The Abbeville messenger. (Abbeville, S.C.) 1884-1887, February 23, 1886, Image 7
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS,
r i? * - '! . -. ?,
<"
'When the hours of Day are numbered, and
the" voices of the Night
Wake the bettor soul. that slumbered, to a
holy, calm delight;
Ere the evening lampB aro lighted, and, like
phantoms grim and tall.
Shadows from tho fitful fire-light dance upon
the parlor wall;
Then the forms of tho departed enter at tho
open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted, come to visit
me onco more;
Ho, tho young|and strong, who cherished noble
longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished, weary with
tho maroli of life !
They, tho holy ones and weakly, who the ciobs
of suffering boro,
Folded their pale bauds 60 mceWy, spako with
us ou earth no moro !
And with them the Being Beautious, who unto
uiv youth was given,
More than all tilings elso to lovo me, and is
now a saint In Hoaven.
With a slow aud noiseless footstep comes thatmessenger
divine,
Takes the vacant cliair beside me, lays her
gentle hand In mine.
And she sits and gazes at me with those deep
and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still aud saint-like, looking
downward from tho skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended, is tho spirit's
voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, brcatliiug
from her lip* of air.
Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, all my
fears are laid aside,
If I but renu mber only Bach as these have
lived and died!
Longfellow.
FALSE APPEARANCES.
{< Here's a nice place, Mabel," said the
elder of the two ladies who had just entered
the train. "And we'll try to keep
it undisturbed, too," she added, proceed
ing to deposit their shawls, satchels,
* &c., upon the end of each seat, while
the two ladies teated themselves facing
each other.
Thcv were evidently mother and
daughter, the mother large, portly and
fine looking, the daughter a slender,
bright-faced little tiling, and just as
evidently people of " position," marked
by all the belongings of wealthy travellers.
Elegantly braided linen ulsters, oversuits
of black silk, stylish hats, dainty
. kid gauntlets, Russian leather satchels
and shawl-straps were their distinguishing
marks, besides that indescribable air
which stamps its possessor as one used
" to good society.
"80 verv warm! Hn ronoVi inv fon
Mabel!" said Mrs. Glcnnor. "We have
a terrible hot day for our ride!"
" But there is such a nice breeze. I
think it will be lovely," returned brightoyed
Mabel.
4' Oh, you're always contented with
everything. Dear me, I hope the carriages
won't be crowded!"
"They are almost that now, mamma.
> "We have the only vacant seats, I believe."
} l* And I mean to keep them, too," announced
Mrs. Glen nor.
At that moment spoke a voice at her
r elbow:
"Is that seat engaged, madam?"
Mrs. Glcnnor and Mabel both looked
to see a young lady dressed in a plain,
untrimmcd linen suit, with a brown veil
covering' her hat entirely and shading a
plain, homely face.
Iier speech was that of a well-bred,
person, but her exceedingly plain attire
1 stamped her in Mrs. Glennor's eyes as
" common folks." not. worth an ellort to
be polite to.
She turned to the window and settled
herself in her place without seeming to
ll r 1"\11 f nrAr\/l it I 1 - ? ? A
UU? gUUVl-UUltlll.<l iijiiuul fiJIONU !il
r* ouce:
"Mine isn't. You arc welcome to
?hnre it."
And notwithstanding the decided
frown on her lady mother's face, she
tossed her "traps" over on the pile
already beside Mrs. Gleunor and smiled
a reply' to the young strangers quiet
" Thank you," as she sat down, holding
the small satchel she carried in her
lap,
"It Will tire you. There is plenty of
room over here with ours," said Mabel,
reaching out her hand towards the
satchel.
The young lad v placed it upon the
seat herself, saying:
' T wns nfrniil i> minrlit ?
- ?" nwuuiBjm''Not
at al!," returned Mabel.
But Mrs. Glenuor, with u little accent
of spite, addressed her daughter:
"Mabel, don't make yourself overofficious.
I wonder how far it is to
Hamilton?"
"Don't the table tell you, mamma ?"
-1 "No. Only the larger stations are
down. Well," with a sigh and a glance
at the intruder, "at least we shall be
able to select our own society there."
"Mamma, don't!" pleaded Mabel in a
low tone, flushing at lier mother's rudeness.
"I detest these trains, where every
rude person who chooses may intrude
upon you," went on Mrs. Glenuor,
coolly.
