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f OBnmMMBonnMnraBHm WHAT AIM Tins WORtDt | " What ail* the world?" the poet cried? , "And why does death walk every where? And why do tears fall anywhere? And skies have clouds, and souls have careT* And thus the i*>et sang, and sighed. For he would fain hare all things glad, Ail lives happy, all hearts bright? Not a day would end in night, V..r wr,.ni' ir.Mllil roi a rielit? And so he sang?and he was sail. Thro' ha very grandest rhymes Moved a mournful monotone? l.iJjit a shadow eastward thrown I'r.mi a sunset?like a 1110:111 Tangled iti a J >y-bcU's chimes. " What ails the world?" he sang, and asked? And a^kiil and sang?hut all in vain? No answer came to any strain. And no reply to his refrain? The invstrry moved 'round I11111, masked. " What ?:!. the world?" art nim rime? " \i'ss tlie "voihi?" The mili-trel hands. W.'h faioi its or forgot ten hands, I ..ft up then lii-.s in all the lands, \n I alike, and ask the same? Yr . wlmsc soul first soared in song? 1 .1 hi-.iiiu-1 IioiismihI veirsasvay, '1 1' wii-, sang luu vi-sim-day, !" !i ,nt or ill deal Mess l,ty? " W ait a.Is :'ie uyiid '" ciouesfrom the throng. j 1* ,i-...i!.l *: ?. ? ill,, iroil.l fn rest? .Vii.! tlicy i liiiii* in couwli'ss keys .\? many ,i? Iiio wav- ?? ( m ;i>, Ala! a* iliw bi'iitiiiugc ?>f tliu brcezs, Yetcvcu wheu limy sing their best? Whrn o'er the list'ning world there float* Such melody as 'raptures meu? When all look lip entranced?and when The sot.g <>t lame floats forth?e'en then A discord creepcth thro' the notes. Their sweetest linrps hare broken string* Their graudest accords have their JarsLike shadows on the li^ht of stars? And somehow, something orer man The song the greatest minstrel sing*. And S" each song is incomplete, And not a rhyme can ever round into the chords of perfect sound, The tones of thought that e'er surround The ways walked by the poet's feet. " What ails the world7" be sing* and sighsNo answer cometh to his cry? He asks the earth and asks the sky? The echoes of his song pass by Unanswered?and the poet die*. AN IT THE DANSEUSE. The prompter's bell rings, the full notes. <o' the orchestra crash out on the perfumed air, the suppressed hum of voices and the soft frou-frou of fans j cease, the great green curtain raises swiftly, there is a sound of castinets in | the air, and Anita bounds on the stage i with the grace and beauty of?Anita : alone. For there is nothing to which I j can compare her, save her glorious self. | Rather above the medium height, | 8leuder, but not thin. A face that at- i tracts and repels. An olive skin, clear r.nd colorless, long, black, almond-shaped eyes, a delicate, patrician nose, with finely-curved, sensitive nostrils, lips always a bright crimson, the upper short and curved like the old Greek goddesses, hair black as night, with a purple bloom in its . meshes. You could believe her capable of k ascending the scaffold to the headsman's block, with a lirm, unflinching step, and j H a smile on her mouth, to save one she | V loved, aud you could fancy her driving } K the steel of her poniard home to the I B heart of that same loved one should he i H prove faithless. i; As yet Anita had no lovers. Admirers } ^ by the score. But when the, began to p speak of love she curled her lips scorn- i Wr fully, and answered them in words to I match her scornful smile. If that did i not re{?cl them she opened her almond : eyes full tipon them, and in few words gave them to understand beyond nil aoub: that there was no hope, tiiat she did not wish to marry. And they slunk away, wondering how it was that Anita, who was so bright and quick in all else, could be so dull iu adiiirs o* the heart. Marriage indeed! But none had the temerity to undeceive her. Her mother had been dead a year, and j a little over, when oui story opens. T?