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HOMER’S FIRST POEM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY A. W. BELLAW.

 

There was a man in our town
As lately owned a mule, .
Which it doth suit me much to say
Was something of a fool, _
As with those quadrupeds it is
The palaeozoic rule.

Now this man started out with him
One gay and festive morn,

And just before him on the mule
He had a sack of corn;—

The mule‘s long ears he used for reins,
As sure as you are born.

Now, this to any thoughtful beast
Is the worst insult known:

It seemed to hurt his dignity
As it would hurt your own;

He stopped right smack upon the road
As solid as a stone.

The man began to coax him up,
But then he wouldn’t budge;

He pulled and pinched his pliant ears
And then began to nudge;

But still that mule he wouldn’t go,
Because he felt a grudge.

Straightway the man began to cuss,
(He had an awful gift!)

His words were nearly strong enough
That very mule to lift.

He was a pious mule and failed
To understand the drift.

He boxed him sideways on the head
With many a ringing blow,

He gouged him with his boots; the mule
Was nothing on the go;—

The hesitation of that beast
Was a wonder here below.

He reached and grabbed him by the tail
To jerk him on ahead;

At once that mule’s feet went aloft
Some twenty feet, ’tis said;

He was not known to be so quick,
And a mule-teer be shed.

When this man did come to himself
He gathered u}; a switch,

And spitting on is hands, he straight
Into the mule did pitch ;-—

At which the mule heaved one large bray,
Melodious and rich.

And thirsting wildly for revenge,
As some mules only can,

He straightened up his warlike ears
And a fierce fight began.

You could not tell which one was mule,
Or which one was the man.

Since Greek met Greek in other days
No such a fight was waged,

And for the space of one ong hour
The din of battle raged;—

The greatest combat known to song
With but so few engaged.

The air was filled for rods around
With clouds of dust that rose

And vailed the awful battle-scene,
Along with shreds of clothes,

Suspenders, gravel-stones, and sticks,
Two men's and four mules’ shoes.

And when the dust at last went down
And ended was the din,

I’ll give my Homeroic oath
Neither was to be seen;

No sign of flesh or bones was left
Where that fierce fray had beeni

The coroner came with jurymen,
As is the usual rule,

He sat upon the fence and said—
N 0 man could answer cool

Whether mule had swallowed man,
Or man had swallowed mule.

 

An “ Infernal Implement."

BY FRED F. FOSTER.

 

“ A NEW word would need to be coined to
fully express the enormity of the crime which
one will commit in order toaccomplish a desired
end ” remarked a widely-known detective,
wit whom I was conversing.

“ And,” he continued, “it is a fact that the
evil deeds of women are more shrewdly planned,
more difficult to trace to their source than are
those perpetrated by men.”

Then he narrated one of his experiences,which
I will give the reader—in his own words, as
nearly as possible.

Three years ago the 25th of last June, Rock-
ville was, early in the morning, startled by the
announcement that the assistant teacher in the
high school—Gertrude Thorns—had just been
found in her bed—dead.

The primitive excitement was increased when
the medical examlner, after his autopsy, de-
clared:

“ I think she was poisoned, though I found no
traces of poison in her stomach.”

It was universally regarded a strange affair,
and the officials of Rockville, urged to do so by
the friends of the deceased, decided to employ a
detective to investigate it, and the investigation
fell to my lot.

At the outset, I acquainted myself with these
facts: that Miss Thorne, a native of Rockville,
was left a penniless orphan when fourteen years
of age; that, by her own unaided efforts, she had
secured an education that enabled her to satisfac-
torily perform the duties of the position which,
at the time of her death, she had occupied near-
ly two years; that she was highly esteemed by
all who knew her, and engaged to be married
the 3d of the coming month; that, in the evening
prior to her death, she had informed the lady
with Whom she boarded that she had queer sen-
sations all over her which she attributed to a
temporary derangement of her stomach, though
she had not eaten a single thing during the day,
except at her meals.

They certainly did not furnish a very substan-
tial basis for my investigation.

I labored upon the case assiduously for a week
and then—

“ I have not renounced the case,” I informed
the chairman of the board of selectmen of
Rockville, “ but I am going to leave the place
for an indefinite length of time and, while away,
I should like to have you create the impres-
sion that I consider it hopeless and have given
it up.

“ 1 will do as you wish,” he replied. “ May I
ask, confidentially,” he continued, “if you think
Miss Thorne’s death unnatural?”

H I do.”

