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THE QEDIER.

or J0 KING,
He was a soldier in the ranks,
And always fought to win,
But in the ranks of love lie_steypped
When Cupid said, " Fall in.’

He wrote the lady of his love:
" I’ll cherish you for aye, _
Your smile is all that will campaign
I'm very proud to say.

"I hope our loves are uniform,
1 charge you to believe
That [‘11' surrender at your word,
And never ask reprieve.

“ I don‘t know when my love big-gun;
Your face I can’t Withstand,
And I am willing now to give
My life, dear, for your land.

“ I’m very poor in worldly goods:
No money have I got:
The fortunes of the war, my love,
Are all my little lot.

"My life is wounded round your heart;
And I long to make you mine,
And I am anxious to enlist
In the matrimonial line.

“ I‘d like to march with you through life,
Nor t hink it any crime,
It for three years or during war
You made me step to time.

“ Don‘t say my hopes are volley, miss,
'I‘o please you I would try, .
And plenty of head-quarters give
Your bonnets for to buy.

“ Do not say no! Were I repulsed
I’d be a lifeless corps:
I‘d think I musket out of here,
And prefer to be no more.

“ You'd always be in arms, my dear,
On my parole I’d place you,
And oft we’d countermarchiug go
For silks and things to dress you.

“ Your little armys, dear, should make
A prisoner of me:
And in the shades of private life
How happy we would be."

She said: ” Your bold advances, sir,
From pleasing me are far,

In such a cause I would not run
The chances of the war.

“ Had you a wife, my powdered sir,
You would deserter soon,
Or her to poverty would drag,
Since you are a dragoon. .

“ Your views are so militious, sir,
I charge you not to stay:
We’ll not fall in, but we’ll fall out,
So, soldier, march away!”

 

The little Street Pilot.

BY CAPT. C. C. JESSEY.

 

 

“ LITTLE J0 ”—-that was his name, or, at
least, it was the only name by which he was
generally known, although he himself, when
asked, declared that his “real and lawful and
only true and proer cognomen” was Joseph
IVarrington; for “ o " was very voluble,'be it
known. Such a name as this, however, was
much too long and unwieldy for the glib
tongues of his fellow—newsboys, and hence it
will readily be seen how easily it came to be
shortened to brief and euphonious “ Little J 0.”

As to the adjective prefix “ little,“ that came
naturally to the mind the moment one saw the
boy. He was a little fellow—so little, in fact,
that to have seen him with his bundle of papers
under his arm would have caused you to smile.
The bundle usually seemed to be larger than
the boy, by half.

“ Little J o ” was a newsboy; and a few years
ago he was to be found dail at the junction of
Broadway, Ann street and ark Row, or in that
immediate vicinity, calling out the names of his
papers in stock as loudly as the loudest.

“Jo” was bright and ready, with sky—blue
eyes and golden hair that hung in clustered
ringlets all over his shapely head. He may have
been nine years old, he certainly was not any
older; and he looked even younger than that.
He was not a “pretty” boy, nor were his fea-
tures homely: for the highly intelligent expres-
sion of his face overcame its plainness and ren-
dered it attractive. Few persons passed “ Lit—
tle J o ” without turning to take a second glance
at him, although this was caused as much by his
spri htly tongue, perhaps, as by anything else:
for ‘ J o ” was witty, astonishingly uick at re-
partee, and decidedly loquacious. Lnlike most
of his companions, though, he was never Known
to use profane language.

Such was “ Little J 0.”

One pleasant evening in early May I happened
to be standing in front of the post-office, where
I had stopped for a moment to exchange a few
words with a friend, when suddenly, a firm
hand fell upon mly shoulder and held me as with
a grip of steel. turned my head quickly, ex—
pecting, of course, to behold the smiling face of
some familiar friend; but to my surprise the
man who had thus unceremoniously laid his
hand upon me was a stranger. He was a tall,
dark man, with black and piercing eyes, and
wearing a heavy black beard.

“Sir,” I said, “please to remove your hand,
or else quickly explain why you have taken this
liberty. ’

“ Ha! ha! ha!” the stranger lau bed, in a
loud and hearty voice, as he remove his hand
from my shoulder and extended it in a most
cordial manner to grasp my own. “ Don’t you
know me, captain?”

I gave him my hand, his manner was so frank
and open that I could not help it; but know him
I did not.