_! . I - ! f.. 1 T? .? ? -'.1 origin. uvuuiuui nosa vainacno. ?ne had not the high-bred, patrician air of Anita, but she was a thousand times more beautiful. A fairer skin, a rounded dimpled form, and a head of dusky gold, over which all Spain went mad. She was a danseusc, like Anita, and it ' was whispered? there was a rumor? Bah! who that has beauty escapes slander? And Rosa was very beautiful, and a danseuse. Anita's father died when she was an infant, so she wa? told, and the death of her mother left her quite alone. To her, her mother was an angel, and her death left Anita desolate. Anita comes before them to-night, her beautiful limbs bared to the knees, a short silken skirt of red a blank velvet-. bodice, narrow comb at tbc back of her dusky head, a face vail thrown in true Spanish fashion over it. one red rose at her breast. She bends low, and smiles brightly to their applause, and then her lithe form sways gently, gracefully, to j the rhythm of the orchestra. When the dance is finished, she is I deafened with applause, she is showered I with bouquets of beautiful flowers. She stoops to gather them, when from a private box on her right, a bouquet all of roses, red roses, her favorites, is tossed to her. striking her lightly on her breast as it falls. She raises her eyes and meets the earnest gaze of the donor, a fair-haired, blue-eyed Englishman. Anita gathers them all hastily, and retires, trembling in every limb. The curtain falls, the orchestra plays, the people talk of her, for a moment What grace! What beauty! They never observed until to-night just how beautiful Anita is; she is always so colorless. But to-night, when she gathered her flowers, she was almost as lovelv as poor Rosa, her mother. And it was all owing to the bright dash of crimson that'came to her cheeks. Why docs she not rouge? Being a danseuse, 1 she could do that sort of thing and be none the worse. What does it matter 1 what a danseuse does? And then the conversation amis to me pi&y, or a little bit of scandal. And Anita! She is pale enough now, ] trembling still, and with an angry gleam < in her black eves. e ?< Is she in her dotage, that a pair of i blue eyes should call the blood to hex i cheeks like that?" She rises hastily, strips off the gaudy t skirt and its belongings, and presently { emerges from her dressing-room, a tall, ? slender figure, all in somber black. 1 As she crosses the stage at the back, 1 her manager speaks to her. "One moment, please, allow me: Lord i Erskine, let me present you to Anita < Camancho." 1 And the donor of the rows Ikwto low ' before her: * 7> * * * * *Three months later. The voice of Mrs. Grundy, or rather Mr. Grundy ?and, by the way, why Mrs. Grundy % it f ? - *? ? - r? ?ii a\. - snoum always pain creuu ior an uio i smart, bitter things that are said, I cannot imagine. I can assure you I go through life with my cars wide open, and Mr. Grundy .ells me more ill-natured gossip of my neighbors in a month than does madam, his spouse, in a year. Fir.:' Speaker. ?" There goes Lord Er.-kine's turnout. Bang up, isn't it? And Anita with him as usuaL By Jove! that girl pla\cd her cards well. Sho knew her value, and still held aloof. The result?" Second Speaker.?"Aw, then- can bo but onb, you know. Erslcine would never think of marrying the girl, and the Camancho is too sensible to expect it, I should say." First Speaker*?" I think you make & slight mistake there, old fellow. And if Erskine makes the same?well, heaven help him. For Anita lias a sleeping devil in her that I should not care to arouse." Second Speaker.?"Aw, that's just it. As you say, old boy, sue nas a sleeping devil in iiereve; and on one occasion when I attempted to pass my arm playfully around her waist, I, aw, thought him remarkably wide-awake. Doocid absurd for a dauseuse, you know. What do you say to a game of billiards?" And thev pass on. A faint echo from Mrs. Grundy. " Why I had no idea Anita danced tonight, or I assure you, my dear Mrs. Shallow, I should not have come. Of course when they all praised her prudence and all that sort of thing, I never believed a word of it. But one must be amused. However, the creature has flaunted this allair so shamelessly in our faces, driving and dining in public, and all that you know, that really Bah! let us go elsewhere." Behind the scenes.?"I say, Mordaunt, whose coupe is that at the door, and for whom is it waiting?" " Don't you know? Why, where have you kept yourself this month of Sundays? It is Lord Erskine's carriage, aud it waits?for Rosa's own daughter." Of such men assassins are made. The stone flung at Anita would not suffice. The noor dead mother must come in for a lling. It was "pure womanly'' according to the world's judgment. Do not turn away. I do not wonder you are tired of listening to those mouth-pieces of the world. I will only ask you to pay one more visit to-night. To Anita herself. Here we are. Ahl stop