Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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TI-WEEKLy EDITION _ ____aftb 2HLe EDTIN.W1INNSBORIO, S. C., AP~RIL 8, 1880. -VOL. IV.N. 3 BE STRONG. Be strong to hope, 0 Heartl Though day is bright, The stars can only sbino In tho dark night. Bo strong, 0 Heart of mino, Look toward tho light! Bo strong to bear, 0 Heartl Nothing is vain; Strivo not, for life is curo, And God sends pain; Heaven is above, and thero Rost will romais! lie strong to love, 0 Heart Lovo knows not wrong; Didst thou lovo-oreatures evon, Life woro not long; Didst thou lovo God In heavon. Thou wouldst be strong. The Belle of Wolf Run. A company of strolling players ini a barn. 'T'lio great space is lighted by lamps of every description, the inost ambitious of. which is a circle of hoops stuck full of can dies. This does duty'as the grand chand elier, and is quite effective. Seated near the stage, before which hangs a green curtain, are two persons-a man and a young girl, whom, even the unprac ticed eye might take as rustic lovers, lie is a tall, finely-formed young fellow; with a noble head and keen, sparkling blue eyes. She is the beauty of Wolf Run, faultloss in figure and feature, and with a something in her expression denoting that she is not quite satisfied with her position, even as the belle of the villiage. or her surroundings. Margaret Leo had never in her life seen a play, therefore she was prepared to realize all the emotions of novelty, terror, wonder, delight, with which a novice looks on the strut and action of these who cater to the profoundest emotions. Of course she for got where she was; of course she was daz zled and terribly stirred at the love scenes, which were, as usual, exaggerated. The hero of the drama was a handsome, worthless rascal, who learned, before the evening was through, to play at our unso phisticated little Margaret, r"ading her ad miration in her eyes, and enjoying the similes, tears, and almost spoken interest, of the beauty of Wolf Run. "Pretty good-wasn't it ?" said Charlie Vance, as he helk her fleecy red shawl to wrap about her, at the close of the perform uice. Margaret had no words, she only gasped: "Oh, CharlieI" as they gained the d(oor, e and caught at his arm ; for there stood the hero of the stage, still in his bespang- a led velvet finery, and evidently stationed at that particular place in order to catch a glance at her lovely face. "Confound his impu(lence." Charlie b Vance muttered between his teeth. Margaret shivered a little as they left the o barn. Everybody was laughing and talk- v ing. The soft, clear, round moon shed its t) light upon a scene of sylvan beauty; but the two spoke but few words until they had 1 house set. back in a garden. h "A little of that goes a great ways," said the young farmer, who had evidently becen thinking the matter over. "They stay here a week or more. 1 don't care to go again, do you?" n "Oh, 1 do- believe I could go every 1 night." saht Margaret, fervently. "They're a hard set, Maggy," said her lover, a little malice in his voice. "Hov do ycu know? Are you sure of that ?" she asked, eagerly and reprovingly. "Oh, they're generally thought to be. Well, good-night, Maggy ;" and he had gone ten steps before it occured to him that they had parted without a kiss. "1 don't care,"' he said, sullenly, half aloud; "and that fellow stays at her uncle's tavern, too. Why should it nettle ime so, *anyway ?" Now Margaret and her cousin Anne were almost as Inseparable as sister's. It was with a quick beating heatrt that tihe former took her way to the tavern next dhay, me~eting Anne as usual at the private enitranice for the family. "Oh, Mag1" cried Anne, her eyes spark-. ling, ''you have miade a coniquest." "What do you mean ?" asked Margaret, her fair face flushing, her pulses beating tumultously. ''Why, you know-last night. Oh, isn't lie glorIous I-exquisite? and only think lie asked papa who that very lovely girl wais a pink ribbQns in the seQnd seat-and that was you I Papa laughed and told hn lisa niece, and somebody else said( something very haandsomYe about you at the table, and then papa up and said you were engaged to Charlie Vance, which sorindedl so ridliculouis. And I give you my word of honior tile 'gen tleman tulrnedi pale." "NonsenselI" said Margaret; b)ut the flat tering words had acgoimplishied their work, and it was net hard to persuade her to stay to dinneor, whore of course her lovely blush ing face did not a little, execution. "Well, Maggy, whiat is it to he ?" asked. Charlie Vance, sternly. . This was onily a week afterwar-d. All thd softness had gone *out of his face as he spoke. 1[is eyes hiad lost their g,racious. sparkling beauty. It might be that his cheeks were a trille thin, and( certainly is dark face was haggard. "Oh, Charlie!''