Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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/ THE "X. VOL. IV. PARLINGTON, S. C., FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1894. NO. 40. THE tVOEST OF ENEMIES. I do cot fear an enemy Who all his days hath hated me. Ido not bother o’er a foe ■ Whose name and face I do not know. mind me not the small attack Of him who bites behind my back: Bnt Heaven help pie to the end ’Gainst that one who was once my friend. —[John K. Bangs in Harper's Weekly H FEEBLE BTOW. "’E’s tipseyl” "’E’s 'aving a rest!” “What is it?” “Only a sandwich man!” One of the mise rable gutter file had slipped and fal len on the Stnrnd pavement. With the imperial air of the neophyte medi cine man, Talbot Villiers parted the crowd. A Samaritan stood by with a little brandy in a glass. Talbot put it to the human advertisement’s lips. The man opened his eyes with a look of gratitude. The look touched the young medical student. lie held up his finger for a cab, then ho assisted the fallen man into it and took a seat opposite. “ ‘Where to?’asked Talbot. ‘Where do you live? I am going home with you.’ “ ‘Talbot street, Westminster, No. 5,’ murmured the other feebly. ‘My name is Stern, John Stern.’ ” Talbot gave the direction to the cabman; then he examined his com panion more closely. He was an el derly man of refined features. His clothes, though shabby, were remark ably clean, his linen was clean, and be was clean shaven, in fact, such a surplus of cleanliness in one of his late occupation was rather suspicious. Stern bore the young man’s scrutiny with visible uneasiness. He leaned suddenly over to Villiers. “Sir,” ho said, “if you are going home with me, will you keep my carrying of the boards a secret? I don’t want it to come to the cars of my daughter. I am pretty nearly useless for work, but I wish to help her all I can, and that is why I come into the city to carry these boards. She thinks I work in an office.” “I quite understand,” said Talbot pityingly. “Your secret is safe with me.” The words of the man had aroused every generous instinct of his nature. “What made you faint?” “Hunger,” replied Stern laconi cally. Talbot made a hurried motion to stop the cab. Stern laid his hand on bie arm and restrained him. ‘’No, sir.” he said. “I am indebted to you already. You cannot help me furth er; I cannot take anything from you, even food. But I thank you, all the same." Stern’s tone was decisive, and Tal bot i ^d him in amazement. The first answer showed him what little way he had made in medical diagno sis; the second, how little ho knew of human nature. The pride that prevented a hungry man accepting food was to Talbot preposterous, This feeling gave way, however, to one of involuntary respect. At last the cab stopped. Cabs seemed a nov elty inJTalbot street, for a face ap peared at nearly every window. A girl of about twenty was looking from No. 5. As the cab drew up sbe turned very pale and rushed to the door. “My daughter, Kate,” said Stern. “Remember your promise, sir.” “All right,” replied Talbot; then as the girl came to the cab door, he raised his hat. “Don’tbe alarmed; your father hnshnppcnd with a slight accident. He slipped on the curb, lie’s all right; but I thought I had better drive homo with him from the —oflice.” At the sight of her father walking from the '•nb, the color rushed back to her cheeks in such vivid and deli cate tints, and showed so clearly the beauty of her complexion, that Tal bot stood gazing at her in silent ad miration. His eyes lingered on her in a most embarrassing silence. They took in the lines of the slight grace ful figure, the nut-brown huirund the honest steadfast eyes. “I’ll call to-morrow,” he said, with a start, “and hear how ho is—that is, if you don’t mind.” It was evident that Kate regarded him as a junior member of some un known and eminently Christian firm. “You are very kind,” she said— “very kind indeed.” “Don't mention it,” stammered Talbot. “Good morning—I mean good afternoon—Miss Stern.” He re-entered the cab, and telling tho cabman to drive anywhere, es caped from Talbot