“ I believe I fail to recognize you, sir,” I said—
or rather gasped. for he was shaking my hand
so heartily that it almost caused me to wince
with pain. Indeed, he was pumping my arm
up and down so furiously that I really began to
fear that something would break if he kept it

“ Don’t know me?” he cried.

“ Why, I’m
Paul—Paul Merton!”

It was he, indeed. A friend whom I had not
seen during the past ten years.

Paul Merton was a man several years younger
than I, whose acquaintance I had first made in
Boston when he was quite a youth. He was a
wholessouled fellow, every inch. and I liked him
thoroughly well. At the time when I first knew
him he was employed in a large banking-house,
where he was advanced until he held the posi—
tion of first clerk, with prospects of rising still
higher. Very suddenly, however, he resigned,
told me he was going to South America, and
went. His reason for this sudden movement I
never knew, nor could I learn. It was a mys-
tery to all his friends. I received several letters
from him at first. but he ceased to write, and
for five or six years previously to this sudden
meeting I had not heard from him at all. No
wonder then that I failed to recognize him.

My hand and arm instantly found their ac-
tion, and in the matter of hand—shaking I tried
to return as good as he gave.

I introduced my other friend, but he soon left
us, and then I made a useless attempt to ask
Paul a thousand questions about himself in a
single breath. Of course I failed. In the first
place, because of the impossibility of asking
more than one question at a time: and secondly,
because I was suddenly interrupted by no less——
no greater would sound better—a personage than
“Little Jo. ”

“ Here’s your evenin’ papers!” he cried, as he
pressed close to us and waved a paper over his
head. “ Here’s your evenin’ papers! All the
latest news of the world. from Moscow to Chow—
Chow! If Queen Vic, King William, Old Biz,
or Chawniinozofi’ is dead, here you’ll get the
latest accounts! Paper. sir?"

We both glanced down at the little urchin,
shaking our heads in the negative: but Paul,
the moment his eyes fell upon the lads face, bade
him hold on, and bought a paper, for which he
handed a dollar bill in payment.

uickly cried. “Ain’t you got a twenty or a
fifty that you want chan ed? Do you take me
to be the Sub-Treasury? 0 you think I’m as
rich as A. T. Stewart!”
Paul laughed. .
“ Never mind the change, my little man,” he
said; " keep it for yourself. What is your
name?”

“Thank ’e, sir,” said the boy. And he added:
“ My name? “'ell, ’niost everybody calls me
‘ Little Jo ’; but my real and lawful and only
true and proper cognomen is Joseph Warring-
ton. That’s the name I take with me to Sunday-
school, anyhow.” ,
“Then you go to Sunday-school, do you? ’

“ Yes, sir—cc; every Sunday.”

“ \Vho sends you there?”

“ My mother, sir.” And as the words fell from
his lips I could see the light of love in his clear
blue eyes. As for Paul, he seemed to me to be
very much interested in the boy.

“ Have you no father?” he asked.

“ No,” was the reply, “ he is dead. 1 never
saw him, sir.”

“ “'here do you live?”

“ At No. —— Hester street, sir.
poor, and have. only one room.”
“Is not this a hard life for you?” Paul next
asked.

“ “Well, it ain’t a bed of roses by any means,”
the boy answered, dropping back into his free-
and-easy street patois, which he had discarded
for a moment, proving that his natural lan age
was not that of the genuine street Arab. ‘ ‘ by,”
he added, “ do you want to ’gage me for a pri—
vate secretar , or anything like that? If so, ’m
open to an 0 er. Examine the goods before you
bu . I’m the real stuff, and warranted not to
fa e.”

Paul laughed again. It was indeed curious to
hear such talk from so small a boy. .

“ No ” Paul said, “but I feel an interest in
you. oes your mother have to work, too?”

“ Yes, sir, when she is well; but she is now
sick. I’m ’bliged to you for this money, sir, for
now I can buy her some fruit.”

“ You want to buy some fruit for her, eh?”

“ Yes, sir. I must hurry up and sell my pa—
pers, and then get the fruit and cut for home.
Good-hi ht, sir!”

“ H01 on,” said Paul. “ Here is another dol-
lar. You’ll find fruit rather high, I fear, so take
this too.”

