out evei
* that simple request at the end?" Thin!
t of me more than ever to-morrow, mother
i and prav for me just at nightfall; at tha
1 TT. -r, Vw.T,- _i ?i i *
fw J uuui w liUii wouovo Utt'U UMtU CO SI
i together iu the porch on other bapp;
k birthday nights."
There is the present of money whicl
* most letters bring her now, and it i
9 w ilo she holds thin money iu her ham
i that she forms a sudden resolution
, which comes to her at that moment as ?c
i natural a one that sho wonders where i
. h :s been hidden before,
a She is ou her way from the villag
! post office when the plan suggests itself
1 and when sho reaches home (her step
> quick in the n.-w excitement) sho sit
1 down in her old seat in the porch am
net! or it all clear to herself. D.ivid i
- u. king very bard, and is to be lonel,
J oj: his hirtbday. How can she better us
- his gi't to her thun by giving him
9 pleasure he cannot expect, and fo prr
f v< nt his being solitary on that day whic]
J they have never yet spent apart? As h
- cannot come to her, 6ho will go to him
Ah 1 how his face will brighten when h
? sees his mother come in 1 How he wi]
1 Btart. up with outstretched arms to clas;
J h? r! That momeut will repay her fo
r any trouble sho may have in reaching
him.
I When once the resolution is forme,
r it holds her tenaciously, and i-he begin
r her t>rer>arationn at. nnp? ?
? - r - r ; ?* ?* oj
) cited as a child. She packs her basket
putting in a chicken and butter am
3 cream, because David has said that h
i never enjoys these things in Londoi
t as he does at home ; and she smiles a
J she ties a dainty white cloth over then
3 all; for cho is picturing her boy's dc
I light when ho tdiall unpack tbes
. luxuries which she lias brought bin
, f:om his own village. All that nigh
, she lies awake, yet rises brisk and ac
, tive, almost wondering if she can reall,
I be the Mary Sullivan who has never en
tered a railway carriage in her life?she
1 a traveler, starting alone to a far-off cit;
? of which she known nothing,
r Taking her basket on her arm, sh
i walks to the rectory to leave the key c
, her cottage vilh her clorgyman, and t
obtain from him instructions for lie
1 journoy. He gives them clearly am
3 oirou nstantially ; and, walking with he
to the station, pees her off, with th
I precious basket in her eareand that loo!
of steadfast happiness in her eyes.
, It is a long journey, but the anticip*
l tion of David's deiight at seeing he
1 shortens and beantifles the way, so the
l she starts with surprise when a fello'
passenger tells her she is at Padding tor
r Timidly she stands back from the crowd
1 holding her basket tight upon her arm
l and watching the passcis-by with wisl
3 ful, patient eyes. What a great place
1 this station is ! and every one bo busy
1 and engrossed!
"If you please, I want to reach Farringdon
street. Would you kindly tell
me what to do?"?she has at last accosted
r a porter, as he passes with a hamper on
? his shoulder.
" Cross to Metropolitan."
j Cross to Metropolitan! The words
3 are foreign words to her. What can
f they mean ? Is there a river, then, bes
f rrOQTi li o?? on/1 n *?? ?1 0
3 unvwu UC* OUU X/aViU X
i Another porter, coming slowly up as
- tho crowd disperses, sees the puzzled
> look upon the woman's face, and how she
5 shrinks apart in her neat country d?*e88,
and holds her basket with such caro
j and pride.
> "Where do you want to go?" he inquires,
kindly.
, " To Farringdon street. I am to
- cross something, but I could not underr
stand. I'm sorry to bo so troubleT
some."
[ " You'd far better have a cab," the
man says, in a tone of involuntary kind;
liness. "Do you mind tho expense ?"
I "I have six shillings in change," she
* answers, loftkiug gratefully into his face,
i " Will that do ?"
" Half of it."