street in some con fusion. But ho was true to his prom ise. He called tho next day and the day after, and many more times. The state of Stern’s healt h seemed to become a very serious matter. At last this pleasant fiction exploded. He came one afternoon when her eyes were weary with typewriting, and the sight mnddener. him. Ho clasped her in his arms. “Kate, my own dear Kate,” ho cried. “I love you and I want you to bo my wife. Will you, Kate?” Kate looked into his eyes. He needed no other answer; and they passed the afternoon building up a quiet little Bloomsbury practice. Stern was to be made a dispenser. Over the teacups Kate told her father of Talbot’s proposals. He kissed her and sighed. It was not in him to spoil a love-dream; but he scented danger. Talbot Villiers was a gen tleman in every sense of the word; but Talbot Villiers had undoubtedly a father. Who was he? Villiers, senior, would without doubt have his say, unless he was a very mild father indeed. Early the next day when Stern had “ copying” to do in the city, a letter arrived from Talbot enclosing two tickets for the theatre. The letter ran : “ I want you and yohr father both to see this piece. It was pro duced last night with the greatest success, • After you have both seen it I’ll tell you why I am So anxious you should go. I have enclosed some press cuttings which will give you an idea of the plot and the way it is staged. I’m sorry I can’t come; but I have a little business to transact with dad.” ' It was the first time he had men tioned that ominous person. Dad sud denly loomed up very large in Kate’s thoughts. Villiers, senior, unac countably depressed her. She tried to throw this depression off by tell ing her father about t’.a theatre. The play was culled “A Woman’s Love.” Stern had carried the boards that advertised its'‘lirst nTght.” To Kate’s great astonishment, her father re fused to go. She pressed him why. “I can’t go,” said Stern, gravely. “Don’t look so grieved, Kate. Let me tell you why; then perhaps you will understand me. A long time ago I wrote a play ” “You wrote a playl” interrupted Kate, breathlessly. “I knew, you dear, old father, you were clever. Talbot said you were clever. He said you had a clever face.” Stern smiled sadly at this innocent tribute. “Writing a play, Kate, and getting it acted are two very different things. I wrote this play in want, in misery, and with an ailing wife by my side. I wrote it in the odd mo ments snatched from my work. I built high hopes upon it, my dear; I put my whole heart into it, and I fondly dreamt it would lift from mo a burden of debt and give me a home. I signed it with a nom de plume, and sent it to a dramatist called Fielding Clark. I called upon him afterward and asked his opinion of tho play. He told me he had lost it. Then, Kate, I lost heart. 1’overty drove me from pillar to post, and of the many things I grew to hate, the thea tre was one.” Kate threw her arms’ round him and kissed him. “And to think but for that accident,” she cried, “you might have been a great man 1 Never mind 1” “No,” said Stern, wearily passing his hand over his forehead, “never mind. But what have you got in your hand?” * “They are the press notices of the new play. They came with the tick ets.” “Well, my dear, I’m just going to have a pipe at the back of the housb; I’ll look over them. Perhaps I’U^o, after all. You are entering soon on * -life, timti I* should throw aside such prejudices.” He fondly kissed her, and took down his pipe. When her father was gone Kate drew in thought to the window. To think how narrowly she escaped being a dramatist’s daugh ter! While her mind was thus exult ed, she observed a gentleman of mid dle age attentively scanning the houses. He was not a prepossessing gentleman. He was dark, slimly built, and of a sarcastic aspect. ’ At last he fixed his eye on No. 5 and opened the gate. \\ ith a vague mis giving, Kate ran to the door. “Bardon me,” said the visitor, blandly, “but is this Mr. Stern’s.” “Yes,” answered Kate,feeling cold, “this is Mr. Stern’s.” “And if I judge aright,” said the stranger still more blandly, “you are