hack and close the door softly. ! n her snowy rob'' dr nuit, this danseusc, " Kosa's own mother." kneels and prays. Monsieur and Madame Grundy.?Go ye and do likewise. I'ray the good Lord in His mercy to forgive your evil hearts and slanderous tongues. * * * * * "Anita, most fascinating of women, I have something I wish to say to you. I never thought a woman could affect me as you have done. Day and night you are in uiv thoughts. I do not seem to live save when I am with you. You haunt me in my dreams. I am unhappy when I am not with you. Is not this love, my Anita? And will you not love me in return?" "Ah, Ernest, my loved one, have you not Known long ere this, that this heart of mine was all thine own? I could not drive the glad blood from mv cheek as it leaped there at the sound of your voice, your footfall, nor the gladness and joy from my eyes. And I would not, if I could. Every word, thought, breath is thine. But. oh, my beloved one, I need to be an angel to be worthy your love and your name?and i am, alas! but a poor little dauseuse! What a necromancer is love. I used to think that to be premier dauseuse at the Grand Theater, oue had a right to be proud, that it was a position to work for, and to glory in. Now I am ashamed of it." ile does not hear her, has heard nothing since those words, "I need to ho no angel to be worthy your love and your name, fell on bis ear. Can she be so blind? Jleglances at her face. Ob, the bright halo that love had flung round it! Yes, it is clear she thinks so, that he has laid at her feet the proud old name he bears, and with that smile on her lips and in her eyes, lie cannot undeceive her. ? * * * That night, as Anita steps out on her balcony, ut the Palace Hotel, her own name, 111 tne voice so aear 10 ucr, iaus on the listening ear. "Anita you refer to, no doubt. Now, see here, old fellow, don't make any mistake. There is no better, purer girl in the world than Auita?not among your people ui my own. I was first attracted by her beauty, which is incomparable. Then, when 1 knew her better, by her own intrinsic merit?and, I confess, were it not for my father, who would cut me ofl with a shilling were I to make 6uch * mesalliance, I would marry her to-morrow As it is, it is out of the question to marry her; quite impossible-equally impossible to give her up. The crisis! ' Anita gropes her way blindly through the open window into her apartment, whispering, softly: " Impossible to marry hor. He said that?'impossible to marry her!' Then it is time for thee to die, Anita." And they find her there the following day, a poniard up to its hilt in her young heart, her eyes wide open, and wearing a look of horror, an awful smile on the sweet dead mouth. Thus died Anita, "Rosa's own daughter." Lizzie W. Fletcher asks in a poem ' If I should die to-night what would rou do'."' Liz, that's a very refreshing lonur.drum for this season. If you mould die to-night it would of coutoe necessitate a visit of the coroner in the noming. and then, you know, JLiz, wo d iave to buy you new clothes to wear in lie other place, and a minister with jreat lantern jaws would stand over you md say good things. Then we'd have to lire carriages, you know, and times are rery hard, and money isn't very plentiful. A tirst-elass funeral costs about MoO, Liz; so don't for the world think >f going oil'suddenly. Wait until thing? ook a little better for speculation. A IMM>, HAD MAS. Il'ov. in i'l'imilr Alt ire. lie llrrnmni the i>ri'<u> Killer ill ISoblitii Aristocratic Olrrlr*. The New York Timet gives the particulars of .1 sensation that has recently transpired in Boston by which nearly a hundred of the most fashionable ladies Kcr"ini(> tliA victim* of .a blackmailing operation. A year ago a fashionable dressmaker of the Hub employed an attractive young woman whose specialty it was to call at the residences of her customers and cut aud fit their dresses. Miss Annie, as she was called, was a great favorite, and no dress was considered complete unless it had the touch of her artistic fingers in " taking in" here and "letting out" there. It was noted that she had a note-l>ook which she handled as deftly as Julian Hardy, the reporter in "Fatinitza," and was constantly making memorandums of batting and whalebone required to fill out the ideal curves and irregularities of surface constituting the highest type of a fulldressed beauty. These memorandums, she explained, were necessary to prevent her losing the recollection of any sudden inspirations as to the delicate insertion of a gusset, or the bold cutting of a shoulder piece on the bias. The business of the employing dressmaker who had the good fortune of employing Miss Annie increased rapidly. It became a test of true culture among Boston ladies to have their dresses made exclusively at her establishment, and the result was an apparent increase of #Bostonian beauty, both in breadth and thickness, without much increase in weight. One dark and dreadful day that will long be remem bered by the patronesses o': .