1 He takes her to one of the waiting
) cabs and makes a bargain with the man
, in her pre.-euco ; then ho closes tho
I door upon-her and smiles as he drives
I away.
And this is London?this line of
, streets, and crowd of people, and deafj
euing sound of wheels 1 Poor Davy 1
i How ho must long for tho quiet, shady
r lanes end the fresh breeze coming inf
land from the si a !
Tho cab stops, and Mary Sullivan
stands with beating heart at the door of
t a tall, narrow house in Farringdon street
3 and rings tho bell faintly. She waits
r what she thinks a long, long time before
a young woman appears in answer to her
r modest summons.
" Will you tell me, if you please, in
* which room I shall find my son ?"
" What's jour son's name ?" the girl
asks, with a long stare.
" David Sullivan."
i " Ob, Mr. Sullivan," she says, a little
t more pleasantly. " He's out. Would
you like to step into the pnssago and
i re?-t ?"
" lhank you," David's mother pays,
g? uuy, as sue meets tuts unlocked for
' blow, " I would mucb rather go to
a him.'* .
" I don't know where he is, though.
He's nearly always out. He's at an
1 ofliee all day. Then he's forever going
y out into the country somewhere north,
f where he's got a house he's been furnish
t ing. I don't know where el-e ho goes,,
r but he's always away at night."
Tie will boat?that ho.ise you speak
9 of, I suppose?" questions Mary, her
t voice trembling in its eagerness as her
thoughts dwell ou this home which
r David has been preparing for her. " I
a wish you could tell me where it is."
t " lint I don't know," the girl answers,
b more shortly, "ami I should think you'd
- better stay here till he comes back."
y "I would rather go to him. Do you
t think any ono in the house could kiudly
i tell me where ho is ?'
t A young foreigner is coming down the
, stairs us Mary speaks, and she looks
t shyly and wistfully at him. So the girl
t asks him the question: "Does ho hapy
pen to know where Mr. Sullivan is.'"
" Monsieur Snlli?Sullivan ?" the
a young man questions, laughing a little
s as he glances into*the face of tho coun1
try bred, yet delicate looking woman,
, who stands holding her basket so closeo
ly to her side. " Yes, I know; why ?"
t "I am his mother," Mary says, her
voice bright with pride,
o "Had you not bettor wait hero until
', becomes?"
s "1 would far rather ao to him. if von
s j would help me."
il I " You are quite snre ?" he asks again,
s I with the laughing glance.
y 41 Quito Ruro, sir."
44 'lhen I will direct yon, for i am goa
ing that way myself. You had better, at
)- any rate, leave your basket here."
b So Rhe given it to the young woman,
e with a shy request that it may be taken
i. care of, thou follows her guide out into
e the street. It seems to Mary that they
11 have walked for miles down noisy and
p I bewildering streets, when they turn and
r enter a wide and open doorway. With
g a sign to his companion to follow, the
stranger walks on along a carpeted pasd
sage, only pausing a moment to speak to
s a man who is standing there, just as if
i- he might be waiting for them. Mary
;, follows her guide on and on, wondering
d how this lighted way oould lead to any
e home which David has chosen for her.
n Yet all the while her heart is fluttering
a joyfully, because the meeting must, now
n be so noar. Once more the stranger stops
i- to speak to some one who stands at an
e inner door, then he leads her through
a ! it, on amid a crowd of sea'ed figures.
f I tut .a i " i- -
V xt JV14 Div iici?y, lit? nnjB, wiiu u
i- smile, pointing down to a vacant neat
y which they have reached, " yon will
i- Boon soe your son. Watch the wide en?,
tranoo opposite you there, and you will
y see him in a few minutes."