Miss Kate Stern. May 1 have the honor of a few minutes’ conversation with you? My name is Burry Vil liers.” Talbot’s father! The ominous dad in the background 1 With a very pale face Kate ushered him into the house. He politely wailed for her to seat herself, then sat down. “1 fear,” he began, “I have called on a rather unpleasant errand. My visit concerns u flirtation between you and my son.” Kate caught her breath. “There has been no flirtation, Mr. Villiers. Your son has told me that he loved me, and I am not ashamed of return ing his love.” Villiers bowed. “A boy-and-girl attachment,” bo said, airily. “I heard of it from my son’s lips to day. Of course, it cannot proceed, it is folly; but then, when were lovers wise? 1 can assure you, Miss Stern, though fully appreciating your affection for my son, that you must give up all 'thoughts of this marriage.” lie smiled. “Give up all thoughts of it!” cried Kate, with pale lips. “Is that your son’s message?” “No—of course. I am here to rea son with you. You are a mere child; I am a man of the world. We look at different standpoints. But a mar riage is impossible. Y’our posi tion ” “You mean,” interrupted Kate, “that you are rich and 1 am poor.” “Exactly. In all other respects you are, no doubt, my son’s equal; but this unfortunate circumstance is sufficient to restrain mo from giving my consent. I cannot see my son’s prospects blighted. I am willing to pay any price ” Kate’s eyes blazed. The suave, in sinuating manner of Talbot’s “dad” roused her. His way of putting a price on the affections brought back her color. “My price,” she said scornfully, “for what? The love I bear him?” Villiers coolly changed his tactics. “Pardon me; I was wrong. 1 ought not to have made such a suggestion. But you say you love my Son. Well, his career is in your hands. Will you blight it? It rests with you.” “You are putting tho whole re sponsibility of his future on my shoulders,” she answered bitt rly. “Is that tho act of a gentleman? Is it the act of a father who loves his son?” Villiers regarded her more atten tively. IDs suavity diminished. “You are more clever," he said, cold- ly, ‘ than I thought. I will sa; • moi'e. If Jroll take my friendly : in thin Spirit, I ettn do fiotlilfig. I ' you may take it as my last word Ui-ti if my son marries you he does so a beggar; I cast him off; I utterly dis- Otvfl hittb ” “Afid yet,” efisd Kate, “you say you love himt" Villiers took up his hat; he fixed her with a keen, cold glance. “I do. And here is my check book to prove It. 1 will pay any sum to release him from a degrading marriage.” “Degrading 1” The girl staggered. “I will prove to you,” she^aid, in a quavering tone, “which love is the strongest. I will give him up; I will tell him solrom iny own lips. And if ever you veil your Son of this in terview, you may say that I refused to marry him because I loved him. That is my answer.” She sank into the chair from which she had risen, and covered her face with her hands. Barry Villiers’ face lengthened. “My dear young lady, I have wronged you. Pray, make some al lowance for a father’s affection, Lei mejeward you for this act of self- sacrifice.” He pulled out his check book and stood beside her, apparent ly considering the sum, when the dooi that led to the back opened and Stern walked in. Ho looked first at his daughter, then at Villiers. As theit eyes met, something like an electric shock seemed to pass from one to the other. “Fielding Clark!” cried Stern. Kate gave a start. Barry Villiers was Fielding Clark’ the dramatist. Talbot’s father was the author of the play for which they had received the tickets. She turned an amazed look upon her father. His face frightened her. It was exultant and denuncia tory. For a moment Stern’s face seemed to have the same effect upon Barry Villiers. He seemed discon certed, U1 at ease. In Stern’s hands were the press notices crumpled into a ball. Villiers was the first to regain his composure. “Sinclair!” he cried, “John Sin clair, this is a surprise.” Stern turned to his daughter. “Leave us for a moment, Kate,” he said. “I have a few words to say to this—4his gentleman.” Kate rose, and with a worfdering look at her father quitted the room. When.she was gone he fixed a search ing look on Barry Villiers. That gentleman promptly held out his hand. Stern contemptuously disre garded it. i '• “I don’t know why you are in my ItAjUse,” he said slowly.