“ make ita point never to refuse the legal
tender,” said the boy, as he accepted the bill.
“ Thank ’e, sir. Now I’m off.” And he darted
away with his cry of “ Evenin’ papers! Evenin’
papers! Paper, sir?” while Paul and I turned
our steps toward up-town.

As we walked along I noticed that my com-
panion was thinking deeply about something, for
he answered my questions half absent-mindedly.

Presently he said:

“Captain, I cannot get that little newsboy
out of my mind. “'hat do you know about
him?”

" No more .than you do,” I answered. “ I
think he is an honest, truthful little chap.”

“ Will you go back with me and find him
again 9” Paul suddenly asked, as he stopped
short. “ The boy reminds me of some one I
have known. though I am unable to say whom,
and I must know more about him. I must see
his face again.”

I agreed. and we walked leisurely back to the
corner. “'hen we arrived there we found a
great number of people collected, but not hav—
ing enough interest in the crowd to inquire the
cause, we looked around for the boy. He was
not to be seen. Thinking then that he must be
somewhere in the crowd; we pressed forward to
see if we could catch a glimpse of his diminu—
tive form.

From the conversation of those around us we
learned that some one had been knocked down
by a horse, and then we, like the others, felt in—
terested and worked our way toward the point
where two policemen were standing.

“ “'ho is it?” some one in the crowd presently
asked, in a loud voice.

“It is ‘ Little Jo,’ the newsboy,” one of the
policemen replied. “Can you tell us where he
lives?”

“ I can tell you that,” cried Paul, as by a des-
perate effort be elbowed his way to the front, I
followin him. “ He lives at No. — Hester
street. Is he badly hurt?”

" No, not very, I guess. There is an ugly
scratch on his head, and he is unconscious, but
no bones are broken.”

“ Have you sent for an ambulance?”

U 8768.”

There on the pavement lay poor “ Little J 0,”
his face as white as death, and his golden hair
dyed red with blood, while on his arm hung a
small basket of fruit. Poor little lad, I can see
him now: and Paul, too, as he knelt beside him,
gently examining his hurt.

While Paul was kneeling beside him the be
opened his eyes, and seeing the kindly face ben -
ing over him, he said:

“ Please, sir, take me home.”

Paul turned to the policeman.

“ If you will call a cab,” he said, “ I will take
the boy home and see that he is cared for.”

“ But the ambulance is here now,” was the
answer.

“ Never mind: let it return. The boy is not
badly hurt, and I Will take care of him. Cap~
tain, will you call a cab 3”

The last to me.

I soon found one, and then with the help of
the policeman the little newsboy was lifted up
and carried to it, and Paul and I set out with
him for his home.

On arriving at the address “ Little Jo” had
given us we inquired for Mrs. W'arrington, and
found that such a person occupied a single room
at the top of the house. It was one of the tall
tenements, commonly called “barracks.” \Ve
told the cabman to wait, and taking the boy
tenderly up we lifted him out of the cab and
carried him up—stairs.

An Irishwoman conducted us to the right
room, knocked, and opened the door for us.
The room was a small one, meagerly furnished,
but perfectly neat and clean, and iii a low chair
sat a woman with a shawl closely drawn around
her slender shoulders.

She was not more than twenty—eight years of
age, but work, worry and want had given her
face a pinched expression that robbed it of its
beauty. while her pale complexion spoke of re-
cent illness.

I entered first, Paul remaining for the mo-
ment out of sight with the boy.

“ Are you Mrs. \Varrington?” I asked.

‘.‘ I am, sir,” was the reply, in a 10w, pleasing
v01ce.

“ Your little boy has met with a slight acci-
dent. and—“

“ Oh!" the woman cried, as she sprung to her
feet. “ I hope it is nothing serious! Tell me,
quickly. sir!”

“Nothing serious, I assure you:” I hastened
to say, and at the same moment Paul entered
with the boy in his arms.

The mother sprung toward him instantly, and
taking the boy into her own arms she covered
his childish face with kisses.

“ Oh, my darling!” she cried, as she laid him
on the bed, " speak to mamma. You are not
badly hurt, are you 2”

“ No. I guess not,” the boy answered, faintly,
with a smile upon his lips.

I glanced at Paul. as he moved toward the
bed, and I noticed that his face was as pale as
death. His eyes were fastened on the gentle-
faced woman as she leaned over her boy, and I
could see that he was greatly agitated. Pres-
entéy he touched her arm, and in a hoarse voice
sai

C

I

We are very

uella—Luella Rollston, is it you?”