Mary thanks him with simple earneste
noes, then takes the seat and waits ; her
>f eyes tixed, with a smile of expectation
o in them, upon the opening opposite,
r What a gay, grand place this is, with
d lights like suns and stars upon tko ceilr
iug, so far up, so very, very far up!
e Why, tho church at home is not nearly
k so high as this room. But why is it
lighted yet? The June snnshiue is
i- lying brightly now upon the sea at homo,
ir and it must be light as day in the ootit
tago rooms. What thousands of faoes
w are gathered here?all looking one way,
i. too, all looking at that door which she
I, has been bidden to watoh. Are they
i, waiting fhr David, too ?
t-1 Suddenly a band begins to play ; and
?puzzled more and more?Mary turns
her oyes from the spot Bhe is watching
so intently. David has never told her
about this music, and these lights, and
the watching crowd. What dors it
mean? And why is Davy coming here ?
A prompt, tumultuous souud of clap!
ping in the crowd ; and Mary turnB her
puzzled eyes back again to the doorway
she had been bidden to watch. No one
is there, save the few idle figures which
havo stood there all the time. But
now, in the cleared space in the center
of the building, a man (who must have
passed through while she was gazing at ;
the band, and whose face is turned from
her) is climbing a single rope suspended
from the roof.
Wonderingly, Mary watches the light
and active figure?tightly clad in white
ami crimson?springing upward with
the speed and the ogility of a squirrel. ;
Why should ho do this daring, foolish
o t ?- i?#- -- * * "
I buiug i jh ik man 8 uie ho valueless mat ,
ho should risk it thus to provoke a mo'
mont's passing wonder ? Is death so
trivial a thing that he should bravo it
recklessly thus, to win a moment's applause
? Ah ! to think of this man's
j life, and then of Davy's !
Another minute, and the man she \
watches springs to a double rope whioh
j hangs from the lofty coiling, and, sit- j
: ting there at ease, looks down upon the
crowd. Then Mary's eyes look full into
] his face.
* * * ?
|
It is a special performance at the circus
on thiH Juno night, being the farowell
of tho famous gymnast Monsieur '
. Sulli, who, after his brief and brilliant '
; career, is rotiring from the profession in
i which ho shines without a rival, intendI
ing to settle down?so it is rumored,
i ironically and discontentedly?to office ,
| work with an accountant, and to live in
j a small house out in a north suburb, '
with an old mother from the country.
So ridiculous, in the very zenith of his ,
tame.
On this farewell night ho is to perform
(for the last time) his greatest feat [
?a feat which no one but himself has
ever attempted. From the flying trapeze
where he now stands, swinging
himself carelessly to and fro, he will
spring to a stationary one forty feet distant;
and passing through this, will ;
catch it by one foot only, and hang suspended
so, ono hundred feet above the
arena.
A dangerous exploit, of course; but
performed with wondrous nerve and
skill. Surelv it will be a nitv if. Viavincr
v g ^ ?* O
rnrulo hiH reputation, Monsieur Sulli
shall still persist in his determination to
retiro from the ring.
A grand success i The shout of applause,
which shakes the great building
from floor to ceiling, testifies to this beyond
a question. Decidedly a grand
success ! Though in one seat among
the crowd a solitary woman, who is a
stvauger there, sits, white, and still, and i
dead. \
Fashion Xotes. 1
Undressed kid gloves will be imported
in dark brown shades different from any
hitherto used.
Buttons will be very much used on
winter costumes and cloaks. They will
be of medium size, rouud and orua- ,
mented with embroidery.
Scarfs made of India cashmere and i
lined with silk will bo worn in the early
fall. They will be crossed on the bosom
aud tied behind in fichu fashion.
The canvas braids of open-work, introduced
in the spring, will be woven
heavier for winter stuffs. They are to
bo used not only oif the polonaise, but
in the flounces of the lower skirt also.
A now cravat bow is called the Centennial
bell. It is made of China crape
of any color, laid in long folds, widening
below somewhat in the shape of a
j boll, and with a hanging tassel for the |
i tongue or clapper, partly concealed l>y
the lace which in gathered on tho edge.