“But up doubt are g, man wqp could explain anythin". Perhaps you can explain this?” He held up the crumpled ball of paper. “These are press notices of a "play produced last night. That play was mine. You stole it. You are a liar and a villain 1” Villiers put down his hat. “Sin clair,” he said, and histones were al most plaintive, “you will regret those words. Yet, they were spoken in the heat of the moment, and I forgive you.” His retort was so staggering that Stern gazed at him dazed. Ho nearly apologized. “Nodoubt,” pursued Villiers, “you think the worst of me. it is not un natural. But there are extenuating circumstances. I own the play was yours. I own I used it. But at the time you came to me it was really lost. I bad mislaid it. I had no knowledge of your real name—I take it that the agreeable young lady who has just left us is your daughter—I bad no means of reaching you. I sought for you; I advertised for you under the name of Sinclair; in the tide of London life you were swept away. Then, Sinclair—I mean Sterft —I was tempted. There came to me the great temptation of my life. I was worked out; a manager stood at my elbow and I took your play. It was culpable, very culpublc; but the question is: ‘What are you going to do?’ ” He paused and looked, not altogether without anxiety, at the man he had wronged. Stern stood before him dejected. To a third party he might easily have been mistaken for the one who was most to biaine. What was he going to do? Tho hoifire of vengeance bud died from him. He stood now with only the cold ashes of lost hopes. “Of course,” said Villiers, *‘you could harm me, prosecute me; but it would bo unchristian ;” Stern thought of the sandwich boards and glared at him. “Give mo the opportunity," he went on, hast ily, “of making atone ment. We are both middle-aged men. Why live in the past! Why should we cloud the happiness of others?” “The happiness of others? What do you mean?” “ITlexplain,” said Villiers. “You know me ns Clark. Villiers is my name, and Talbot Villiers is my son. You may not have noticed the like ness He takes after his mother.” ‘ Thank God!” cried Stern,fervent ly ; but the relationship troubled him. “Ho loves your daughter. Tho match seemed to mo an undesirable one, and I came here to-day to break itjoff. Now it is the dearest wish ol my heart? Why should wo blight their lives?” Stern g.i/.ed at him amazed. Hero was a fresh sophistry. Villiers had robbed him, and uow held out a net for him. Stern’s brain grew hot. “I say ‘we,’ but, of course I mean you. I have no power to do any thing. You have the power. If yot are so unchristian ns to expose mo, you do so at tho price of I heir happi ness, at tho price of youth and inno cence. You shall have all the money I took for the play. I may be a vil lain," said Villiers, with a virtuous burst, “but-1 have a conscience. This is a feeble atonement, Stern; call it, if you liltd, the iesinnfng of one; but do you accept ii." Stern could make no reply. Tfco desire for vengeance had fled; buE*fii Its place Was a dull longing for jib- tice. Theri lie thought of Talbot, of the afternoon in thd Sifatld. “Go*- now. I’ll send you my answer.” He walked as if he were carrying the sandwich boards into the phadow of the room and sat down on a chair. Barry Villiers etood in the sun light. He gazed anxiouslf'it Stern, and was about to open his. mouth when his eyes fell upon the door of the inner room. It had opened; and Kate Stern stood on the threshpld. With a smile of relief the man pf the world bowed and went out ulf the frontdoor. f' Kate approached hor fat$$r and laid her hand on IflMfaqnjde''. Stern looked lip and saw the traces of re cent tears. He kissed her, and thus love conquered both the desire to re instate himself and be quits with the man who had robjied him. “My dear,” he said, “you shall marry Talbot.”