-she stood on1 the other side of the spacious hearth, dr.ooping anId thiid, lier face very white, and the large eyes startled in expression, like those of a frfrhmtened rawn. "You are changed, Maggy. I don't say it alone. God hlelp us both1 it's talked all over the place. Last night, wh'en I heard somnething at Dilleways, I felt like going. home and blowing my brains out." "Oh, Charlie 1i" 'e voice was more phlitive, and the little figure drod$ped yet lower. "And it all comes of that infernal villain. It all comes of your going black 'and forth to the hotel', anid with your Cousin Anne, to see hiia." "Hie is goi.ng away to-day," she cried, . a great pain in her voice.. . "And you will see hin before he goes?" "Oh no, no, Charl. .Oh, don't look so crel. ?.cani't see himn now you know Ioan'tt "Sneyou've heard that lie's got a wife 1elsewhere, eh ?" "Charlie I I don't care; it; isn't tihat," she answerel, chkingijy. Ho cud h \add-"It is because Ihate found him base, untrue, when ho seemedto me like an angel -of light." HIer rgd. lips qivered; the tears~ stood large and shining oi hie' isshes, her -eyes wers downc -fi4r hand folded- with the rigid clasp of despair. halnever.e4 hh1eagalu1 Ohe whis pored, hoarsely; but if you say all is over between us, why it must be so." " I don't say it need be, mind," he said, looking pitifully down at her. "I can over look a good deal, I love you so much, so much I God In heaven only knows how much I have loved you. But I won't have the face of that man between us. God I no! no!" and his great shoulders lifted with the scarcely drawn breath, while a (lark red hate smoldered In his usually soft eyes. ''It shall be just as you say," she mur nured, meekly, without looking up. "It shall be just as you say," he replied. qutckly. "Do you think you could learn to love inc again, a little?" lie asked, the anger all gone. She was so beautiful. "Try me, Charlie. You are so strong and good, and noble: I always fejt that--. and one can't long like where one can't re spect, can one ?" I eor hands were on his aria now, and the lovely pleading eyes up lifted to his. "You won't see him again ? "I woa't--1 swear I won't I What should I want to see hini for now ? she sobbed. "Then, we will wait.. 'This troupe goes to-morrow. Don't cry, darling; I dare say it will all come out right;" and after a few low-spoken,words, the young man left her, but by no means with peace seated on his bosom's throne. ".lanuna, if anybody cones, -say I'm out called Margaret, from the top stairs. " Well, I guess nobody'll be here to-day, unless it's that actor fellow," was the ro Ponse. "Don't walk in the sun," she added, for mother ani fatier were proud )f their darling 8 beauty, 'nd they secretly wished for her a better match than even lheir neighbor's son. Deep in the woods she struck, determin A never to see that too fair fatal face again. "lle'll be gone to-morrow," she half sob bed, holding her hands hard against her ieart, "and I shall never see - hin again. iod be t hankeld ! for, oh, I dare not trust Iysel f " The path, slippery, with pine-lenaves, ed to ia favorite resting-place-a cleared ipot through which ran a crystal-clear river. r he place combined several' distinctively . teautiful features. Here she sat down, mmindful of the singing stream, the soft , diadows, the sweet murmuring of the wind n the tops of the trees. A footstep near startled her. In the river, as in a mirror, she saw a vision that had become all too dear to her graceful figure clad in black velvet, he bud.I hat, with itsi waving plumes, re lected, with the outstretched hand that eld it, in the blue depths. She sprang to her feet, a burning flush preading over her brow and neck, and vould have fled but that lie was beside her a t a bound. "My beauty ! my darling ! my own I" t "Sir, those words arc an insult to me!" he cried with spirit, striving in vain to free hI erself from his caressing arm. a "An Insult I I would die before I would I Irer you an insult, my beautiful. Come - rith me; I want to show you a lovelier spot u 'an this-come! I" "I will not, she said, firmly, wresting !'s?M bn uot. e-Jw&a ).in ,. - ow dared you ?" "Love will dare anything,'' ho said, 1 ayly, fastening his powerful eyes on her v e, and drawing her glance up to his. 'Come, 1 will woo you like Claude Mel- hI otte." And again lie put an arm about iI er; but, lilte a Ilash of lighting, the two d ere torn asunder, and the man was thrown o eadlong with one blow from the powerful A rm of Charlie Vance. "Go!" lie said, sternly, pointing to the It rightened girl. "J can save you from his ( asolence, but I cannot promise to save you i roi yourself. Go, and think on your t iroken promises." Latter in the day Charlie came up to Mar- b ;aret's house and asked for her. s "Whatever is the matter with thme child ?" i tucried theo mother. I never saw her hii I uich lowv spirits." T1he youn)g mian miade no answver, but 1 vent Into the cool, shaded parlor. Presently ilargaret camne down, white as a lilly. I rlhere was an unspoken question In her< vide, tearless eyes. "'No, I didn't kill him, Maggie, though he' lese'rvedl it. I dlon't, wvat the crime of mur- I Ier on my soul, even foi' you my poor girl. I But 1 sent himt away as sub'dued and cool ed-down a man as ev'er you see. Such men ire always cowvards. And niow, Maggie I rou're freeo. I never should wvant to thInk I >f the -look you gave himi while I held you n my arms, and I should have to think of t. I've comeO to say goed-b)ye, for I'm off for the West, and Itf ever 1-hello I" There wIas a~ lowv, broken sob, andl On his hest Margaret liay a (lead weight. rTe girl had fainted awvay. Well, a long sickness followed. Charlie could niot, leave hier lying