Mable knew there was no telling
where her mother would stop once she
was on the track, and she noted the
flush which overspread the young
stranger's face. She quiotly changed
the subject.
"Do vou know Mr. inn's fnmiiv
JI
mamuv
"Not the children. Not Kinee they
were grown, that is. I saw them when
they were little."
If they are l?ke their noble old father
I'm sure I shall like them. I think he
is splendid," answered Mabel.
The stranger young lady smiled
quietly.
Mrs. Glennor answered:
<4I daresjyy they are. Birth and breeding
always show, Mabel. I, for one,
could never mistake a person of wealth
And culture for a common one."
"Is there only one datighter?" asked
Mabel.
r , . 4'Only one at home, the youngest one,
Henrietta. And one son, Kit-hard. I
consider it vr-y fortunate tlint Hamilton
invited us to make this visit, Mabol.
Richard Hamilton will be very wealthy,
and if ,vou piay your cards well, who
knows what you may do in tho war of a
settlement."
I*
"
&?'*. -
v , V . '
"Now, mumuia, if you .begin to tall
thut way I do solemnly declare I wil
take the next train that passes us bad
home and not go at all!"
. Mrs. Glennor knew the girl was quit
capable of keeping her word if she wn
pushed .too far, so she said no more, bu
betook herself to the prospect in vie\
from her window.
The ride was a warm one, but Mabe
enjoyed it, and in spite of l*??r mamma'
frow^ns, chatted with her seat-mate ver
sociably.
It was getting-sundown when the truii
stopped at Hamilton, and several pas
sengers descended, among them Mrs
Glennor and Mabel.
There was a forlorn-looking station
with a dusty little refreshment-bar ii
one corner of a dingy room labellcc
"Ladies' Room." There were two o
three village idlers, with hands in tliei
pockets, promenading up and down th<
platform, and that was all.
"Why, what does this mean?", fret tec
Mrs. Glennor. "Mr. Hamilton wrote hi
avouId be certain to have the carriage t<
meet us."
"Perhaps it will be here yet, mamma,1
said Mabel. "Suppose you ask one o
these men if it has been seen."
"I believe I will." and Mrs. Glcnno
marched majestically up to one of th<
men aforesaid and inquired:
"Can you tell me whether Mr. 11am
ilton's carriage has been at the statioi
to-day?"
"Ycs'm?no'm'?I don't know?then
it are a-comin* now," was the slightl;
incoherent answer.
Turning in the direction of his extend
ed linger she saw a handsome carriage
rolling rapidly up.
"It is just coming," she announced tj
Mabel,.whose eyes had already informer
her of that fact.
They waited upon the dreary plat
form until it drove up and the drive
dismounted.
Then he came up the steps and ad
dressed Mrs. Glennor, touching his ha
respectfully.
' Ladies for Mr. Hamilton's, madam?'
"Yes. Come, Mabel."
''The carriage is ready, ladies. Tlv
spring cart is here already to take you
baggage over. Will I take your tiek
eta?"
Mrs. Glennor gave him the tickets fo
their trunks, and the ready coaehmai
soon had them piled in the light ear
which had followed the carriage.
"Now we are ready." declared Mrs
Glennor. But the coachman appearet
to be looking for some one else.
"Our young Miss Henrietta went uj
to town yesterday. We expected he
back by this train."
"Here I am, Sam!" called a familia
voice from the door of the ladies' room
and the homely young lady in plaii
linen, who had shared Mabel's seat, canu
out of her retreat inside and approaches
them.
""My goodness!" was Mrs. Glennor*
dismayed ejaculation, as she flushed uj
to the roots of her hair.
But, Mabel sprung forward with ex
tended hand.
"What! arc you Henrietta Hamilton
I am so glad.
"And you are Miss Glennor! I an
find- ton!" Kiiifl tVw? vninur l<wlv
O 1 1 v"v'
ing her hand most cordially. "I wouk
have made myself known in the train
Dut I am always so shy with strangers
and I was not sure who you were til
now. Mrs. Glennor, I am very glad t<
welcome you to Hamilton. I love voui
daughter already, and I am sure we shal
have a delightful visit. Let us go now
Sam is waiting."
This prompt courtesy, so delicately
ignoring her own rude behavior in th<
train, was a greater rebuke to Mrs
Glennor than any show of anger conk
h.;vc been.
for once her ready tongue wa3 at j
loss, and she only followed her voun<
hostess to the carriage, silently and wit!
flushed face.