\liss Annie, each of the ladies received at home one of her cards, and was told that a young gentleman wished to see them in the parlor. Each lady had an interview with a young man who was instantly recognized as the hitherto Miss Annie, and was, of couisc, terribly surprised. The wicked young man who had so successfully masqueraded as a dressmaker's assistant, explained with much apparent penitence that he had been detected and discharged, and that his sole desire was to hide himself in California. To do this money was required, and he presented a small bill for materials which he had furnished at his own expense. Cotton was charged for at tho rate of ?3 a pound, and whalebone at $5. On payment of the bill he would instantly send from his note-book the memoranda relating to her dresses and depart on the first train for the Pacific Slope. The story goeB thathe made a complete round of his former customers, and that his collections exceeded ?1,000 from the terrified fair ones. SHE DIDN'T NIEAN TO TtXL Yc.?, ray lips to-night have spok>-ti Yonis i fain iii v snoiiia inn s|ieuii; And I would I could recall them? Would I line] not liecn so weak. Oh. thai one unguarded moment! We.-e it mine to live again, All the strength of its teinjitali >a Would appear to tue in vain. True niv lips have only uttered What is ever in my heart; Into happy when beside him, Wretehisl when we are apart; Though 1 listen to his praises Always lunger than 1 shomd. Yet my heart ran never hear them Half so often as it would. And I would tint, could not, pain him, Would not for the world oU'etnl. I would have liiiu ki? e.v I liked hitn A - a brother as a friend: ll'ii 1 meant to ke. p one -" .ret i i my besom aiways hid. l'or I never meat:! n. tell him That 1 love liNe?but 1 did Some Natural History?The Editor. "What ferocious-looking animal is this?" "That is the editor." "Indeed! Are they very dangerous?" "Sometimes. When cornered up they have been known to be quite combative, ana again tbey Have teen known to go through a convenient back window. Generally they are mild and passive." "When are "they the most dangerous?" "When intruded upon by a book agent who wants a forty-live line local for a seventy-live cent book, or by a poet with verses about the gentle spring." "Are editors cross to each other?" "Only when separated by several blocks of buildings." "Do tbey often have fearful combats with each other?" "Occasionally when they go out in opposite directions, and come upon each other by accident." "Arc editors ever cowhided?" "Sometimes the small ones are, but the big ones are very rarely molested." "Do editors cat?" "They do. it was formerly supposed that they afe at long intervals and upon rare occasions but it is now a well authenicatvd fact that they can eat a great deal when they can get it." "What kind of food Jo they like the most?" "They are not very particular. While they won't refuse quail on toast, fried crab or roust turkey about Christinas time, they have been known to make a hearty repast olFa dish of cold turnips and a consumptive herring." "Can they eat concert tickets?" "We believe not. Some people have gained this curious impression from false teachings in early life, but no authenicated instance is on record." "Do editors go free into shows?" "They do when they give dollar and a half locals for a twenty-five cent ticket." "Arooll Knl.l 1M.? *1.:~ on an vvtituio uuivi, iijvi; liiia uiiu ; ''No; only the married are bald. But let us pass on; the editor does not like to be stared at. A Female Blacksmith. A woman died in Richmond, Vn., a few days ago, who had chosen the blacksmith's forge as a means of earning a living. Her name was Rachel Yent. Her father came to this country from Germany and opened a blacksmith shop in Richmond, i?he learned the trade in her girlhood, and became as good a worker as any man. As her father grew old she took charge of the shop and sup ported the family by her own labor. She wore a tight-fitting woolen dress and a blacksmith's leather apron, and frequently 3m?