there between life and( deOath, and the first visit after she could set upl settled the matter. Margaret had conmqueredl her vanity, which, after all, was more touched than her affections, and found that there was only oine imaige in the heart that had been, as she thonght, so tori) with coiifiicting str'uggles-aund that was the frank, honest, blie-eyed Charlie Vance, who had lovedi her ever since r.he was a baby. And of course they were married. *Mining Experts; In a recent can'vcrsation wIth Mi'. W. B. Welles, of New York, we asked that gen timan his opinIon of mining-experts as they are known to miners. "I can give you my oyinlin in no better way," he re plied(, "than relat,ing an IncIdent In the sit of the famops Emma .Mime, which took place In U~tah, and In which Schienck, o5 Ohio, was seemingly mixed up. Durlng? the 'irhal, .one Capt. Tomn Bates, a man known thiroughout the minng regions of the west, was on the wit,ness-stand, and one of the lgwyers, In cross-examination asked: , "You are a mning-expert. Mr. Bates ?" "No, sir. ~I am not," was the answer. "Did I nlot undij~stanid you to, say that y ou had visited and Inspected nmost of the known mines of the wdat?" ''You did, sir." S"And. liate'you not'mad raining a study for years" -" "1 have, sir." .h 'Well then, please state to the court I"Well, elr, a nulning-expert is a mat who wiears eye lasses, parts his hair iii the mnId4 pi a Freiburg, and Th len there was a profonnq . 0Ience lz court1 add this Caltgih sat do\vn., The Second Love. You must permit me to offer you my congratulations. Mr. Itenaud will, no doubt, be more happy than most of the 3enedicts, having distanced so many con petitors; and he is also greatly to be envied in finding a Beatrice so artless and so un touched by the world and its vanities. For myself, the woman I shall marry is not born. When she appears, I will let you know; until then, believe me your very sincere friend. Ai.Fmj) Fmx.v. Thus wrote Alfred Field to his former fancee, Miss Eille Severe, on the receipt of her wedding-eards, a few days before her marriage. le had loved her In the old (lays two years before ; but Eflle was an un deniable little flirt, and Alfred having been severely tried once or twice by reports of the havoc caused by "Those swee eytes, I hose low replies." lie had forced himself to forget her, and sternly deny to his longing eyes the sight of her faithless, but still beloved face. Iis victory over himself he had thought com plete until the sight of her wedding cards, with the formal "MIss Severe" and "Mr. itenaud" In such close and significant rela tion, seemed to bring back some of his old feelings. le suddenly resolved to go to her wedding; and arrived just in time to wit ness the ceremony at the church. lie followed the bridal party home, and entered the ,old familiar home with the throng, who crowded around the happy pair to offer their joyful congratulations. At lils approach EMile gave a violent start. "Ellie," cried Alfred, in a low, intense tone, "I would give my soul could I believe this day were all a dream I" "You threw away your own happiness," returned EAle, In a tone deep with sup ;ressed emotion. "And now you are left o look forward to felicity with 'the woman vho is not yet born." Years passed away, and Alfred Field still ingered in the realms of bachelordom. The munbeams glanced on many a silver thread mmncg his chestnut curls as he sat on the leek of a steamer one fair spring afternoon, hbout nineteen years after lie had witnessed Mlie Severe's wedding. le was on his way to look after a little vard whom fate had thrown upon hishands n a rather curious manner. Years before, he rescued the child and its mrse from a burning house ; and, no trace f the little orphan's parentage ever turning p, lie had generously maintained her ever tnce. The nurse had become insane from lie fright of that terrible night; and, after ngering for yearsoin this condition, was ow about to die. lie was iooking forward to meeting quite little girl when lie arrived at his lonely illa just outside the town; but as lie en ,red the gate, and advanced up the wind ig avenue which led to the home, he held is breath in wonder at the apparition that ppeared to greet him. Was his old love risen from the dead pastl a a bower of orange trees stood the living nage of Ellie Severe, leaning forward with iger expectancy written In every line of er mobile face. - "Dear guardian l" said she inging nttrcu-wis-specrnes-witui wetf "Speak to your little Gertrude, will you Dt, dear guardian?" pleaded the sweet Dice. It was'long ere Alfred aould connnand imseif sutliclently to talk coherently to his ttle ward. The likeness was indeed won rous; and as day by day.ilew by, and the Id unurse still lay in an unconscious state, Jlfred remained in,that fairy villa, having mple opportunity to find out how much in iind, as well as in person the fair young lcrtrude was like his lost Ellic. Soon gain Alfred Field loved, with all the in mnsity of his nature. At last the old nurse died. Just before er death she regained her mind for a brief pace, and in broken accents told them dhere to find a pocket, bible, which had be nged to Gertrude's mother. Hie took her in his arms, held her close to tis beat.ing heart, and never let her fret