But Henrietta's kindly spirit sooi
put her at her ease, except when she re
memhered her mortifying blunder.
It was a wholesome lesson, however
And the next time Mrs. Glennor meets i
a lady in the train, whether she is rohec
like a queen or in plain linen, she wil
treat her ps such, and never judge b;
appearance.
ANSON GREY.
Anson Grey was a still, stern man o
thirty, shut up within himself and b]
himself, in his great stone mansion 01
the hill, and people knew no more abou
him than they knew about the dead
His early years had been spent abroad where
or how, nobody knew, and mos?
had ceased to care, for that matter; th<
last two had been passed in Burlingame
A brilliant light at night, sliinin;
from the great east windows, and oeca
sional gallops through the town by day
were the only tokens of his presence
However, a change was coming, ant
that without warning. Anson Grey fel
sick, suddenly and dangerously so. The
village doctor was summoned, who ii
turn telegraphed for another from tin
1 i-. j ^ 'V -i
* 11.j 111 iiui iiHMi-, niiu ujgcmer inev sail
in whispers ihat their patient woulc
probably die. There was no woman ii
the great house to act as a nurse, sine
the head * servant, obeying, doubtless
nis master's orders, refused to allow om
there as yet.
How it came about was a mystery, bu
one morning, when the master had laii
a week, half senseless, an unusual clouc
of dust was observed whirling up th<
hill, and emerging therefrom was a car
ri age, splashed and weather-stained, head
ed by two straining, panting horses
who came up to the entrance as i
driven by the evil one. A lady, tall an<
fair as sunlight, pushed open the car
riagc door impatiently, and sprang out
With a hasty glance around, she hurriet
up the steps, entered the drawing-room
and stood before the two astonishcc
gentlemen who were seated there.
*' Is Anson Grey alive?"
" Yes, but he grows worse."
Before they divined her intention tth<
had passed them and was in the nex
room, bending over the sick man.
"The deuce will be to pay if she ex
cites him now," the elder one said. 141
some good nurse had come it might hav<
boen of (tome use, but this dainty tliinj
?bah!"
She came out in a moment, he fact
white but determined.
* Will you have the goodness to senc
i\\ -v^ev-.-.Av" v'-' F
\' : y? .' . \ -it; U?
k for a minister, ami remain until
I come?" she asked as she began U
k move her things.
: There was something in her ma
c | that forbade nucstioning, and
s i obeyed her like so many dumb me
1.1 they said afterwards.
vj The minister did come. William t1
: ner, the head servant was eallcd,
1 after the three held a private confer*
s which seemed to be satisfactory,
y came out, and, to the amazement ol
: the lady stood beside Anson Grey,
n 1 the manage vows were taken.
- | The wise doctors were mistake]
i. 1 their estimation of this fair unkm
I She was something beside a fair y<
, ; lady, as her actions soon proved
l ; new order of things was institute
I ' the sick man's room, and his wif<
r 1 Stllllcfi lll?rv<?lf IIS niirun ? liliimnu "
- j ? v.
r | told for the hotter. In a month he
b j riding through the village, with
| bride by his side, all eyes of co1
I : agog, to cateh a glimpse of her h
b ; some fare.
3 ! All agreed that she was just an ai
j and when they came lo church the
II | Sunday,. and sat down in one of
f J pews like other people, they were i
i than ever confirmed in their opii
r ! What they ever knew was this.
b i Three years before, Anson (
j haughty and indolent, was killing
- | at one of the fashionable watering-pi:
1 j where Edith also lingered, though s<
against her will.
b j A sweet and wondrous fair face, i
f j admired and sought after, Anson
! hud half a mind to enter the lists
- j the others, hut something kept
c | back, and he only exchanged a
j words with her now and then.
j There happened to come a heavy,
I days' Hooding rain, and the first nig
it Edith sent a servant asking Mr-.
- to come to her private parlor for a
r ment. He obeyed the summons
alacrity, though wondering what t
- be coming now.
t Edith was awaiting him, cloaked
hooded, evidently in haste to b<
II somewhere.