>ked a short clay pipe aa she toiled. When the old man died she still stuck to the trade, but a few months ago she grew enfeebled and rapidly sunk. Her work had given her in her best days the muscular strength of a man. She had eligible offers for mai riage when young, but preferred to remain tingle and provide for the family. ! The Common School the Fnrmers' Hope. Prof. Elbridge Gale, of Kansas, upon 1 the subject of common schools for the 1 rural class, writes as follows in the RuI ral jScv> Yorker: Much has been said j and written in regard to an improved j culture of the rural classes. They are I demanding something more than hitherto, and asserting for themselves a higher position in the social scale. While there are steps backward as well as forward in all movements towards a higher civilization, we may be sure that the end here sought will be reached. Agriculture in all its departments must, in years to come, command a higher class of talent and a broader culture than in the past. While we are inclined to give high honors to the rural press, to the associations and societies formed to promote rural interests, and to agri- ; cultural colleges, where they all recognize the object of their creation, the more intelligent among the masses are feeling that they can justly demand soinetliing more for the children in the I common schools than Lis hitherto been ofiercd them. , We ask that the culture of the common school shall be turned in some slight degree towards rural and industrial interests. A more general dillusion of knowledge relating to agri 1 1 :? uuuuiiJi uhii lUUllalliui puiauua w viwmanded. Our children need culture that shall impel towards farm life. This cannot he attained by the instrumentalities now employed. Hcncc we propose that the common school shall be made more tributary to our rural interests. We want an elementary course of instruction in matters, both practical and scientific, that relate directly to rural life. This should be so elemeutary in its character that the great mass of our children may acquire it by the time they are fourteen years old. By this means the common school will, to a certain extent, become the training school of our agricultural and industrial colleges. These latter institutions will then have opened to them a much wider field of usefulness and the possibility of a much more thorough culture to those wlio may enjoy their advantages. Fat. I [Lemart Sentinel.] If we are not a nation, Tf political assassinations, Midday murders, and Open treason A re beyond the reach of the gener i government. Let us either Proclaim the nation, or Kick .Mississippi out of the Union. [Pell? Blade.] py Craciousl Vas Dot So? How You found him Oudt? [New Tork World.] After mature deliberation we hay come to the conclusion that the frenzied utterances of the Okolona Southern State*. and ' J the Lcmars Sentinel (being always printed in this staccato oitj ic; coutaiu for the compositors of these journali a ! great deal i of Fat! ! ! The Multiplied Dangers. {Burlington llawkeye.j " You were in the war, then, Captain ! McKillcn ?" "Uli, yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am; fought all through it." " Is there not," she asked hesitatingly, " a great deal of danger in a battle?" " Well, yes." the Captain replied, reflectively. "there is, there is. So many men standing around you, you know, and such careless handling of firearms aa is almost sure to occur during a battle, makes it really very unsafe." Ji iss Lollipop shuddered, and then reI sumed: " Are not some people severely injured at times?" "Yes," the Captain said, " they are. I once had a friend who was hurt so badly that he couldn't leave his room for several aayis." And then she said she thought there ought to hi. a law against them, and he said ho believed the Legislature of Iowa contemplatfd passing some such law at its next session. And she Baid she was so glad. Building Materials. One thousand and fifty laths will cover seventy yards of surface, aud eleven pounds of nails put them 011. Eight bushels of good lime, fifteen