mntil she had promisedl, with her sweet face idden in his bosom, to be lis love, his larhing, his wife.. As ho unclasped her from his arms, a book, vhiich lad been lying in her lap, fell to the round, and( from between its leaves dropped letter, old, worn, andl wrInkled. "Where did you get this?" lie gasped. "It was my mother's Bible, and that let er' was tied Inside," answered Gertaudo, in ;reat surpi ise. "Ah, beloved ?" retuirnedi Alfred, folding icr once more in hits arms. ''Your mother vas my first and early love; you are my nat and eternal affection." "Zis Is one Grand Moostakeo" With both dyes hidden by tho black woollen lids that had riacin to a level with lie bridge of his nose, Henri Larquette, whose shirt front wvas spattered wvith blood Lhat had dropped fronm lisa badly damaged ups, presentedl a really pitiable appearance when recenitly he appeared as a prisoner at lie bar of thme Police Court. "flow did you get your Injuries ?" asked theo Court. "ZIa is one grand meestake, Monsieur," answered Henri, giving his shoulders the characterIstic shrug of the Frenchman. "There can be no mistake that you have been Injured by some one,'" said hits Honor. "Zis Is no doubt true, Monsier, but zis is vera, vera painful. I would la-ike to have onie conversation wiz ze doctaire?" "But tell me who struck you?" "Madlam Marquette, Monsieur." "What I Your wife did thiatI" said thme Court, In evident astonishment. "Out, Monsieur. She was one grand fighting woman. Mon. Dieu i IHow zat woman strike out wis her shioulaire I" ox clIihnedUehrl. t"Is sidFrench, too?" asked His Honor. .$ "No,, Monsieur. She was one irs' woman zat:I got 'quaint wis'in Europe." "She was nice then, eh?'' "All, oul, outI1" said Henri. "But now she Is--" "One tam tigaireli I shall be undaire zo obligation to leave zla woman. She will take ze life of my friend. Last night I have some little wIne, and when I was in my slumbairo zat woman come whs her flat and strike one such awfdoh blow sat I think I was one (lead Frenchman." "I guess she punished you enough for getting tight. You can go, but -I would advise you to be temperate ihereafter," said the Court . ,"Oui. I go, but I no go home wis zat Woman, by tain I Zet would be no good for me. ,-o wls so dootaire" said Henmri, as h#ezdhis hat and sadly passed out of Vivid Picture of Liro. What have becomo of the red.heeled shoes, the vast hoops, the brocades and mountains of powdered hair, which no lady could be seen without? La mere guillotine has iade a clean sweep of thei all. The hoop has given place to the swinging robe of Greek statuary, which now scarcely veils the form It drapes; a tunic of white cash mcre, looped to one knee by a cameo, only half covers the neck and shoulders; beneath the bosom it is confined by a ceintture of gold or biass; the bare arms are clasped by antique bracelets; above the white tunic is worn another of scarlet; buskins inclose the legs, Itoman sandals have taken the place of red heeled shoes, and the naked toes are encircled by rings of gold and precious stones. Thlie hair is gathered in a snood, and is of a different color to the complexion, m imitation of the ladies of ancient Rome. Thu men sometimes on public occasions also don the classic dress, and appear in tunic and toga; but the cos tume most aflected by the jeunesse doree is that ai the incroyable, strikingly contrast Ing in its grotesque hideousness with the graceful beauty of that of the other sex. It consists of a narrow-skirted coat with a high collar that reaches nearly to the top of the head; a huge cravat, half concealing jaws and clyi; a short waistcoat, nankeen breeches with bunches of rbbons at the knees, silk stockings, or boots with buff tops, a hunch of seals and trinkets hanging from the breeches pocket to the knee; the hair plaited or gathered into a queue, and rings is the ears. The Spartan plainness of manner which Rlobespierre worked to bring into fashion has dissappeared with the Convention; and the incroyable, who never pronounces the letter 'r' is a far more ob jectionable fop than the aristocrat of the ancient regime. Mingled with these ex quisites are a few dark figures of the old Jacobins, coarsely and uncleanly clad, by affectations; men who frown upon these topperies, and wish the days of Ia Terreur back again that they might consign these sham aristocrats to the same fate as the real ones Between these and the jeunessp doree there is deadly hatred. The furni ture of the rooms is as classical as the ladies; the satins and gildings, and mirrors of Louis Quatorze and Louis Quinze have given place to Pompeian dccorations; beds, couches, urns, lamps, bronzes-all are classic. Literature is all but extinct odes to Liberty and imitations of the Greek alone obtain favor; everybody has had enough of philosophy-at least in books. It is dancing which is now the all-absorbing rage; and instead of Itousseau, Voltaire and Diderot--Vestris, Trenis, Gardel, the maitres de danse, are now the riling spirits of the saloons. The moment they enter, an eager and admiring crowd gathers round to do them homage; then a ring is formed, and these cynosures proceed to execute a series of marve.loris and intricate figures, which the bystanders applaud with the most fervid enthusiasm. After a time