The'woman uttered a cry and drew back, her
face expressive of mingled surprise and alarm.

“Who are you?” she gasped.

“ Do you not know me, Luella—me, Paul?”

A glad look came into the woman’s eyes for
an instant, and a flush to her cheeks, and she
put her hand out toward him: but the next mo—
ment her face paled again, and with a low moan
she sunk down upon a chair.

“ Leave me, leave me,” she sobbed. “ Ohl

 

“Say! this the largest you’ve got?” the boy

Paul, leave me!”

I was thunderstruck. Was 1 awake? or
dreaming? I certainly believed the latter.
My friend dro ped u n his knees beside the
woman’s chair, clasped er hand in his, and for
several minutes they conversed in low and earn—
est tones.
Presently Paul rose pressed a kiss upon her
brow, and then turne to me and bade the con-
gratulate him on the hap iest moment of his
life. And he introduced t e woman to me as
Mrs. Rollston.
I was surprised to see the change that had
come over her so suddenly. Her cheeks were all
aglow, and her eyes shone with the light of love
and 'Oy.
“ ut, my boy,” she suddenly cried, “ we are
forgettin him!” and she sprung to the bed
where“ ittleJo” lay.
“Guess I’m coming around all right, mam-
ma,” the little fellow’s cheery voice cried out,
as he sat up. “What is all this circus about,
though?” he asked. “Who’s that man?” indi-
catin Paul.
“ e is Mr. Merton, Jo; a—a friend, an old
friend of mine, Jo.”
Seeing that “Jo” was out of danger, and
needed no medical attendance, Paul turned to
me, sayin :
“ Captain, I must right here and now read a
page of my life’s history to you, and explain
that which is now a mystery, namely, my sud-
den departurc from Boston ten years ago, my
reticence as to my reason for so doing, and now
this strange scene you have witnessed to-
night.
“ Ten years ago, as you know, I held a good
position in the banking—house of Wallman &
Co. My salary was not a large one, but it was
sufficient to kee&me in easy circumstances, and
I was happy. hen I so suddenly resigned my
ition and sailed for South America, though,
was fleeing my country like a criminal from

Justice.”

ible!” I cried.
I cou d not believe it.
“ It is the truth,” Paul answered. “I was an
innocent man, but I was powerless to defend
myself. To flee was my only course.”
" Of what were you accused?” I asked.
“ Of embezzlement,” was the reply. “ Listen.
Perha s you knew—if not I will tell you—that
Mr. W alhnan had a daughter. She was a bean-
tiful girl, and as good, true and womanly as she
was pretty. She was in the habit of coming
down to the banking-house quite frequently, and
it naturally followed that I became acquainted
with her, and she with me.

“Well, to make my story short, it was soon
the same old, old story. I learned to love her—
her, the daughter of a man said to be worth a
million; I, a poor clerk, who had nothing in the
world to depend on save my salary.

“ Somehow Mr. Wallman learned my secret,
and \\ hen he broached the subject to me I did
not deny the fact. His daughter loved me, and
was content to await until my prospects were
better, when she pronnsed to become mine.
What cared I for the angry father? Sim ly
nothing. But I reckoned without my host. fir.
VVallinan was terribly enraged, and forbade my
ever seeing his daughter again. He had far bet-
ter prospects in view for her, he said. As to the
daughter, she never came to the oflice after
that, although I met her elsewhere now and
then by appointment. This her fathersoon found
out, too, and then he formed a plan to ruin my
reputation and make his daughter’s love for me
turn to contempt.

“ Money began to disappear from the bank-
ing—house in a very mysterious manner, and at
last a detective was engaged to ascertain who
was the thief.

" One afternoon, as I was about leaving the
office, Mr. \Vallman called me into his private
room, and as I entered the door the detective I
have mentioned laid his hand upon my arm and
arrested me. In my pocket was found a roll of
bills, amounting to two hundred dollars or more,
nearly all of which bore a rivate mark which
the detective had put upon t e billsto trace them

32‘ I was speechless. I, an innocent man, to
have such a charge made against me. But, good
heavens! how could I explain! my having the
money in my pocket? I could not explain it. I
had no idea it was there. I saw through the
game at once, but what could I do?