bushels sand, and one bushel hair makes i enough good mortar to plaster one hundred square yards. A cord of stone, three bushels lime, and a cubic yard of sand will lay ono hundred cub'ic feet of wall. One thousahd shingles laid four inches to the weather will cover one hundred souare feet of surface, and five pounds ' of nails will fasten them on. One-fifth more flooring and siding is j needed than the number of square feet of surface, because of the lap in the sid- j ing and the matching of the floor. Five courses of brick will lay one foot | in height on a chimney; six bricks in a ' course will make a flue four inches wide j and twelve inches long; eight brick.- in j a course make a flue eight inches wide j onrt eirt^pn inr-hpa lnnc. A lady with a little boy went into a j well known restaurant the other daj and after the two had absorbed food, ! demurred against paying for what tlu? child had eaten, oh the ground that he was under ten years of age. It was ( with some difficulty that she was made to understand that railroad rules do not I apply in eating saloons. A young lady was endeavoring to impress upon the minds of her Sunday school scholars the sin and terrible J punishment of Nebuchadnezzar, and when she saia that for seven years he I a te grass like a cow, she was astonished I bv a little girl, who asked, " Did he give j milkf I THE DYING SOLDIER. BY Dn. J.A MOILXK. [A Legend or Fair Oaks, a l?i trie fought in Virginia, June 1, lStii.J On his cot a soldier lay? a faithful nunc was by. Praying he might wot dieDying, but not for a bloody bay. To help crush rebellion's dire pride He had left his dear "bonny " bride. He gave hie lif? for freedom's cause that day. His lips moved, something to tell. He thought she *? his mother: He seemed lite a brother. Weeping, she watched his bosom's faint swell, Warmly she clasped each cHl'y palm. Over his face there grew a calm. 8be faintly heard: "Sweet love, dear homt, farewell!" He had dreamed, doomed soldier-boy, Of his own distant home. Wlirrn jthe would lonelv rosm. Deploring lier dear, departed joy. And it wan well. That darling thought Soothed him in death. Ilia smile was caught from paradise, where never cornea annoy. SHABBOXA Qkovk. 111. The Novel of the Fatare. INewark Advertiser.] Epochs in literature are as plainly defined as those in art, and the modern novel, the creation of the cheap printing-press, has attained its climax and is gradually waning, if not towards a complete disappearance, at least to that subservient position in letters from which it should never have arisen. Its evanescent quality is seen in the few books that ever attain to the dignity of a position on the library shelf. They are essentially "summer reading;" they belong to the swift speeding railway train, to a shady corner on a steamboat, to the hammock under the trees; and when they are once read they pass into the hands of anyone who chooses to pick them up, or as fair prizes for the butler or the cook or finally to the dust-bin and the kitchen fire. Let a man of means start out now to form a library, how many recent works of fiction would he choose for the place of honor upon his shelves? Everything that is made too common palls upon the appetite, and there is where the sensation novel has met its fate. There is undoubted genius in all branches of literature, but it is not exhaustless. Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, Victor Hugo, Dumas, Charles Keade, Thackery and a few others did marvelous, and in some cases, most honorable work, but when will they live again in others, or their books be imitated? A great novel may be a kindly dish, but we should turn away nauseated even from salmon, if fed constantly for a month on red herring. That there has been a terrible decline in our literary provender in the line of romance is plain. They are Btupid rehashes of worn out subjects; they distort love, violate the probabilities, give common sense a black eye and turn life into a pantomime. What will the coming novel be? The new era has hardly opened and while we are waiting for it there is a large republication of old standard works, many of them of excellent quality and which are far better worth reading than modern trash. They belong, however, to the past, and can only fill an interregnum. Circumstances seem to be tending to something even more realistic than what we have