'I hope you will pardon me," she
r. as he el used the door behind him,
r really 1 did not know whom to ask,
- mamma will not allow me to iro bv
self. A poor woman down on the 1j
r is sick, perhaps (lying, and I must {
i her. Iler little boy just came after
t I was there yesterday and they ai
great distress. Could I trouble y<
. go with me?''
1 "I will do your errand. It is
stormy for you to venture out."
> Mr. Grey saw what she wanted,
r saying he would be back directly,
ished for his rubber suit.
r The rain drove into their faces.
, the wind howled through the t
1 night like a minister of a thou
2 storms?not for a poor fisherman,
I haps, but for one as good and fa
Edith Willoughby, he should not
k hesitated a moment. When they <
> upon the bench the waves fairly le;
into their faces, and Edith shivered
- clung, half terrified, to her compai
in spite of herself.
? "I believe you had better return
and leave it to mo," Mr. Grey said.
1 4'No, we are almost there. I sh
never forgive myself if I did," she
I swered, catching her breath as
spoke. "It is only you 1 am woi
' about."
'j "I am glad to be able to help \
} he said. Aud I think he spoke
r truth.
j Inside the cottage poor Grace Pt
. lay on the hard bed, trying to brt
on a little longer, if so the good
might briii}; some good frieud hi
she died to care for her orphan boy.
When the door opened her eyes bri
j ened. and she raised up a little.
"The Lord bless ye for coining
4 know He will!" she said, as Edith tl
oil her wet covering and went to^
^ her.
"This is only one of the boarders
1 came with me," she said, in reply t(
questioning look. "1 should have (
to-day had I known you were worst
She sat down beside the bed and
\ son Grey watched her as she spoke
\ low, tender voice to the grateful
1 man. Among the words he could
tinguish was a promise, to sec Jit
and when the woman who seemed t
the nurse came up to administer s?
thing, and in a half-whisper asked E
to pray with tl.em, lie began to thin
was in another w >i ld. And it was
other to him. i n I v Snr??lu u)w> iv
f never do that! JJut she did. Knei
7 upon the bare floor and clasping
1 white hands she sent up such a pr
t for help and strength us Anson <
had-never dreamed of hearing lefor
After that night Anson Grey k
t where his heart was, but for his lil
2 dared not approach Edith. She sec
an immeasurable distance from sue
? he; but he cherished the memory of
- prayer as the one glimpse into he:
, for which he should thank God all
life.
i Edith's mother was a gay woman,
1 such she meant her daughter to
though for her life she could not 1
1 her from ferreting out and helping j
2 an innumerable number of forlorn,
1 erty-strieken people, who had no ei
I ly claim upon her, as they went t
fashionable rounds. It was mortify
Ii>uu u.-viw>|>vn?lllli;, Will Silt' WHS ])<)
. less to prevent it. They were to bi
g again soon, Anson Grey heard; bu
would have missed seeing her had
t not accidentally met her as she
i hurrying up the beach toward 1
1 boarding-house on the very day
e left. He could not let her go wit!
- telling her what was in his heart.
"May I speak to you a moment?
, said, abruptly, stopping her.
f "Certainly."
1 As the word left her lips she
- what his speaking was going to be.
"Oh, not thnt, Mr. Grey?"
1 Somehow he took courage from
, quick paling of her lips.
1 "Yes, that I love you and want
for my wife."
"I am to be married Christmas!"
He turned and wax leaving her v
w m/ui?.iuiu^ I11UUU 1IOA DjlCilK.
t "Mr. Grey!"
He fined l?er again and she Raw
- white and stern he looked,
f "Had I been free you would not ]
i asked in vnix"
f For days and weeks afterwards Ai
Grev hugged the memory of her I
3 as slie said those blessed words, to
heart, earing more for that than
I love ar.d caress of any other.
\
I he Christmas came, but death came with
> re- it, and Edith's lover went his long journey,
leaving his affianced bride and
inner scheming mamma to console themselves
they as best they might.
n, as , In a way mysterious to all snve "William
Skinner, Edith heard of Anson
*kin- Grey's illness, and, as we have seen, went
and to him and had the courage to become
mce, his wife.
thoy The people of Burlingame learned to
all, love the gentle mistress of the old stone
and mansion on the hill, and never a suffering
one called for help in vain as long as
I i.wi.. .... ?i it-.i i? ?
.. iu inuj, ii.i iiu'? uaut'u ner, was uijs)wn.
tress there.
A THE Fill ST CUT.