“ Mr. W'allman sympathized with me, read
me a severe lecture, and was ‘ kind ’ enough to
say that if I would leave the country at once he
would not make any charge against me, but
would keep my disgrace a secret. What could
I do? Nothing, but go.

“ I handed in my resignation at once, and took

passage for South America. No one could im-
agine why.
“ I heard from Boston occasionally, from dif-
ferent friends, all of whom wondered at my sud-
den move. None knew my secret save Mr.
Wallman, his daughter, and the detective. I
learned of the daughter’s marriage, of Mr.
Wallman’s failure in usiness, of his death soon
afterward, of his daughter’s sudden disappear-
ance from the city, and then nothing more for
years.

“ I went into business in South America,
made money rapidly and saved it, but I had no
desire to return home. The only woman I ever
loved being the wife of another, I had noth—
ing to call me back; almost nothing to live
for.

“ What is it that now brings me back, then?
you would ask. I will tell you. Three months
ago I received a, letter from the detective who
helped Mr. “'allman to carry out his plot
against me, and in it a full confession of his
part in the scheme. Poor fellow! he was about
d in . and was settling up his worldly accounts.
II; aIso informed me that Mr. VVallman’s daugh-
ter. is a widow, and the hope of finding her is
what brought me home.

“ I have been to Boston, where I learned that
she has not been seen in that city for years.
“There she is, no one could tell me.

“ I came here to New York yesterday, hoping
to find a clew to her whereabouts by calling on
her husband’s relatives, whose address I obtain-
ed. but they knew nothing about her.

“ Last night I found you, by chance, captain,
and then this little newsboy came upon us.
The moment I saw his face it reminded me of
some one I had seen: now I can tell you of whom
it was. Captain, this lady is Mr. Wallman’s
daughter, now Mrs. Rollston.”

Here the lady spoke, her hand resting peace-
full in Paul’s.

“ es. I am she.” she said. “ My husband
died about three months after our marriage, and
my father a short time later. I found then that
I was homeless and without money. Nothing
of my father‘s fortune was left. I found that
those whom I thought to be my friends all de—
serted me in my hour of need, and I came to
New York. Here, for several years I did well
at sewing. but my health broke down at last,
and but for my little boy I dare not think what
would have become’of me. As to the name
“'arrington, I assumed it to hide myself from
all who had known me in my happier days.”

“ And but for ‘ Little J0,’” said Paul, “I
would never have found you. Heaven bless
him!”

It was a joyous reunion. I went out. saying
that I would return in an hour. At the end of
that time I was back again, and with me :ny
wife: and when we returned home, Mrs. Rolls-
ton, her boy, and Paul were with us.

The story is told. Mrs. Rollston remained
with us for several weeks, and then she became
Mrs. Paul Merton. I never saw Paul looking
happier than on that occasion, and often his
e es rested fondly upon him to whom he owed
i all, “ Little J o,” the newsboy.

 

SAID Bass to Dr. Pelleteer, who is in the
homeopathic line: “ How does your ‘like cures
like’ work in a case like this, for instance: A
friend of mine, no matter how warm he may be
when he goes to bed, soon becomes chilled and
suffers great pain in consequence. Now, what
would you recommend in his case?” The doctor
replied, without stopping to take breath: “ A

   
  
   
  
   
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
   
 
 
    
 
 
  
 
   
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
 
  
   
   
 
 
  
 
  
   
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
   
   
 
  

THE EDITOR’S FIRE.

BY AUGUSTA CHAMBERS.

 

 

Talk of an every-day fire,
But, oh, hava you ever thought
Of the sorrowful ghosts of effort
With which his tire is fraught?
He—of the mighty scissors—
Of paste, and the massive brain,
Who writes “ Declined," then talks of
“The editorial strain?"

Just fancy his setting a match to
“ A Dynamiter's Plot,”

Yet not becoming a cinder
Upon that very spot.

How often he’s made a martyr
Of “ Ireland‘s Latest Woe.”

Or, "Little Johnnie Has Left Us,”
And " If we could only know."

And he’s warmed his number elevens,
With calm. unruffled brow,

Too oft by the sacred ashes
Of “ Baby’s in Heaven Now."

And never an ode escapes hini,
Never one ode to Spring—

Too dear to the kind waste basket
Ever away to filing.

He‘ll hunt ’em up and toss ’em
In with "The Beautiful Snow,"
Then rub his murderous digits
By that merciless flre‘s glow;
And if there's a thing that turneth
His milk of kindness sour
It is “Kiss Me in the Twilight,"
Or “Only a Little Flower.”