“ And have you obtained any clew to the per-
son responsible for it?”

“ I believe I have.”

“ Thank you. I trust you will follow it up to
the bitter end.”

“ I shall, most assuredly."

An hour later, I took my departure from Rock-
ville, to which I returned about the middle of the
following September.

In the evening subsequent to my second arrival
in the place, accompanied by the chairman of
the'board of selectmen and a sheriff—neither of
whom I would acquaint with my intentions—
I went to the residence Of James “Vest—the
wealthiest man in Rockville—where I asked the
servant who appeared at the door, responsive to
my ringing of the bell:

“ Is Miss Beatrice at home?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply.

“ Please conduct us into her presence,” I
said, in a tone that evidently surprised the
domestic.

Without delay we three were conducted to a
room where a radiantly-beautiful young lady
sat alone with a book in her hand.

At our unannounced appearance she seemed
indescribably amazed, but, arising from her
chair, she courteously invited us to be seated,
saying:

“I am sorry, but I am the only one of the
family at home this evening.”

“The absence of the other members of our
family is inconsequential,” I observed, as sat
down. “I have come to obtain your assistance
in following up a clew to the origin of the mur-
der of Miss Thorne, and these gentlemen came
with me at my request.”

My words caused her to tremble like a leaf
blown upon by a gale, to grow as pale as one
having her brunette complexion could, and they

 

evidently astonished the two officials, judging
from the expression of their countenances.

“ If,” 1 continued, “you cannot afford me the
desired assistance, you must wish to kn0w what
I have learned with reference to the fate of Miss
Thorne, whom you loved so dearly that you
offered to {defray all the expenses consequent
upon the employment of a detective to investi-
gate the cause of her sudden death.”

She remained silent; the officials stared at me;
I went on: .

“ There are three powerful incentives to great
crimes—hatred, the love of money, jealousy. As
Miss Thorne was not known to have an enemy
in the world and no one could be pecuniarily
benefited by her death, it was apparent that
neither of the first two motives could have m-
fluenced her murder, if such her death should
prove to have been. _

“ By the way, you passed last Winter and
spring in Europe?"

“ I did,” was the tremulous response. '

“ And, among other things, brought home With
you a curious ring, which you have never worn
nor even shown your friends?”

She made no response, but came near falling
from her chair.

“ In the stove in Miss Thorne’s room,” I re-
sumed, “ I found some scraps of paper that had
been written upon, which I eventually succeeded
in putting into a readable shape;” and, drawing
from my pocket a piece of card-board, upon
which ‘ scraps ’ of written paperhad been pasted,
I read:

“ ‘ MY DEAR Gnarls:—

“ ‘I wish to make you a wedding. resent and, if
this fits our finger, will have one li c it made for
you in ew York City. Should carry instead of
sending it to you but am busy getting ready to fgo
to the city to-morrow. Please destroy this note, or
reasons that I will state when I see you.

“ ‘ Your affectionate friend,
“ ‘ Brannon.“

“ This note, my first clew, led to my learning
that on are the only known ‘ Beatrice’ within
a ra ius of many miles from Rockville; that,
soon after her return from the School-room to
her boarding-place, in the afternoon of June
24th, a lad called upon Miss Theme and left a
small package with her, and called again some
twenty minutes later and received a package
from her; that he was in your employ, but igno-
rant of the contents of the package.

“That the ‘ this,’in the note, referred to a
ring was self-evident; that the ring was, in some
way, peculiar, your offer to ‘ have one like it
made’ proved beyond a doubt; that it was in
the ‘ package ’ was probable.

“I presumed the ornament played an im or-
tant part in the affair—though was not ab e to
imagine what; was very desirous to see and
examine it, particularly after I had learned by
dextrous inquiry that no one had seen a unique
ring in your possession. How could I obtain it?

“A maid of all work was wanted in your
home, and 1 had an assistant come here and se-
cure the situation, who, after a persistent and
unsuspected search, in an unused part of the
house which on frequently visited, found this,”
and, as I spo e, I took from my pocket 8. ring-
case, which I opened—to revea a strange-look-
ing ring.

‘ Inside this ring there is a tiny point which
protrudes when anything presses against the
interior of the ring; which a microscope shows
to be hollow.

“ I imagine that you poisoned Miss Thorne by
means of this ring; to your motive, I confess
tlliat I” have been unable to obtain the faintest
c ew.

The two officials were dumfounded by my
revelations; Miss West, calmly, and in the firm-
est of tones, said:

“I murdered Gertie because of the intense
love which was secretly mine for her betrothed.