(1 in
i ini
: | ApiilirmilN lor tl?p Outstrip I'Ipoo of Ro:i<4t
Ilcef? lieef ?m tin Viuericun Nrn>snity.
was
its "Give me the outside cut of the roast
ursi, 8lli(i a reporter to the waiter iu a
am" popular restaurant at precisely 11:30
t , o'clock one forenoon.
'"f-t "You're too late, sir," replied the man
n[iX, of the apron. ''There arc several gentleu
men waiting for the outside cut. I'll
mere #
tret vou as near the outside as I can,
,lou' though.-'
, . | Inquiry elicited the fact that if a man
j wants the crisp, well-cooked flavor of
lnu I the outside cut of beef roast he must no
| to the restaurant early. At most rest.au)1(
* rants the roasts are lifted promptly at
, 11:30, and at that hour several custom;\ut;1
ers may usually be found waiting for
; the first cuts. Some beef-eaters go as
1 early as 11 o'clock, ]mt in their orders
} *r and patiently read their newspapers
' until the hot, sizzling meat is placed before
thcni. Their patience is amply r<*.
warded, for hot, well-done roast beef is
\ ?x. certainly the finest meat on earth, while
,rt- lukewarm meat is not as good as meat
V-10. entirely cold. In most restaurants the
,WI| i kitchens are so small and crowded that
ou it is well-nigh impossible to keep meats
, hot more than a few minutes, especially
the beef roast, which must be constantly
3 ? manipulated by the carver. Even under
the most favorable conditions roast meat
h" Pcrfyc* onl>" when it first comes from
t n, ! the fire, as its great charm consists of
j the savor of radiating heat.
'i"ch "Yes," said the proprietor of the
^ , restaurant mentioned, as he llipped the
f t reporter's quarter into his cash drawer,
. " "roast beef is the great moat nowadays,
m to nnc* 11 *8 6e^*nK' more popular every day.
"We are becoming as much of a nation of
t beef eaters as the English, or even more
00 so, for the English are very fond of mutand
*ou' *s not generally popular in
v in this country. It seems to me that if the
present tendency continues much longer
ftn(| the time will come when it wont be
>l'ick wor*'1 while to cook anj'thing else,
saml ^*ven "now't is one of the most profit1
able meats we serve, because we can
ir is ^uy a P'ecc <md use it all up.
have ^^iere *s 110 rcnson why the people of
M>ine Chicago shotddn't take kindly to roast
t j beef, when they can go to our best
and rc8tuurunts ,l,1d get nice slices of the
n roast for fifteen, twenty or twenty-five
' cents. I believe prime beef is cheaper
now *n ^'hicngo than in any other city in the
world. You can buy prime roasts at the
I stock yards shops for eight cents a
pound."?Chicago Ilcrahl.
she
rrictl A Desperate Encounter.
ou " It is related in the Boston Ilcrald that
t]'ie Mr. Iiicliard Freeman, a fisherman, had
a desperate encounter with a swingtail
>olev s^ur^ ?H Kainsford Island. The shark
iathe ,nU(3e its j>resence known to Mr. FreeGod
Inan charging under the boat anc
.fore "early upsettii.g it. Mr. Freeman.
I armed with a clamming fork, kept the
i-rht- shark at bay, and, by several well-made
! thrusts, quieted the monster, and, as he
r J 1 thought lie had it lifeless, proceeded to
iirew h'8 sharksliip into the boat, which
ivard AV,ls accomplished after considerable
effort. Mr. Freeman started for Boston
who Pr'zei and everything progressed
> the smo?thly until oil Long Island Head,
oine w*ien> to the surprise of Mr. Freeman,
, ? the shark became as lively as ever, and
\n. made things pretty warm for him. In
in a stniggle the boat was overturned,
wo- an<^ captor antl captive were left to
-s_ fight out the battle in the water. Hemic
markable as it may seem, Mr. Freeman
o be succeeded righting the boat and scrw?,r>
curing the shark with a rone, bv which
Idi'lk *1C> towc(^ prize to South Boston
j. Point, where it is on free exhibition at
[in_ the Grant Ilonse. Considering the fact
ould t^lut' ^r* Freeman's capture measures 1.1
>jjn,r feet, an<J is one of the most dangerous
her 111,1 n ca*crs captured in the harbor for
aver years> ** *s without doubt a great curiClrev
osi{y- Mr. Freeman was quite exhausted
J ^ after his struggle, and is the hero of tlu
,n' hour at City Point.