I know this theme is an old one,
Yet ghosts of genius pale

With sonnets as yet unmentioned,
Around me hover and wall;

And they wander about forever
Their manuscripts to find,

Those that were marked “ Rejected,”
Or underscored “ Declined."

 

 

A Bad Man’s Story.

BY JACK CLERMONT.

 

 

J OHN ILINGTER was a bad man; he came from
a family of bad men; they boasted sometimes of
the number of murders committed by persons of
that name. Therefore people who feared and
hated them, were not in the least surprised when
they learned that John, the worst one of all, had
fled their country and gone, it was supposed, out
W'est.

“ He’ll stir up things out there, in his usual
way, get shot or hung by Vigilantes, and that
will bethe end of him,’ said an old acquaintance.
All the men were bad, but, strange to say. the
women were about as good and respectable as
the average.

John Ilingter’s father, during his wander-
ings, had married an innocent country girl:
lived with her for awhile, then deserted her and
her two children. John was then ten and baby
Edith not quite two years old. The mother died
of neglect and a broken heart, and the children
were;given separate homes with two uncles.
John was a villain almost from a child, but
little Edith was her gentle, lovely mother over
again, perhaps with a portion of the old father’s
bravery, though hch was of the true metal.
The only thing John was ever known to love
was little Edith. He got dozens of flo gings for
running away to see her and slipping filer away
from her nurse’s care and hearing her off to the
woods, where, sometimes, the relatives hunted
all night to find them. And Edith loved him:
“ her John” was a king, however wicked, or
whither he led her: and she alone wept when he
fled to strange lands—a branded man.

 

“ I will find him,” she said; “nobody ever
loved him but me. I’ll find him and make him
 He doesn’t mean to be so wicked, poor

0 .

And foolish, loving little Edith packed a few
clothes and took a small purse of money—the
purse and its contents a present from J ohn—and
started out to find her brother in the vast West.
She had no particular plan—only to go to the
wildest part of the wild “rest; so just drifted
onward as she could, stopping now and then to
earn a few dollars, for she soon found female
help scarce and well paid for. Only a modest,
simple girl, she passed along unharmed through
many dangers, protected more by her innocence
than aught else.

She had reached Idaho at last, and was in the

stage-coach passing through the “'alla valley to

Boise City.

It was a dark night: there was a rain falling:

the lumberin old coach was crowded, but all at

once the cone stopped.

“ Road—agents," said an inside passenger.

“The scoundrels, and I’ve got a thousand to

lose”

They were all compelled to clamber out in the

rain, for the coach was literally surrounded with

the outlaws.

“ Here’s a prett little girl, captain, with

only ten dollars; w at shall I do with her?”

“ If she’s that poor, she’d better join our

band,” said the captain: “ bring her along!”

And Edith was dragged up before a huge,

black-masked individual, who rode a powerful

horse, and borne she knew not whither.

“ She’s pretty gritty,” laughed her captor.

“ She’s never squealed, once—about the bravest

I ever struck.”

On, on they gressed, far back in the moun-

tains, until, at awn, they reached a lover val-

ley where sheep b V the thousand, and horses

and cattle by the undred, were grazing, and

rude tents and cabins proved the robbers’

stronghold to be a most delightful place.

After the booty was examined and divided,

the captain took up a small purse and actually

turn pale.

“ “'here—how—whose is this?”

“ Oh, the little girl’s, back yonder.”

“ Bring her here, at once!”

She came slowly forward, but something in

the slight, graceful figure, the drooping head

recalled an almost sacred memory. The road-

agents’ captain leaped to his feet.

“ Edith! darling little sister!”

She smiled and, as when a baby, she put her

tumbled head against his breast and cried for
oy.

J “ \Vhy. how—what—”

“ I was in the coach last night. I had been

hunting for you. I recognized your voice: that

is why I came so quietly.”

The men gathered round and looked on in

amazement. while their daredevil captain, with

shame, almost contrition, clung to and caressed

the crirl he called “little sister.”

“ ’ve been looking for you so long, John.
I’m so glad I’ve found you. I—I want you to
be a better man.”

“ I vn'll!” he said. “We’ll go to San Fran—
cisco, and you shall live like a lady."