New breakfast caps have close pointed
crowns without fullness. They are
made o! organdy muslin or of cream
white mull. Tho crown is relieved of
its sharp look by a wide band of ribbon
that half covers it. This band is of
basket-figured armure or brocaded ribbon
three inches wide, with an Alsrtim
bow on top, a full lace frill is around the
face, and one end of ribbon hangs behind.
They cost $3,50. For ladios
wearing mourniDg, tho frill is edged
; with iiutiug instead of lace, and the
band is of black ribbon.
A Second Joan of Arc,
Tho Paris correspondent of the London
Telegraph says : It appears that
Mile. Mercus, the young lady who is
playing the part of Joan of Arc in the
Herzegovina, is of Dutch nationality.
She is about thirty years of age, of
diminutive stature, dark, and not
handsome. She has squandered away
I tho greater part of a largo fortune in the
jrealizdion of her romantic dreams;
i nevertheless she is still in possession of
i moro than sevei.tv thnnsniid nnnnd*
sterling. Her first fanoy was to erect a <
| Protestant temple at Jerusalem, in
1 front of the monument supposed to be
! our Savior's tomb. The temple, whieh
I cost ?14,000, still exists. Mile. Mercus'
i present ambition is to command a bat- i
terv of artillery, aud she recently gave
i ?1,200 for the purchase of guns, but the ;
' gentleman intrusted with tho money i
j suddenly disappeared, and nothing far- i
! thor has been heard of him. Th's extraordinary
lady is not admired" here,
having supported the French Commune, :
and approved of the archbishop's assassination.
She spends her time running i
after bittlcfield adventures wherever
they are t > be encountered, and, if pub- :
lij rumor be correct, is rather to be ]
oompured to Lola Montes than to the
Maid of Orleans.
A Rich Treasure Found.
The London News says: In the neighborhood
of the village of Nikolsk a discovery
has been made which is likely to
demoralize tho industrious peasantry of
tho district. Tho eternal dream of
ponsaut idlers has come true for once,
and a rich treasure has been fonnd near
tho very spot where the public of Nikolsk
had always looked for it. It appears
that not far from this township
there is a valley which runs into a gorge
called Zaporogno, and in the gorge there
is a deep well of the same Dame. Now,
tra-lition has it that the well Zaporogne
was once made ubo of by brigands, who
not only drew water from it, but used it
as their-common purse and exchequer.
Into this receptacle were cast coins, old
Russian and older Greek, the silver orunmcnts
of the peasants, the plate of
the village churches. It is much easier,
however, to hide treasures than to find
them, and the honor that should prevail
among brigands usually breaks down
when the time comes for the company to
dissolve. It generally falls out that the
treusurer, for instance, has stored the
booty in a piaco known only to himself,
and then some perfidious comrade slays
the treasurer and his goods perish with
him, the secret of his bank having been
known to himself alone.
Something of thiB kind may have happened
in the Zaporogne plundering company,
for although the house has long
been extinct, its wealth lay cunningly
hidden. Tho tradition of the mysterious
store wan handed down from sire to son,
and tho father of the present proprietor
begun some diggings, or ns it ueemsnow
more fashionable to say, commenced
Borne excavations in the neighborhood of
the well. Nothing was found, and the
research after theeo endowments was
dropped until last year. The steward
of the property then hit on the happy
thought of trenching in a lateral direction,
like the treasure seekers in Poe's
" Gold Bug," who dug not at the foot
of the pirate's tree, but at a distance of
thirty yards in a bee line. The Russian
investigator was as successful as Poe's
hero. He soon struck on a great shining
vessel full of ancient spoils. To fill his
pockets and those of his assistants was
his first idea, and then he sent to the
village for sacks. The steward tried to
bribe his assistants to silence, but apparently
ho did not bribe them high
enough. They olaim by Russian law, as
it is said, a right to a third of the treasure
trove?in this case about 50,000 roubles.