fe he "
ined A Watering Place.
h as _
her Carlsbad is very full this season, and
liven there are many American visitors. The
his population proper number 12,000. Till
the year 1852 visitors were welcomed
and with a flourish of trumpets from the ton
be, of the tower of the Town Hull; now
keep they receive a demand on arrival to pay a
ulso, tax of 15 florins for the privilege of
pov- drinking the waters and listening to the
irth- bands which play in the morning. The
heir principal industry of Carlsbad is that of
inj^ housing, feeding, and curing invalids,
wer- Though the place is small, as many as
j off 10,000 strangers, can be accommodated
t he at a time. During the season, which
I he begins on the 1st of May and closes
was on the 1st of October, nearly
,heir 30,000 persons spend not less than
they three weeks in Carlsbad. There is a
bout great industry there in needles and pins,
which are hand made. When Goethe
" he was here in 1808 he sent a pound of pins
as ar present to his Frau Von Stein.
saw That Old Jib Again.
The Gloucester Advertiser tells this
the veteran story of the sea : We heard a
good story the other day of an indiyou
vidual in Gloncoster, who mav be seen
I every day on Mnin street. Some year*
! ago he made a fishing trip, and dminixii
irhen violent blow the jib was torn, and the
skipper, not wishing to have the t>ai.
blow to pieces, onb-n-d him to tnko it
how in. "Great Scott,wi?s the response,
"I can't go ont there in such a storm ;
have let the jib go and charge it to me, ?kip*
per." As it was the only jib th" sk'.pper
nson nad with him, and he was ir. a place
ook, where a jib was wanted, he got some
i his one else to rescue it, but for a long tunc,
the "Charge the jib'to me,.skipper," was &
byword on board of that craft.
, v.-../, / . LV'.v-:: '
GERMAN POTATOES IN NEW YORK j
No UlffRvr tlinn Walimis and Hold tit the
Italic oT ft u l'oiind.
It may seem incredible to some of our i
readers to learn that potatoes arc imported
from Germany into this country,
than which no other portion of the globe
has more agricultural advantages, but
[ such is the case. Whether the potato
grown dn German soil possesses any par- .
j * i? \uiv ??v*. juiiviuiii. in nu; ;viiu;i i
I can-grown tuber, is a question we are
not able to answer, but we clo know that
certain classes of people, the world over
deem imported foods of every sort far
superior to home products. In England
and Franco, for instance, the label of
an Ameriean house claims the first consideration
of the epicure in search of
something extra nice, and from our
foreign correspondents and personal ob- j
servation we learn that everywhere in
Europe American goods arc found on
sale in immense quantities. On the
other hand, it seems perfectly natural,
when we consider this vagary of human
nature, to find German potatoes, and a
thousand other articles we might name, I
in the New York markets, with plenty .
of purchasers in the bargain.
The particular German potato we have
in mind has only lately aiued a prominent
place on our list of imports. A
few years ago the receipts were from 25
to 50 bags yearly. Last year over 1,000
bags of German potatoes were sold in
I New York city alone, and this season
| the sales have already reached that fig
I ure, showing a remarkably rapid increase
in their consumption. Noticing this in- '
crease, and desiring to find out the (
cause of their popularity, we called !
upon an uptown grocer, who serves a
very particular class of trade, and asked
to see his Germany potatoes. He displayed
his samples upon a plate which
held a dozen or morn ttihors t.hn of n
walnut. Wc were surprised to learn
that this was the average size, and that i
in spite of the seeming disadvantage in'
this respect, the German potato was a
favorite on the tables of several of his
wealthier customers. He sells them by
weight, at 5 cents a pound, and buys
them at three cents by the single bag, or
2J cents a pound in 10 bag lots. The
bags will average about 100 pounds.
Regarding the demand, he informed us
that at present his sales are one bag a
week, but during the winter season from
three to five bugs. Curious to know
whether tliey were bought for any special
object, we were informed that they
are considered the finest potatoes for
salad, and are principally used for that
purpose. Peeled and boiled in lard or
butter, whole without slicing,they make
a specially attractive dish. Boiled and
served in their peel, and eaten with a
little butter and salt they are delightful,
(looked this way the potato should be
broken apart with the hand, and not
cut with a knife.?Metropolitan Grocer.