—'[Chambers’s Jour nal. THE COCOPAH DESERT. A Veritable Valley of Death In South ern California. For a trip across the, Oocopah Desert in southern California, you fill your zinc canteens at the spring in the Canada de las I’almas; then by a gradual descent down the canyon, the heat noticeably increasing as you de scend, you pass out from the cooling shades of the towering Sierra Madres in that veritable “Valley of Death.” If you are inexperienced, a “tender foot,” never attempt the trip without a guide, and not then between the months of April and October. An Indian will pilot you across for a few dollars, or you may fall in with some old prospector. If so, bis first ques tion will be with reference to your facilities for carrying water. There are no lundmaks by which to shape your course, so a guide is an absolute necessity. Hero and there about the plain are sand dunes, varying in height from, little hillocks to sixty feet or more. Lay your course by even the tallest of these and you are lost, for in a few hours it may have entirely disappeared, only to bo re- builded by the wind at right angles to your course several miles away. If you uro alone, and inexperienced, your only infallible guides will be the sun and stars; if these are obscured, camp and wait until they reappear, if your water supply will permit; if apt. tha» push on through that take pity oil you.’ ft you are exper ienced, the rocks and tho cactus bushes will tcli you which is north and which is south. Opinions differ as to the length of tinio a man can go without water in that desert and retain his reason, but the maximum limit for one unused to desert travel is eight hours. I know of two leather-lunged old prospectors who were thirty-six hours without water, and yet had sufficient sense and strength to follow their old bell burro, whose animal instinct led them to a water hole hitherto unknown, personally, I have gone twenty-two hours without water there, and then slaked my burning thirst in hot, muddy alkali water that had collected on a bear’s track, and, although I had fought with a big, black mountain tiger for the coveted draught, it was the sweetest I ever quaffed. There is gold in tho mountains, silver, quartz and placets, but there Is not sufficient water in tho entire town to supply the domestic necess ities of an average camp, to say noth ing of a stump mill. There is ab solutely no timber, scarcely enough hard wood for camp-fires, and ship ping the ore is out of the question, fabulously rich must be tho ore that can pay for sacking and packing on burros 100 miles to the nearest rail road station.—[St. Louis Globe-Demo crat. Eleven Millions In Jewels. THE JOKER’S BUDGET, JESfa AND YARNS BY FUNNY MEN Of THE PRESS. The Russian crown and other state jewels are valued at the enormous sum of #11,000,000, taking United States money as a basis of calcula tion ; the crown itself is worth nt least- $(»,000,000. It is adorned with hun dreds of diamonds, individual speci mens of which arc valued at all the way from a few dollars up to enor mous sparklers worth thousands upon thousands of dollars. Besides the diamonds, which make tills costly headdress look as if it had been buried in a shower of falling stars, there are fifty-four pearls,each without a flaw, set around the rim, a ruby of extraordinary size and bril liancy being used ns a centrepiece. The crown was made by Panzie, the old-time Genoese court jeweler, and was first used by Catherine the Great. —[New York Journal. A Fighting Swordfish. Saturday C. McVey, a fisherman, returned from a swordfislii'ng trip snd reported a thrilling experience, lie had just thrust the iron into the great fish, when it turned and rushed for his dory, stril.ing it with such force as to send its sword through the boat and to overturn it. All McVey could do was to hold on to the bottom of liis capsized boat. He said that lie remained tour hours in that uncomfortable aosition before IiMp came. Then lie saved his dory and secured thg fish, which had died. This strange experience took place off the South Shoals.