Their suit has been dismissed by
the local courts, but they have appealed
to a higher tribunal, and very likely all
the wealth of the brigands of Zaporogne
will melt peacefully into the pookets- of
the members of the Russian bar.
Gratefully Declines.
There is a man in Cincinnati who does
not want to hold office. Qe writes to
the Times : You are very kind to mention
me as a candidate for Congressional
honors, indeed you are; but I cannot
permit my name to bo used for one moment
to disturb worthy men who reaily
have a call to legislate for and take care
n( T 1 "?11? J? '
vuu tuuun j x cw^iuiuuiujr ueciare
dow that I am not a candidate. In the
lauguage of Mr. S til eon Hutchins: "You
coaldu t shoot an office into me with a
double barreled shotgun." I never saw
a Congressman that I didn't feel sorry
for. I in ver heard of but one man in
otlioial life whom 1 sincerely envied, and
that was a schweinhirt, in an ancient
German village. His business was to
take the hogs of the village out into the
country every day, care for them, and
return them to their pens at nightfall.
It seemed to me that this person could
enjoy official life. He was secured iu
Ilia place, his future was secured, and he
had the benefit of good society. I held
an office once. I was journal clerk in
the Ohio House of Representatives, during
the sessions of 1868 9. I did more
work than anybody about the establishment,
and was compelled to listen to all
the speeches besides. My pay was $36
a week, and my perquisites amounted to
$5 during my entire service. The late
Mr. Nosmith paid me the $5 for making
a copy of his oelebrated Ron to No. 9
Kill Tilio J
" *?**" V?JW*40UW UiOUUUltl^CU liiO.
1 have been heard to declare that no
American citizen should ever throat a
ballot into a box with my name on it
Witii my consent. That declaration I
will reiterate now, and trust that you
will give it emphasis. I have seen a
gn at many politicians, and they all
seem to be very unhappy and very unsatisfactory.
Homely Maxims for Hard Times.
Take care of the pennies. Look well
to your spending. No matter what
c >mes in, if more gees out you will be
always ]>oor. The art is not in making
money, but in keeping it. Little expenses,
like mioe in a barn, when tliey
are many, make a great waste. Hair
by hair heads get bald; straw by straw
the thatch goes off the cottage, and
drop by drop, the rain comos into the
chamber. A barrel is soon empty, if the
tap leaks but a drop a minute. When
you mean to save, begin with your
mouth; many thieves pass down the red
lane. The ade jng is a great waste. In
all other things keep within compass.
Never stretch your legs farther than
your blanket will reach, or yon will
soon be cold. In clothes choose suitable
and lasting stuff, and not tawdry fineries.
To be warm is the main thing,
never mind the looks. A fool may make
money, bnt it needs a wise man to spend
it. Remember, it is easier to build two
chimneys than to keep one going. If
you give all to back and board, there is
nothing left for the savings buuk. Fare
hard and work hard when yon are
young, and you will have a chance to
rest when you are old.
Lore Light.
Beyond all lights that over ahona
On land or glittering sea,
The lore light shining in your eyas
The faircat seems to me.
Quickly to meet the sunbeam's kiss
The rose with beanty glows ;
Swiftly beneath your tender glanoe
My warm blood oomes and goes.
If the son sees an answering smile
On land or glancing ware,
Oan yon not see in my eyes, dear !
The light your own eyes nave ?
A Terrible Bore.
Mr. Sniffln send* as the following:
When I bought my present place the
former owner offered, aa one of the inducements
to purchase, the fact that
there was a superb sugar maple tree in
tho garden. It was a noble tree, and I
made up my mind that I would tap it
some day and manufacture some'sugar.
However, I never did so until this year.