all the company join in the dance; the laties take the Bacchantes for their model, now - moving through the ligukshmere shawl that v.oluptuous languor, nowaoulders, and the i graceful movements of their arms, they strike a series of picturesque tableaux, such as are now only seen in the opera ballet. With true French instinct they make a fashion even out of the guillotine. There are,what are called les bails des victimes, to which no person is admitted who has not lost a relative by la Terreur, and whose 1 distinguishing mark must be a band of crape worn around the arm. The moral system which the ladies and gentlemen of the (lays of- Louis Quinze preached is now in. practice. Marriage is a contract which can be dissolved Immediately at the will of the parties concerned; women still young haye already had three husbands; the Christian religion is banned by law, and instead of Sunday, every tenth day is set apart as a holiday. All tis applies to France in one of her many changes. A Neudlss Aham. Thllere arc but fcew, if any insects, either In the larval or perfect state, but what may be eaten with perfect. safety. Some, how ver, have oils In them which forbid their being eaten in quant,ies at a time, becauso of what is called their richness. All may be eaten in limited quanitics. The so-called centip)edes, or thousand legged worms, are eaten by some of the human race, and may. be by all, so far as anything poIsonous is concerned. What is called the great white grab, the young of the May beetle which, in great numbers, are often ploughed up in our fields and gardlens, is a favorite dish with seime of the most enlightened people. The Mahonmetan loathes the oyster as we do the scorpion or spider, and says of the Christian, "lhe is a dirty (log, because he eats oysters' It Is our prejudIce, ingnorance and edlucation that makes u.s -vIew these thmngs with loathIng and tear. I have my self seen a schtoolteacher, In my boyhood, eat of the rattlesnake. TIhe silk worms are extensively eaten in some countries, and snails are much thought of by some persons as are oyster by us. And so with spIders, so generally 'feared. Tihey are reckoned equal to any dlishi that can be made uip by sonic people. If insects wvere polsonoums we should destroy ourselves "daily,'' so -to speak, for wve are constantly taking thorn Into our systems in what we eat; that, Is, living mat,ter in the form of the Infusorla, the Insect, larva or sonme other shape, kind or form. Let attentioni be given to the con diltion of the vegetable Itself, thejefore, rather than to the worm, for a person htad better eat a pound of anty kind of worms than ait ounce of decaying, diseased vegeta ble mattor. Woman as Artists. There are now in F'rane 1,70O0 women engaged in literary ptursuits, tind 2,120 who make a living by cultivating tlhe fine arts. Two-thirds of the former wore orn In the prcvinces, chlelly In the south, while a si mular proportion of the artistarweresborn In Paris. Of the 1)700 writera, 1000 have writt'en novels or short stories for y6ung people ; 200 are poets, 150 write on educa t,ion andl science, the remainder are com pilers, translators and the lik%r Of tlIre ar tIsts, 10 are sculiptors, tJ02,oll.painters, the majority beIng painters of portraits, flowers, anid still nitture, 198 are minlatturhets, 7t54 painters on porcelain, and 404 draw and engrave on,wood, point In water-colors, orinment fans and the like. Wealth Is not hIs who gete, but his --ho enijoys 10, A *reiilexing P*redlialment. The chnteau of Lazieniski, Louis )ixhul occupied it for some time during the Frencl emigration; and it was there that the fa rluonarcl was frightened into a fit of jatui (ice, which lasted some time, and necessi tlted the Chlinge of air which aent him t Witau. In1 the gardet exists a cool grotto occupied by it Cold bath, furnished by thc waters of the little lake in the midkile of which Lazienski sta1n(s. The exiled Bour bon, then Count de I'rovence, was i. customed to use the bath freqifentty; and, one morning, alfter a night of riotiin in tht chateau, to which all the great drinkerl amongst the high life of Warsaw had been invited, he walked down leisurely through the garden to the grotto, determined to have a dip before retiring to rest for the day. 'Th. grotto was dark at all times, at that early time in the morning particularly so. The Count de I'rovence hurried to strip and plunge into the pool, which lay clear and pellucid at the bottom of the. marble steps, shining through the darkness like a mirror in which the moonlight is reflected. Ilis royal highness, differing at that mo nent in nothing from the lmanest peasant. in the same expectant condition, walked down the Steps, and Wls just about to throw himself into the water, when a surly oath broke, as it were, from th'e bottom ol the bath, and in another moment a ligure, all dripping, jumped up amid the darkness, and, seizing 'he count. in a slippery grasp, ing him heavily forward, and burst into a hoarse laugh at his floundering, and al most unconscious wit h I he shock occasioned by the surprise. It was Prince Kasolowski, the governor, who, inspired with the same idea as the Count de Provence, had hiurr' d into the grounds with the same intention, aid now stood before his royal guest, grin