Striking it Rich.
Tfave you called on the Browns yet?"
she asked, as the new minister was about
to take his leave, after making a call.
"I'm just going," he replied. "It's
the third house from the corner, I believe?"
"Yes?third house. They are very,
very nice people, and I know you'll like
'em."
When the minister rang the bell there
was some delay in answering it. Mean- |
while the screen doors permitted him to \
hear from the interior. Brown, who
seemed to be up-stairs, called over the
banisters:
"Say, Helen, where in thunder is that
old vest I spoke of ?"
"Who are you talking to?" demanded
a voice from below.
"To you, of course! If you were any
sort of a wife you'd put' things where
they could be found.''
"Solomon Brown, don't you cast any |
slurs on me. If I don't know more
about housekeeping than all the Brown's
*1. T* I 1 i 5--J- II I
u.i VIII 111, 1 11 (..-(.>11111111 SlllCiUU.
"You do, eli? What did the pauper
Smiths have to keep house on?"
''Solomon, you are a vile wretch!"
"Much obliged, but it's living with
you that's done it!"
At this juncture the minister was
ushered in, and Mrs. Brown soon entered
the parlor, extended both hands,
and gayly exclaimed:
"Ah! I'm so glad ! Solomon and I
both wanted to see you so much! Solomon?Solly,
dear, hurry up and come
down?our new preacher is here!"
And Solomon came down, painted a
grin on his face, and greeted the good
man with:
"Well! well! but this is good of you!
Wifey and I were just wishing you'd
Pull Wl' U'nnt tn unn if on nlTort m'f
be made to increase the interest in the
Thursday evening prayer meetings I"
Fashion and Prices.
Two hundred and twe?ty-flve dollars
was the price which the polite salesman
of a fashionable up-town tailoring estab- 1
lishment said the other day a suit made
of such and such cloth in such and such
a way would cost a lsdy visitor.
"Bother?" said the lady. "I -won't
pay any snch price. 1 want something
'like this I have on, and I paid only $00
for it."
"Oh, of course, you know," replied
the salesman, in a deprecatory way, and
with a profusion of bows. "But these
American-made goods?"
"Why," interrupted the lady, "I ;
bought this suit at your branch house in
Paris only a month ago. Is all the extra
price here duty?"
The salesman was fairly extinguished, i
and could only gasp out:
' un, you know, well, of course, as an '
old customer, we cnn do it a littlo cheaper
for you; say $1751"
"No."
"Well, say $150?"
"No."
"I think we coidd do if fhr$125,"
was the last offer; but the lady had
bowed her way out, and left the store.
The incident is only illustrative of
what some people will pay to be fashionable,
and how other people always stand
ready to let them do it.?New York Commercial
Acfoertiw.
?UR pr*yer? and God's merer *re like two
buckot s tn a well?while one Moeod% the oth.r
ill i-CcU. I,
r-' /?* y <xrvv.. a*. ; ': ^ . ' r> / *:-f v r.":*7" $ ' 7T'?
(General Grant's Funeral Expenses.
??
TUB FACT THAT THKY AIIK NOT PAID
l'AKADBD AT A PfJJI.IC MKKTINO.
The most interesting incident of the
National Undertakers' Convention in
l'hilndelphin was the address of Kev.
Stephen Merritt, who was introduced as
"the distinguished gentleman who buried
Gen. Grant." Mr. Merritt said of
the Gen. Grant funeral:
"I had the honor of burying Gen.
Grant. All the arrangements were left
to me. There was aome criticism indulged
in, but it was from people who
knew nothing. The keeping of the body
was perfectly satisfactory to the family
of the General, the authorities and the
members of the press. I think it was a
mistake to have belled glasses above the
face, becHU.sc they distorted the view.
The body was over-embalmed rather
than under-embalmed. As to the bill.
there were till sorts of guesses from
$000,000 down and $50,000 up. It
amounted to $14,103. I thought it
proper to make the bill reasonable and
right. I didn't want to make enough
profit ou one funeral to keen me the rest
of my life, but I charged a fair profit - a
little more than I would charge or other
funerals. I haven't the money, and don't
know when I am iroin?j to get it. The
bill was audited and sent to Washington,
but 1 haven't the money. I furnished
500 coaches, on which I got ten per
cent., the amount usually allowed us. I
want to say that all the blame al>out the
body not being properly embalmed, etc.,
came frem members of the profession
who knew nothing, and didn't even see
the body."