“ No! I don’t want to be a lady. I’m used
to work“ I want you to return the things you
——vou—

“ Stole,”laughed John. “ Well, pet, for your
sake I will, to the best of my ability.”

But there was a glitter in John’s black,
treacherous eyes that might have hinted to a
close observer that he was only “ playing it
on.”

Dividin their spoils, and bidding the bovs
good-by, ohn and Edith mounted their horses
and started toward civilization: but thev had
not proceeded far before they were overtaken
by four of his late followers.

“ You scoundrel!” they cried: “ you’ve stolen
our diamonds, our most valuable jewels. We’ll
teach you thatthere must be honor even among
thieves.”

But reckless John only laughed, and quickly
drawing his revolver began firing at them. He
was a fine shot, and two fell under his unerring
aim before he himself was struck dead at terri-
fled Edith’s side.

“Sorry to do it, miss, but couldn’t help it.
He’d shot every one of us if we hadn’t.”

But, Edith was deaf and blind to all else but
her dead brother. ‘ .

“ IVhatever are we to do with the little girl,
anyway?” mused the men. “ We must take her

 

 

 

counterpane, of course.”

where she’ll be cared for.”

  

her at the roadside

And they did, leavin
found her, and bore

where the afternoon coac
her to Boise City.

The band was not captured, and Edith found
in the bank a deposit of ten thousand dollars in
her name.

She never could bear to use it herself, but
gave it all away in charity. She is married
now, to a wealthy busineSs man of that churni-
ing little city, and is as happy as she deserves to

 

 

She Became a. Mormon.

 

“ I DON’T sa ’ as I approve of Mormonism,"
observed the o (1 man as he chewed away at a
fresh quid: “ but I owe one 0‘ them ’ere Mormon
elders a debt of gratitude I kin never pay.”

“ How’s that!” asked one of the group.
“\Vaal, I don’t mind tellin’ ye the sarcum-
stance to while away the time. ’Long ’bout
twenty years ago, when I had some shape to
me, a widder u in the Chenango valley got
struck on me. was mashed on her. It was a
sort of mutual fire insurance company. Two
hours after I first sot eyes on her she squoze my
hand. I responded by hugging her waist. She-
called me her deary. I called her my dovey.
Dan my buttons, if we wasn‘t engaged in less‘n
five ours!”

“ \Vas she nice?”

“ Um! She was an angel! For about four
weeks I was the happiest man in York State.
It seemed as if I trod on air half the time.
Bimeby a dark shadder got up and humped
itself across my azure sky.”

“ “'hat was it 2’"

“ \Vhy, I diskivered that the widder had her
faults. She had a temper like an old meat—ax:
she smoked a pipe: she walked in her sleep: she
believed in dreams. We had a little tiff, same
as all lovers, and she picked u an old scythe
and run me half a mile. Then begun to claw

”

“ Wanted to break, eh ?”

“ The wu'st way. She begged my pardon.
and called me her deary and dovey, and allowed
that I was the noblest Roman on earth, but I
insisted that the silver cord was bu’sted. Then
she sued me for breach 0’ promise—damages,
$10,000."

“ That was tough.”

“ Yes, I sweat over it like a yoke o’ cattle
drawin’ in hay. The day the suit was to be
called I driv down to the depét to take the
train for the county seat, and I found her there.
She come right up an’ shook hands as if nothin’
had happened, and when we went into the cars,
she says. sa '5 she:

“ ‘ John enry, ’tain’t your money I’m after,
but it‘s you I want.’

“ ‘ But you can‘t have me, Lucy Ann,‘ I an-
swers.

“ ‘ Mebbe not, but you had no right to prom-
ise ine.’

" \Vaal, )urty soon I looked down the car and
I spies a -Ioriiion elder. I knowed he was,
’cause I seen him in Attica. He was a mis-
sionary, sent out to gather in the harvest. The
harvest had been mighty slim. and he looked
as glum as a grasshop r left behind the drove.
I goes over to him ant softly says:

“ ‘ Elder, what of the cause?

“ ‘ "l‘is a glorious one,’ he answers.

‘* ‘ And the converts!’

“ ‘ Rayther skeercei

“ ‘ Say, elder, do you want to make a hundred
dollars and a fu'st—class convert at the same
time t‘ I axed him.

" ' If it ar’ the Lord’s will,‘ he solemnly an-
swers.