ning and chattering. and presenting the most extraordinary figure possible, for he wore, as sole rainent, the ribban and collar of the Order he had worn at the banquet, with his jeweled star upon his bare skin. By a not unusual characteristic of drunk enness, Ie had carefully replaced the insig iia after having undressed. The obese Bourbon, after having gazed at him wildly for a few moments, and, not recognizing him amid the obscurity of the grotto niti his own troubled vis'on1s, rusheI from the bath, and ran screaming through the grounds ,owards the chateau, with KasolowsklI at lis heels, endeavoring to soothe his fears; 1nd the household, aroused froml1 slunber, Jeheld with amazement, this extraordinary -iatse in the bright suiner morning, and ailed to recognize either of the actors in he scene until they had reached the hall tep. Poor Louis was put to bed well vrappde in blankets, but the shock was so reat that It brought on a bilious attack, vhicl terminated in a severe fit of jain lice, and lie was compelled to remove for hange of air far from the place which he ad alwa's declared to be the most beauti ul spot, lie had beheld in all the travels to vhich the revolution had condemned him. --- -4 hilaidel phl, vcit 1IIIf g Iisist &An lette. One sumuner afternooni her mother vent to pay a short visit to her aunt who ived near by, and gave her little girl per uission to amuse herself on the front door teps ant il her return. So Nannette, in a :lean pink frock and white apron, playinig mul chatting with her big wax "Didy,' vhiclh was h1cr doll's name, fornwd a pretty )ieture to the passers-by some of whoi valked slowly in order to hear the child's alk to her doll. "You'se a big old girl," she went on, nioothing out-1Didy's petticoats, "and I've n(1 you for ever and ever, and 1'se mos' ;ix. But you grow no bigger. You never :Iy, you donl't. You'se a stiad old thing m(d I'm tired of you, I ail I b'leve you'se, :mly a make-b'leve baby, and I want a real, live baby I do-a baby that Will cry! Now Llon't you see," and she gave the dLoll's head a whtack-"that, you don't cry? If any body should lilt ime so, I'd squeam mt-u-r -c-i-r, I wvouldl! And then the p'lissman would conic, andt( there would 1be an awful time. There, nowv sit up, can't, you? Your back is like a broken stick. Oh, hum, i'm Lired of you, D)idy." Leaviing the (loll leanting In a one-sided wvay against the door, Nannett,e posed( her dimpled chin ini her hands and1( sat quietly looking iinto the street. Presently a wo man came along with a bundle in her arms, and seeing Naninette and Didy in the door way, went, up the steps and asked the little girl if she would not like to have a recal lit tIe live baby. "One that, will cry?" eagerly asked Nan ntette. "Yes, one t,bat will cry anid laugh too, after a bit," answered the woman, all the time looking keenly about her; and then in a hushed voice site asked the child if her mother was at home.. "No,- shte's gone to see my auntie, shall I call her?" replied Nannette, jumping to her feet andl clap)ping heir hands, from a feeling as IfIin some way she was to have her long wvished-for live baby. "No, don't call her; and if you want a baby that will cry, you must be very quiet, and listen to me. Mark me now-have you a quarter of a dollar to pa~y for a baby?" "I guess so," anisweredl Nannette; "I've a lot of money up stairs." Anid running up to her roomi she climbed Into a ehnir, tosk down her money box from a shelf, and emptying all her pennies and small silver cohn into her apron, ran (down again. "TI s is as much as.a quaruter of a dollar Isn't it?"' TPhe woman saw at a glance that, .there was more than that amount, and hastIly taking poor little Nannette's carefully hoarded pennies, site whispered : "Now carry the baby uip stairs and keep it hi your own little bed. BIe careful to make no ntoise for it Is sound asleep. D)on't tell anybody yotu have it until It cries. Mind that. When you hear It cry you may know it is higry.". Then the woman went hurriedly away, anid Nannetto never saw her agaIn. Nannette's little heart was nearly break lng with delIght at the thought of .having a real live baby; and holding the bundle fast in her arn's, where the woman had placed it, she began trddging uip stairs wvith it. Finally pumlig and pantIng, her 'checeks all, aglow, see reachled her little bed and turn ing (down the covers, she put In the bundle and covering it up carefully, sheo gave it sonmc loving little pats, Baying softly: "My baby, my real, little live baby thiat, will cryl" And thenashe carefully.;tripped out of the room and dIown staIrs againa . Very sooni Nannette's mother canme honlo, bringtig her a fine large apple which droye althiought, of the. baby frei hkr mitid, and i was dly ehen ightiame is '(ii''' was seated at the supper-table with her pa pit and mainima that she remembered her * baby; but at that time, suddenly, froni somewhere that surely was in the house, t came a baby's cry; and clapping her hands, - her eyes daneiin with joy, Nannette began to slide down from her chair, saying with great eniplinsis, "That's m,I baby." l fer mother laughed. " Your baby, Nan Ilet te?'' Yes, nmintmh, my baby; don't you hear it cry? 