had, because more faithful to nature and to' home. The novel of the past has put all its characters on stilts?hereafter they are likely to walk on the ground; they have worn doublet and hose?now they will come to us dressed in the fashion of to-day. Novqls, like pictures, must have colorine: thev must lake a bit of life here and a bit there, and an exact record of the daily existence of our Darbys and Joans would be as tasteless as soup without seasoning, but we may hope to find hereafter, whatever may be the frame work, those charms and beauties which, born of a correct taste and artistic skill, shall largely deal with the world as it is, and present to the mind those ideal existences which the young may read without having their passions excited and their ideas 01 humanity distorted. Let the lessons of literature be sound and wholesome and there will be little to ask for. Severe Droughts. An interesting record is that of severe droughts as far back as the landing of the rilgrims. "How many thousand times are observations made like the following: "Such a cold season!" "Such a hot season!" "Such dry weather!" or "Such wet weather!" "Such high winds or calms!" etc. All those that think il -1 IV V 3 1 _ . A il me ury speu we naa last spring was me longest ever known, will do well to read the following: In the summer of 1621, 24 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1630, 41 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1657, 75 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1662,80 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1674,45 days in succession without rain. In tho summer of 16S0, 81 days in succession without rain. Ill tllr. wlim.i.ny rwf 1 C.0.1 RO .Im.u Ir, cession without rain. In the summer of 1705, 40 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1715, 61 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1728,61 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1730, 92 days in succession without raiD. In the summer of 1741, 72 days in succession without rain. .In the summer of i7-40, lOSdaysin succession without rain. In the summer of 1755, 42 days in succession without rain. Jn the summer of 1762,123 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1773, SO days in succession without rain. In tlin Qitmmoi* aF 17Q1 R9 rlotru in au/%_ AM kiily >IU<IIIIIV* VI XI VA, U-VIUJJ 1U OUUcession without rain. In the summer of 1802, 23 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1812, 28 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1S56, 24 days in succession without rain. in the summer of 1871,42 days in succession without rain. in the summer of 1875, 26 days in succession without rain. In the summer of 1S76, 27 days in succession without rain. It will be seen that the longest drought that ever occurred in America was in the summer of 1762. No rain fell from the . first of May to the first of Septemlwr, making 123 days without rain. Many of the inhabitants sent to England for | hay and grain. I Sentimentally Drunk. [Proildenc* Journal.] The lights were out, the streets wer? itill, and all other presences were silent in the presence of the peaceful night. And at this time the soft but slightly unsteady tread of a man was heard approaching the station. He took a chair near the door, dangled his legs over the chair's arm. hung his peaked hat en the toe of his hoot, and in a low \uiee addressed theoilicer: "Iwaa here a year ago and listened to the song of your cricket under the mat there, and I want to hear it again. The cricket comes into my life exactly. He sings and all his green-coated comrades sing of the dying summer. There are millions of these little mourners under the leaves to-night, and they all have one song of pensive sadness. There is a cricket in my heart. There used to be summer there. I am a sort of an old cricket myself. I crawl into the natural-formed grape grottoes on the highway and sing my own sad song there. Speaking ot cool, wild graperies reminds me that I am athirst. Say, Sergeant, can't you send a sleuth messenger to the CIud of the Purple Cluster and tell the vinous triumvirate that are crowning their chaste and marvelous brows with beautiful chaplets to send me, not an old ltoinaii punch even, nor a Greciam amaranthe juelp, but a tod, a mere modern tod. Tell them 1 am always with them, and I often commune when on my