—[Portland (Me.) Press. Tho new weaves of alpaca make capital gowns. They are so easily brushed and made “fit” after a long day’s journey, and have sufficient warmth to equal tho light-weight serge or flannel. And Now They Do Not Speak--Evi dently a True Story--Utilizing Hl« Wft—In Japan, Eto., Etc. * AND NOW THEY DO NOT SPEAK. Ho—Did you know opals were in •gtUflT She—No | how do you know? He—At the hop Tuesday an opal pendant was worn by Stoutly, snspended by a fine gold chain. She*-I shouldn’t have supposed a .Sne gold chain would hold her. EVIDENTLY A THWH STORY. “John,” said tho wife to herself, as she proceeded to disrobe her hus band, who had gone to bed with his boots on, “John told mo lie had studied for the bar in his youth I can well believe it, for I think lie knows every bar -in town.”—[New York Press. UTIEIZINO HIS GIFT. “What became of that boy of yours with the powerful voice, who was to study elocution and prepare himself lor the stage?” ‘That project fell through.” “Has he been able to utilize his gift at all?” “Oh, yes; it got him a position.” “Of what nature?” “He is selling circus lemonade.”— [New York Press. IN JAPAN. Japanese Secretary—You say you want to serve us? American—Yes, sire! “And you are from the United States?” “I am, sire!” “And you understand military matters?” “As a book, sire 1” *'Wliat military service have you seen in America that would make you valuable to ns?” “I’m a pension Attorney, sire!” —[Cleveland Plain Dealer. THE WELCOME VISITOR. She did not love him, she, the beau tiful daughter of a merchant prince. Yet her heart was tender and she knew that to lovo is to be happy. He had been coming to tho house every day for four years, and she was always glad to see him, and many, many times she had run joyfully to the door, to meet liim. ..knoweth^S own He was the mail carrier and he had a wife and eight children.—[Detroit Free Preos. ROMANCE THAT COST. “Marie and George have quarreled, you know. He told .her one night that when ho was out of town he al ways felt as though ho would give $10 for just a word with her.” “Well?” “And so the next time he did leave town she put him to tho tost by calling him up on a long-distance telephone and making him pay the bill.”—[Chicago Record. THE ONLY THING NEEDED. Six-year-old Alice, traveling’on the cars, regarded a fat lady near her so long and so earnestly that the lady remarked pleasantly, at last: “Well, my dear, what do you think of me?” “I think,” replied Alice, “that you would be a very nice-looking lady if you could only be slimmed a little.” —LY'outh’s Companion. HIS OBJECTION. “How do you like the young wo man from Boston?” asked the young man’s sister. “Oh, very well. Only she uses such big words. I gave her a flower and she wouldn’t call it by anything but its scientific name.” “But you always liked botany.” “It wasn’t her botany I objected to. It was her haughty-culture.”— [Washington Star. TO BE CONGRATULATED. Teacher—For what were tho an cient Romans remarkable? Dick Hicks — They understood Latin. ON WITH THE BALL. Arizona Pete—I should like very much to go to the dance with you, but, you see, I didn’t come dressed for it. Fewclothes — Never mind that, partner, I can let you have a couple of guns. IT WAS HER FAULT. A little boy, after helping himself several times to water, finally upset the glass, upon which his mother ex claimed impatiently: “My son, I knew you were going to do that.” “Well, mother, if you had only told me in time I would not have done it,” said the boy.—[Philadel phia Times. A HOT WEATHER WISH. Oh, for a lodge in u wilderness Of icebergs, ten miles high, And snow so deep that a man could sleep On top of it next to the sky. Oh, for a polar sea in town, Where a man could swim all day And sleep at night in the moon’s pale light On an ice floe in the bay. Oli. fora sea of lemonade, Ice cold, which ho might quaff; Oh, for a cold-cold-cold-wave flag, ■ And the North Polo for a staff. —[Detroit Free Press. THE DIFFERENCE. The difference between large ships And farmers, you’ll allow, Is this: The large ship plows the sea, While farmers seize the plow. A BORN GALLANT. A DeirOit home has among its la res ct penates a small boy who will hi? a Chesterfield in point of manners at least, if given half a chance. He has a great admiration for his mother, and yet there are times when she is compelled to punish him. Such a tiling occurred the other day. “Now,” said she, after she had concluded a vigorous spaSking for willfulness, “I hope you haze c.iaangod your mind.” / “No, mamma,” he sol/ed. ^’ “I al ways said I’d rather be "p;, 1 inked by you than kissed by any omer lady in town, and I think so yet.”