'Tis hungr.'' And she .arted to run up stairs, but her mother called her back. "Why Nannette. what alls you? What do you IiI(an about your baby?" she asked in surprise. "Why, mly b1aby, manmuta! I bought It for a aluarter of a dollar. A baby that cries -not a mis'ble make-b'leve baby. Oh, how it does cry; it must be awful hungry.'' And away she darted up the stairs. ier father and Iother arose from their seats in perfect amnazement and followed their little girl to her room, where, lying ulpon her bed, was -ia bundle, from which came a baby's cries. Nannette's mother began to unfaste' the wrappings, and suro enough there was a wee little girl not more than two or three weeks old looking up at I them with two great wet eyes. Of course Nannette was questioned, and she related all she could remember of her talk with the women from whom she bought baby. I cr papa said perhaps the baby had been stolen, and that something had been given to it to make it sleep. "But what shall we do with It ?" asked both the father and muother. "D?o with it?" cried Nannette; "why, it's my baby, mam ma. I paid all my money for it. It cries, it does. I will keep it always." So it was decided that the baby should stay if n'body came to claim It, which no body ever did, although Nannette's papa put1 an advertisement m a paper about it. It would take a large book to tell all of Nannette's experiences in taking care of "mny baby" as she called the little girl, wlhonm she afterward named Victoria in honor of the then young queen of England. Victoria is now a woman, and she lives as does Nannette, in the city of Philadel phia. She hits a little girl of her own, "mes' six.'' who is' named Nannette for the good little ''sister-mother," who once upon a time bought her mamma of a strange woman for a quarter of a dollar, as she thought. And this other little Nannette never tires of hearing the romantic story of the indlent "D)idy" id the "real little live baby that ill cry."' St iry of i Faithful Sorvant. Many years ago, there lived on the banks of the Brandywine, in the State of Pennsy lvanii, an old Quaker gentleman, who pos- d med an old faithful servant. This servant was a horse, and his name was Charley. t Now Charley had trotted before the family e ,linise for many a long year, to the village poatolllce, to the Sabbath-day meeting, and upon all kinds of errands. Old Charley might have about the farm. Tle river di vided the farm, and it was at times neces sary to visit the lot on the other side; there wis a bridge a mile and a half from the house, but there wi'5 '. good ford just down by the bank, whicl' was always used when the water was not too high. One (lily in the Springtime, graodfathcr had to go over t the river, it the fresliet bad come, the banks were overllowed, and the ice ii great cake and fields was coming down with a t rush, so he mounted old Charley, and set 1 oil by the wiay of the bridge. Arriving safely on the other side, lie spent somlte timte on the business which had brought him I over, and it was nearly sundown when he got ready to go home. lie looked- upl) toward the 'bridge, said it was a long three miles j around, and that lie would try the ford. "OlMd Charley cani swim," lie satid, as lie rode down to the bank of the stream, "and1( i it is but a short wvay over." Charley looked reluctant, but after con sidlerable urging lie enitered the stream. In a moment lie was striking out bravely for the opposite shore, but In another moment a great cake of ice came pounding along, overwhehning both man and horse. TIhey l,othi rose, but grandfather had lost his seat, andl as lie wa.; swept along by the powerful current, he caught the diroophing branches of a large sycamore tree, and wais soon safe from immediate daniger. Th'le riderless horse pursuied hIs journey toward the house, and soon reached the shore. HIero, appearing to miss his famuil har, friend, he looked aroundl, and, as it accens, dlscoveredl his master clinging to the branch of the tree; Immediately, and1( wIth out hesitation, lie turned around and swaini boldly for the tree, and beneath the branch ho stop)ped arid apermitted my grandfather to0 get on his back, and then, although quite exhaunsted, lhe started at once for home. Theli whole scene had been witness by the entire family, and they got ready with boats anid went to meet tho-noarly exhaust ad horse; lie was caught by the bridle when miear the shore, and the old gentleman re lieved from his perilowe position. Etiquette of Letter-Writling. As a rule every letter, unless insulting Ia its character, requIres ain answer. To neglect to answer a letter when written to, is as uncivil as to neglect a reply when spoken to. In the reply acknowvledgo first the receipt, of the letter, mention!ng the date and after wards consider till the poiints requiring at tenition. If the letter Is to be very brief, commerre sufilelently far from the top of the page to give a nearly equal amount of blank paper at the bottom of the shect wvhen the letter Is ended. Should the matter ha the letter continue beyond the first page, It Is well to coim mienee a little above the sheet, extending as far as necessary on the other pages. It Is thought Improper to use a half-sheet of paper in formal letters. As a matter of economy anti convenIence for business pur poses, however, It Is customary