promiscuous pilgrimage with the disembottled?pardon me, I mean dis embodied?spirits; I see their faces rapt and purpling with the blood cf the broken-hearted grape of the Garter stream. But say, Sergeant, my blood ia turning into the channels of melancholy. This must not be. Here are three coins. I put one into wine and the world flushes up to me; a second coin, and I own that block there, I am Mayor of Pawtucket,11 walk on thrones;' a third, and I hear rapturous music, I float on fair rivers, my old coat becomes as the garment of a great ruler; I put my warm heart against the cold marble of the world and I warm it with its gencroue glow. The world is no longer a marble tomb to me. It opens, and enchanting forms come forth and embrace me ana * * bid me go on. The gates of eternity open with a majestic welcome to the man who defies fortune and dares to grandly live it out" "But those are not coins," said the officer, " they are buttons." "Well, buttons so let them be?ah! that song again?the song of the cricket. Officer, let me sleep here under the magnetism of the mighty midnight heavens, and let the lady cricketa serenade me." hoiuiion or a Aystery. [ChattiniO"-,';i (Teuu.) Commercial.] In the summer of 1838, the Third United States Artillery, commanded by Col. Gates, was encamped at the foot of Missionary Ridge engaged in the removal of the Cherokee Indians. One day the Colonel ordered out a fatigue ?arty to clean out the spring, a beautiul fountain bubbling up. at the foot of the ridge. Shortly after the Sergeant reported to head-quarters that his mea were all drunk. Says the Colonel: "You should not let the men drink whisky." "I did not," replied the Sergeant; "they drank nothing but water from the spring." The Sergeant and men were ordered into the guard-house, and a new detail ordered, and a Lieutenant placed in command with orders to npt let the mea have access to- any spirits. Not long after the Lieutenant reported the men all drunk. The men were ordered to the guard-house and the Lieutenant, under arrest. Another party was ordered out, of which Col. Gates took the . command. He took a seat on a stump, bo he could overlook the wbole ground, determined that there should be no get ting drunk this time.- But behold! in a short time his men were all drunk. He was certain they had drunk nothing but water, which they frequently did, getting down on their knees and drink- * mg from the branch just below the spring. The Colonel was at his wits' end. The men were ordered to the guardhouse, and he repaired to his tent to think. After weighing the matter pro and con he had to give it up, and repairing to the guard-house, he told the men that, if they would show him how it was done he would release them, otheruric/* lio wmilrl nnniqli tlipm ?ju*nrnlv To thia they agreed, and took him to the spring; just below the spring in the branch they unearthed a five gallon jug partly filled with whisky, the mouth or which was stopped with a cork, in which was inserted a quill that readied to the bottom. When hurried in the sand the upper end of the quill was just above the surface of the water, and when they wanted to drink they stooped down, inserted the quill in their mouth, and while apparently drinking pure water were drinking whisky, and the Colonel, sitting on the stump in plain view, waa none the wiser. He Had "Buggers." ISleubctiTllIe Herald.) The primary class in anatomv, physi i i : i.^.i ? _ uiufzv anu iiv^iuiiu uuu a jiuw atuuuu, and the teacher had forgotten to post him as to what answer he should give when the question came around to him. The head was the subject under discussion that day, and the teacher began with the members of the class who had been present on previous occasions. " What have you in your head ?" she 6aid to Johnny Jones. "Brains, Miss," replied Johnny quite correctly. "Ana you?" she said to Tommy Brown. " Muscles and nerves," answered Tommy Brown. " And you, Jimmie Jackson?" " Bones and teeth and tongue," came the reply. " And you?" she said, this time turning to the new scholar, who was very of Knitiir itnturhf a wicked looking thorn into his nearest neighbor, "and you, little boy, what have you in your head ?" "Buggers!" lie snug out, scratching that orgau and looking as if he deserved a reward of merit. It is surprising how many people there are in this world that do not like to work between meala