—[Detroit Free Press. AN EXTRAORDINARY WOMAN. The Friend—Have you seen your hushand’.s mother yet? The Bride—I have, and she is the most extraordinary woman I ever heard of. The F.—How is that? Tho B.—Why, she thinks me good enough for her son.—[New York Press. MURDERING HIM. A local band was one day playing at Dunfermline, when an old weaver came up and asked the bandmaster what that was they were playing. “That is ‘The Deatli of Nelson,’ ” solemnly replied the bandmaster. “Ay, man,” rema -ked the weaver, “ye liae gien him an awfu’ death.”— [Dundee News. ANGULAR. Clara—You want to bo careful, dear, when you have on your new wrap, not to lean your shoulder against anything. Maude—Why? Clara—You might make a hole in it.—[Philadelphia Life. . CELTIC PHILOSOPHY. Brannigan—There’s another wan o’ them rieli banker fellers, as has just lost two million dollars in wan day. McManus—Bogob, an’ its better than if it happened to a poor workin’ mon.—[Truth. CAREFUL HORACE. The stately steamer ploughed its way through the blue waves of Lake Michigan: “Oh, Horace!” moaned the young bride, who a moment be fore had paced tho deck with smiling face and love-lit eye, tho happiest of the hafpy, “I feel so queer! Let me lean on your shoulder.” "No, dearest, don’t do that!” ex claimed Horace, hastily; “lean over the side of the steamer.”—[Chicago Tribune. EASILY EXPLAINED. Henderson—Why did they turn Skinner out of the church? Williamson—He sold the pastor a horse.—[Life. THE PLACE TO FIND IT. • “America has no standing army, I boliove,” said the foreigner. “It’s clear you haven’t spent much time in the street cars of this great country,” replied the native.— [Truth. TRULY PENITENT. TJic Judge—I should think you would bo sorry for having so far for gotten yourself as to throw a plate at your wife. The Prisoner (penitently)—I am, your honor; that plato cost ten C“nts.—[Buffalo Courier. NAMING HER POISON. “If you were about to commit sui cide,” said the'pale, mournful girl, “what poison would you select?" “I would select tyrotoxicon, a poi son which I understand is obtainable only in ice cream,” replied the girl to whom life is a pleasure.—[New York Sun. IN THE PROFESSIONAL SLANG. The Sarcastic Barnstormers (after the bombardment from tho gallery) —I have eggs enough now, thank you. Will no one send up an accom panying ham? The Gallery (with emphasis)—It’s on the stage now. —[Chicago Record. THE RETORT COURTEOUS. She—But how can you think I’m pretty, when my nose turns up so dreadfully? He—Well, all I have to say is, that it shows mighty poor taste in back ing away from such a lovely mouth. —[Philadelphia Life. A MATTER OF QUESTION. Maid—Please, ma’am, I’d like to ~ e you ft week’s notice. I (stress—Why, Mary, this is a » prise. Do you hope to better yoursell? Maid (blushing)—Well, not exactly that, ma’am. I’m going to get mar ried.—[Truth. THE WRETCH. Fogg pretends to have made the discovery that “better half,” refer ring to one’s wife, was originally writ ten “bitter half.” That means something, he says. The wretch.— [Boston Transcript. UNLESS THEY ARK WATCHED. "Your city seems to be pretty well cut up by electric railways,” said tho visitor. “It is,” responded the resident. “And so are the citizens.”—[Chicago Inter-Ocean. TO AVOID CONFUSION. He was quite frantic by this time. He would have knelt on tho wet sands at her feet had lie possessed a change of trousers. “I give you my heart,” be cried. (She smiled pleasantly. “Would you like it checked?” she asked. “Hearts arc so much alike, you know.” It seemed to him that he must die, but ho did not. He was spared for other things.