to have the cardl of the busIness man printed at the top of the sheet, and a AIngle leaf is used, In writing a letter, tihe fanswer.to Wiilc is of more benajft to you.rself than the per son to whomn you write, ficelose - postage stamnp for the reply. Letters should be as free from e'ahures, interknmeat,ion, blots and postscripts as pos sible.. It is decid,edly better to COPY .the lotter thtan to have these appe 1r.. IA letter'of inttoduettoil 6 tc@finletad, tion shouildnever be sealed, ae"thebrt to whomit i gven~ Qught to knowttie 'on~ FOOD FOR TIIOUGHT. h'll( pillow is a silent albyl-despise not its oracles. Employ your time well, if you mean to gain leisure. Frequently review your conduct and not your feeings. Flattery is like champagne-1 soon gets Into the head. Every dog has his day, but the nights belong to the cats. It is better to live on a little, than outlive a great deal. Man's knowledge is but the rivulet, his ignorance as the sea. How to get a good wife-take a good girl amd go to a parson. To read without reflecting Is like eat ings without digesting. A good manl will never teach that which he does not believe. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other. A slip of the foot may be recovered, but that of the tongue, perhaps, never. We should take abundant care for the future, but so as to enjoy the present. "Whatever is, Is right," except w hen you got the right boot on the left toot. Love elevates or debases the soul, ac cording to the object which inspires It. A man may have a thousand ac quaintances, and not one friend among them. Never count on the favor of the rich by flattering either their vanities or vices. "Mankind," said a preacher, "in cludes woman ; for man embraces wo man.' Jealousy is the height of egotism, self-love, and the iritation of a falev vanity. The boat penance we can do for en vying another's merit is to endeavor to Iurpass it. I reckon him a Christian indeed who Is neither ashamed o' the gospel nor a ;hane to it. Look in thy heart and write. Hle hat writes to himself, writes to an Aternal public. When the world has got hold of a lie, t is astoiishing how hard it is to get t away from it. What is that which never asks any l,nestions but requires ntany answers? Lhe street door. When a tooth begins to feel as if there vas a chicken Mcrateltitg at the rot, t'a tie to pullit. "Figures won't lie." That'sanother, low about the human figure atter a lay's hard work? 'I'hey who are very in.lulgent to hemselves, seldom have much consid ration for others. Kindness is stowed away in the heart Ike leaves in a drawer to sweeten every We are more prone to persecute.oth irs for their faith t,an to make sacrl Ices to prove our own. Those who pray with an unforgiving pirit curse themselves every time they ay the Lord's T'rayor. Adversity does not take from us: our rue friends; it only disperses thosQ vho pretend to be such. Speak lut-le, speak truth; spend lit le, pay cash. Better go supperless to >ed thian to run in debt. When one man has a prejudlice igainst another, suspicioni is very busy it coining resemblances. Those who are most addicted to satir ze others, dislike most to be tasade ob ects of satire themsnives. The height of all philosophy Cs to enow thtyself, and the end of til Enowliedge is to know God. Never th ink the worse of another whlo mi occount or diifertn g with you In re igious or political 0op iions. It talking, everything is uinreasona )le that is private to two or thre6, or my portion 01 the company. T1hte grocer oil'ered htim a frozen ham, >nt heo said hte'd rat,her not take the sold shoulder fromn any onto, rThere is no man so frlendiess. but hiat Ite can find a friend sincere enough o tell 1dm disagreeable truths. A lot of bootblacks slttlilg on a cnrb tone may not be India-rubber boys, thtough they are gutter pereigprs. It can be as pleasant for power.to ex e'reise power, and( for see dto dievelop seed, as it is to rust, vhenu rest in needed. "Dying in povery," 'says ajrm'orn moralist, "Is nothing; it is livIng in poverty thtat comes hard on a ,fellow." "You are carrying tIl thing too far," said a-polieemah, as he arrestedl a thief running off witht -a dian's watcht. All ment are bett9r thtan thelr iebulli tions of evil, bitt the.y are .also.. worse thtan their outburst ot npble ent,hnsi asm. What is the digerence bf,ween A tr'ot ting-park and A tribe of savagea? One, is a race course an~d.the other a coarse race. Books like proverbs, receive their chief valu4 from the'stamp and esteem of agei through whleh they have passed. Blessed is the hand that preparbe a pleasure for a child, 'or there is, no saying when and wlgere it may again bloom forth. Mabe 'ting todta e oe in, r.eplied: "The hArdwear business; look at ngy wardrob, "D)1ped into a weak,solution of a' (cornplishmensts," is thte terni fow ,ap plied -to those oft our girls piofessing to be so highly educated. * '. In the South the boydscott'-go int swimmaAr a.Wtha,sa5rtr than can the juveniles In tihe North. This is another douthiern outrage. A graduate of West' ,wo wedt Weost to startle the eby e6me matvelou erform ge,fn#t.h "Is this afr-tlght$" I 1igg st$ au in ahardwva're t4re,S nokned stove. "No, sit " 11le k "~aIr never gets t1Wh'." d us~ tomier. ,"syour -house ad arpVi ole,lji.