“ 'Waal, I sent him over to talk to Lucy Ann.
and in fifteen minutes she whistles to me. I
goes over, and they was squ ' hands and
lookin’ everlastin’ bliss into each 0t er’s orbs.

“ ‘John Henry,’says she, ‘a widder woman
may want mone , but she wants a. second hus-
band wuss. Let s dicker.’ ‘

“ ‘ How much to squelch the suit, Lucy?’

“ ‘ Gimme two hundred.” 1n twenty minutes
I had it all fixed, and in three days she headed
“'est with the elder.”

“ Ever hear of her afterward

‘ ‘ Slightly. About a year after I met the elder
over in the Mohawk Valley. He wouldn‘t speak
to me.

" ‘ \V hence this disdain ?’ says I, as I driv him
into a fence corner.

“ ‘ Alas!’ sighs he, ‘ but you were too good.
She broke my jaw, bu’sted my harem. and
kicked so lunch of the stuffin’out of Brigham
Youn ’5 Bible that we can’t find ’nuff Scriptur'
to ho] aprayer-meetin’ on. Go away, designin‘
villain— 0 ’way.’

“ And went.”

 

Telephone Echoes.

IT‘S a mighty poor tramp that hasn‘t a scent.
THE power behind the throne—the billy goat.

No one knows the value of flowers who hasn‘t
botany.

A FRESH roll—the actor’s new part. Another
-—the efforts of the inexperienced skater.

N0. Ethel, dear, Adam did not sing “ Over
the Garden “'all ” when he was “ snaked ” out
of Eden.

CHOLLv—“ Let’s go’n’ see ‘One of Our Girls.’ ”
Gus—“ Go alone if you want to see her. I don’t
go partnership in the girl business."

Ax exchange speaks of a “disreputable
oyster." It is on account of the company it
kee 5. An oyster is generally seen trave ing
wit a hard case.

IT is said that Nathaniel Hawthorne never
found it necessary to use an italicized word.
Then he never hit his thumb with the hammer
while driving a‘ tack.

“GOT anything new this beastly weather?"
asked one citizen of another last Sunday.
“ Yes.” said the interrogated with a fresh frown
on his corrugated visage, “ neuralgia.”
CL‘STOMER-“Wh)’, hang it, man! You’re
wiping off my alate with your handkerchief.”
New waiter—“That‘s all right. I‘m going to
put it in the wash next week, anyhow.”

“ WILL you have some of the maccaroni, Mr.
Maginnis?” “ Mike Boone ‘, did yez soy t"
“ hes. maccaroni." “ Faith, then, and Oil]
have some of that same: it‘s meself niver refuses
anything Oirish."

“ DoX’T be a fool, my dear,” remonstrated a
husband to his wife, who was letting her jaw
swing loose in the breeze. “ I won’t, Mr. Jen—
kins. I won’t. she answered: “people wouldn‘t
know us apart if I did.” He went right down-
town.

“ I SEE by the papers that in Kansas the yield
of corn is forty to the acre. Isn‘t that rather
remarkable?” “ Not at all: only it seems to me
that item is upside—dOWn.” “ Upside-down?"
“ Yes. My experience is that the yield is about
forty achers to the corn. Get off my foot,
please.”

“ \YHAT sort of a reputation has he for hon-
esty?” “ For what?” “ For honesty." “ What’s
that?” “ Do you mean to tell me, you block—
head, that you don’t know what honesty is?"
“ Never heard of it before.” “ What do you do
for a living?” “ Well, sir, I drive a coal cart.”
“ That explains it: you may go."

“ MY husband is so poetic.”said one lady to
another in a car the other day. “ Have you
ever tried rubbin’ his j‘ints with hartshorn lini-
ment. mum?" interrupted a beefy looking wo-
man with a market basket at her feet, who was
sitting at her elbow and overheard the remark.
“That'll straighten him out as quick as any-
thing I know of, if he hain’t got it too bad.”

“ WHAT wild and reckless leaps were those of
Sam Patch at Genesee Falls?” said a lady to
young Threadbrain. “ AW—-Sarm Patch! jump-
ed at the falls, eh? Did he jump tip—.01-
down.” “Jumped over them—~down, ou
know. He jumped over them twice and k' led
himself.” “ V‘Veally'. jumped twice and killed
himself! Aw—did he kill himself the first or

second time he jumped?”