— [Detroit Tribune. 'CHILDREN’S COLUMN. grandma’s punishment. "Can’t Ben div me a peath, grand ma?” whimpered little Betty Brown, wistfully following her brother from the goose-yard, where the cross old gander was still scolding and mumb ling a great rough “pit” Ben had thrown at him, down to tho porch where grandma was darning stock ings. “Peach, Ben! Why, what’s tho child teasing about! There aren’t any peaches nearer than Ma’am Thomes’s 1” “Ben’s dot some—a whole potick- ful—an* ho won’t so much as let mo smell of ’em!” complained Betty, twirling her hat by tho strings and scowling a little. “Why, Ben, you can not have been down to the Thomes’s peach-tree?” and grandma held her daruing-ncedlo aloft and looked at Ben severely. “I found ’em over tho wall, any way, side of tho road, in the tansy. Don’t peaches and things in the road belong to folks? “Why, yes. they belong to folks that own tho trees, certainly, Ben— not anybody going along the way. How many have you got?” and grandma put down the “clouded foot ing” and thrust her hind, darning- needle, thimble and all, down into Ben’s’ swollen pocket. “Three—four—six—nine 1 My pa tience alive 1 There’s enough to buy Ma’am Thomas n pair of kitchen aprons!—and she so poor, too! How could yon, Ben?” “But grandma, I didn’t know—I didn’t think—” began Ben, in great confusion. “I feel sure you didn’t,” said grand ma, helping him out "It is true, tho road is laid through her little place, and whatever is needed to keep it iu repair is right to bo used. But no one has a right to tho fruit that hangs over or drops into it, any more than if the tree were in tho middle of her garden. She needs every one ot these peaches dear now, to buy her ‘necessaries.’ “I’ve eaten one, grandma,’’said Ben, penitently. “Well, dear boy, I’d carry tho rest right back, so tho luscious things couldn’t tempt me any more. I know just how’tis, deary,” said grandma, sympathetically. “I remember a les son I once bad when I was a littlu girl, and a severe one it was; but I think it did mo g .od in the end and taught me to respect the rights of others. I was staying with my Aunt Merrinm, helping to take care of tho babies and going to school. It was a new town then, and there weren’t many upplo trees. Aunt Merriam had only two— ‘marm’s graft’and ‘pa’s graft,’ they were called. Marm’s graft did not bear at all that year, and pa’s graft only had a few apples in the very tip top—late ones. ‘ ‘Like all children I was fond of apples as n hungry pig. On my way to school there was quite an orchard belonging to Deacon Horr. To bo sure, the ap ples at this time of yeai were green and puckery, but that didn’t make any difference; I ate them, cores and all—not only picked them up by the roadside, but I’m ashamed to say, Ben, I got over the wall into tho orchard, I was so greedy 1 “It went on sometime, till one day while mending my dress Aunt Mer riam found apple cores iu tho pocket that I had laid by to nibble after I went to bed. “Well, there was a reckoning, and tho truth came out. Auut Merriam was greatly shocked, for sho was very strict in matters of right. “And how do you think she pun ished me?" asked grandma. “Sho tied my feet together when she sent mo to school next day—I could just take short stops—so that I couldn’t jump the walls,’ she said. Oh, how shumed I was!—for tho children laughed at my awkward shufflings. Ma’am Lyddy, the teacher, pitiedme. She sent me homo at noon, and Aunt Merriam took off tho hate ful bauds, after talking to mo kindly of my fault. He who would steal a pin Would cteiri a bigger thing. I hope isn’t always true, dearies, but there is no danger of being too careful in looking after tho small Kins. Re member, ’tis tho little foxes that spoil tho vines.”—Youth’s Companion. Wild Honey. It is reported that while workmen were digging a well on n farm near Bandoro, Texas, they unearthed n pet rified tree at a depth of forty-six feet. Tho tree was hollow and tho eavitv was filled with honey. The comb was in a perfect state of preservation, and the cells were filled with honey that tasted sweet, fresh and pure.—New York World.