The association passed a resolution
asking the governmer t to pay Mr. Merritt's
bill, and then adjourned.
A Runaway Master.
The /Southern Uivotiae tells the following
story:
'A well-to-do farmer in Tennessee
owned a large number of slaves, and
among them one old darkey about his
own age, and whom he had known all
his life. Old Saui was a faithful creature,
a great favorite with his master,
and a sort of privileged character on the
plantation. The old fellow was industrious
and exemplary in his behavior
all the year round, except during that
period dating from the time when roastinir.n..r?
-I" 1 1:?*
vino IV I U11U CliU UUI I1UTH.
appearance of frost. Sam was invariably
seized at that period with an invincible
desire to 'run away.' Ol course,
in such a ca e, tire usual punishment inflicted
on 'runaway niggers' was not to
be thought of. Remonstrance was unavailing.
Sam declared that 'he jes'
couldn't he'p liissef,' and it became u * r
settled and understood arrangement
that he should go, and that the neigh- . s ? *
"borhood should condone his raids on
corn-fields and potato patchcs. After
i many such escapades, his old master
asked him on one ocnsion, when the
matter was under discussion :
" 'Sam, do you really enjoy running
away ?'
I " 'Deed, Marse John,' said Sam, fI
docs. Hit's de iroas' fun in de wurl'.
Coon huntin' ain't nowhar to hit.*
" 'Well, then,' said Marse John, 'just
let me know the next time you take a
notion to start, and I'll go with you,
and try it awhile myself.'
''Sure enough, in due season, Sam
I came up, saying:
I " 'Old Marse, de time's mighty nigh
I when I 'bleeged to lite out. Ef you
gwine wid me, you better be gittin'
reddy, for when de time comes I got to
; go quick.'
" 'Old Marse' kept a bright lookout,
and when Sam started he was on hand. >
"They had a delightful time. They
fished occasionally, caught 'possums,
robbed orchards and watermelon and
potato patches, picked blackberries for
recreation, and haunted the greenest
and shadiest nooks of the forest, all of
which Sam knew well. 'Old Marse' had
never enjoyed a summer sb much. In
fact, he was so much pleased that regularly
afterward he accompanied Sam
when the latter went into annual retreat.
At length Sam died. The old master
grieveH for him sincerely. He was sad
also over the reflection that his summer ~pastime
would in future be denied him. ?!
But, to the amazement of all his friends,
and not less his own, when roasting-ear
time came again, the fit seized him as
strong as ever, and he ran away by himself.v
The First Mammoth.
A Toongoosian fisherman named Schumachoff,
about the year 1701>, was pro
t n.1 IB HIV i;umuui Ul uaiiuriui'll
in those parts when fishing proves a failure,
along the shores of the Lena in
quest of mammoth tusks, which have
been there found in considerable abundance.
During his ram'des, having gone
further lian he had done before, he suddenly
came face to face with a huge
mammoth imbedded in clear ice. This
extraordinary sight seems to have filled
him with astonishment and awe, for instead
of at once profiting by the fortunate
discovery, he allowed several years
to Toll on before ho summoned courage to
approach it closely, although it was his
habit to make stealthy journeys occasionally
to the object of his wonder. At
length, seeing, it is presumed, the terrible
monster made no signs of eating him
up, and that its tusks would bring him
a considerable sum of money, he allowed
the hope of gain to overcome his superstitious
scruples. He boidly broke tho
barrier of ice, chopped off the tusks,
and left the carcass to the mercy of he
wolves and bears, who finding it palatable,
soon reduced the huge creature to a
skeleton. Some two years afterward a
man of science was on the scent, and
although so late in at the death, foiuid *
a huge skeleton with three legs, the
eyes still in the orbits, and the brain uninjured
in the skull.
A Nick Littlk Story.?When Oct*.
Washington was in New England ho was
entertained at dinner by a country gentleman
who lived comfortably butquiotly
in his old-fashioned homo far from
town. When the General rose to go,
flic little daughter of tlio host, not yet... "
in her teens, opened the door for him.
As he passed out in his stately way he
bowed and said to the little maid;
wish you a better flfHee. mydo.?r.M "Yea,
sir," she quickly rcpliod, with a bow,
"to let yw? ia, air." v
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