But a few weeks ago I oonoluded to draw
the sap and to have what Mr. Bangs
calls " a sugar bilin'." My wife's uncle
was staying with us, and after inviting
some friends to oome and eat the sugar
he and I got to work. We took a huge
washkettle down into the yard and piled
some wood beneath it, and then we
brought out a oouple of buckets to catch
the sap and the auger with which to bore
a hole in the tree. ~
My wife's uncle said that the buoket
ought to be set about three feet from
tho tree, as the sap would spurt right *
out with a good deal of force, and it
would be a pity to waste any of it.
Then he lighted the Are while I bored tho
hole about four inches deep. When
I took the auger out the sap did not follow,
but my wifo's uncle said what it
wanted wns a little time, and so, while
we waited, he put a fresh armful of wood
on the Are. We waited half an hour,
and as the sap didn't oome I oonoluded
that the hole was not deep enough, so I
begun boring again; but I bored too far,
for the auger went clear through the
tree and penetrated the back of my
wife's uncle, who was leaning up against
the trunk trying to light his pipe. He
jumped nearly forty feet, and 1 had to
mend him up with courtplaater.
Then he said he thought the reason
the sap didn't come was that there ought
to be a kind of spigot in the hole so as
to let it ran off easily. We got the
wooden spigot from the vinegar barrel
in the oellar and inserted it. Then, 4S
the sap did not oome, my wife's uncle
said he thought the spigot must'be
jammed in so tight that ohoked the
ilow; and while I tried to push it out he
fed tho fire with some kindling wood.
As the spigot could not be budged with
a hammer I concluded to bore it out
with the auger, and meanwhile my wife's
uncle stirred the fire. Then the auger
broke off short in the hole, and I had to
go half a mile to the hardware store to
get another one.
Then I bored a fresh hole, and although
the sap would not oome, the
company did, and they examined with
muoh interest that kettle, which was now
red-hot, and which my wife's uncle was
trying to lift off the fire with the hay
fork. As the sap still refused to oome I
went over for Bangs to tell me how to
make that exasperating tree disgorge.
When he arrived he looked-at the h<ue,
then at the spigot, then at the kettle,
then at the tree. Then turning to me
he said:
" Sniffln, you have had a good dealo'
trouble in your life, an' it a done you
good. It's made a man of yon. This
world is full of sorrow, but we -must
bear it without grumblin'. Ton know
that, of course. Consequently, now that
I've some bad news to break to you, I
feel's if tho shock won't knock you endways,
bnt'll be received with patient
resignation. I say I hope you won't
break down an' give way to your feelin's
when I tell you that there tree is no
sugar maple at alL Orashus, why that's
a black hickory. It is, indeed. And you
might as well bore for maple sugar in
the side of a telegraph pole.
Then the company went home, and
my wife's nnole said he had an engage-^
merit with a man in Hatboro' which ha
must keep right off. I took the kettle
up to the house, but as it was burned
out I sold it next day for fifteen oenta
for old iron, and bought a new one for
$12. I think now maybe it's better to
buy your maple sngar.
A Solid Dinner. "
Some of the hotels hare bills of fare
with the fly-leaf oovered with oards of
various business houses. An Oregon
man recently took a seat behind one of
them, when a waiter appeared with
"What will yon have, sir I" To the
utter confusion of the waiter, he leisurely
remarked : " Yon may fetoh me a new
set of teeth, in gntta percha; an improved
sewing machine, with patent
lock Etitoh, a box of Brandreth's pills,
and a pair of number seven Frenoh calfskin
boots." In a moment the waiter
renlied : "We haven't sot anv of
them." 44 Then what have yon got ttiem
on the bill of fare forf" retorted the
customer.
/
A Heavy Fall ?A writer in Note*
and Queries tells the following good
story: Mr. Falls, a well known Irish
sportsman, happened one day to ride
down a hound. The irascible but witty
master attaokr d him in no very measured
language. ?? Sir." was the reply, 44 I'd
have you reoolleet that I am Mr. Falls,
of Dnnginnon." The; arsver was
ready: " I don't oare if yon are lb.
Falls, of Niagara; you shan't ride over
my bounds." 4