“ I had the infernal implement of death made
for me in Europe,” she continued, “where I
procured the poison used, which is so virulent
that the most minute, quantity, subcutaneous]
introduced into one’s system, will prove fata .'
And another peculiarity of the poison is, it im-
mediately renders any part of the body which it
touches insensible to pa n. ,

“ Since one of our servants left us, ten days
ago, the ring has been missing from its place
of concealment, and I have been exgiecting
thit” my dastardly crime would soon nd me
on .

She drew her right hand from a pocket in
her dress, raised it to her mouth, threw back
her head, fell from her chair—a corpse.

And along the floor rolled an empty vial,
labeled “ Prussic Acid.”

 

 

Old Markhead’s Bullets.

BY C. S. CHASE.

 

ONE of our bravest and hardiest of American
mountaineers was Old Markhead, a man whose
name was known, at one time, from the British
line to the Rio Grande. He seldom met his
equal in mountain craft, and had no superiors,
not even excepting Kit Carson.

The last time we met it was in Santa Fe, New
Mexico, some ten years ago. What has become
of the brave old trapper since then—whether he
is alive or dead, I have never learned.

As I sit in my den tonight and gaze out upon
the picturesque waters of Puget Sound, my
mind reverts to days gone by, and I recall a lit-
tle incident in which Markhead played a leading

art.

In the fall of 18—- a small ar of tra are
one of whom was Old Markhgadfywere begig ed
in a small “ pocket” upon the banks of the el-
lowstone River by a large body of Blackfeet.

Their retreat was a snug one,.and could be
approached only from the river, and after afew
unsuccessful attempts to rout the trappers, the
Indians withdrew and laid a regular siege, de~
termined to starve out the dauntless whites.

Things at length began to look serious, for the
trappers’ rations were running extremely short.
Toward the evening of the fourth day, however,
a mountain-sheep was sighted upon a high cliff
some distance up the river, and Old Markhead

' ventured a shot at it, but with small hopes of

success.

It was a current saying along the border that
the weapon of Markhead never spoke in vain,
and this time it was no exception to the rule, for
the sheep tumbled from the dizzy height and
plunged into the river below, where the swift
current carried it rapidly toward the trappers’
retreat.

One of the men uncoiled his lasso, and, after
two or three unsuccessful attempts, succeeded in
securing the carcass.

Two more days passed by without any signs
of the enemy, but early on the morning of the
third, Markhead and his companions noticed a
large, hollow log drifting toward them at the
will of the current.

The old mountaineer gave it a close inspec-

tion, then made a significant gesture to the‘

others.

“ Boys,” he remarked, “ I’ll bet that thar’s no
less’n twenty holes in ther onder side 0’ that log,
With a red-skin’s head in every one 0’ them.
Ther cunnin’ rascals think they kin work a little
scheme an’ surprise us into an easy victory."

“ I guess you’re right, Markhead,” one of his
companions afiirnied.

“ What’ll we do, boys?” asked Jim Beckwith.

“ J ist keep cool an’ watch my smoke,” an-
swered Markhead, as he loaded the chamber of
his rifle, which was a Spencer repeater, carrying
a fifty~caliber cartridge — the gun weighing,
when loaded, about fifteen pounds.

.“ Jist watch me surprise the imps,” and slip-
Bing down to the water’s very edge, the old true

eart crouched behind a large bowlder lying
there, half in the stream.

Resting his rifle over this rock he waited, im-
movable, while his companions looked on in grim
siler ce.

When about fift yards away the log was
so swung toward 3 ore that only the front end
was Visible to Markhead as he peered over the
bowlder. This was his opportune moment. The
heavy Spencer rung out, loud and stunning, and

in about as many seconds he had put seven
bullets directly into the open end of the hollow

l .

0The last shot, indeed, went entirely through
the hollow of the log, for it was seen to cut the
water a few feet behind it.

Then the old treetrunk partly rolled over and
twenty pairs of bronze arms were seen beating
the water in the throes of death! Every crack
of Markhead’s rifle had been nearly a triple
death-shot;-—in fact, it was the greatest feat of
the kind that ever was witnessed in all that
wilderness. Not an Indian had survived that
deadly rain of lead, which had perforated the
entire length of the hollow tree-trunk.

“ That’s ther way ter fix ’em ” quoth the
mountaineer, with a flush of pri e. “They’re
all fixed, an’ if we can manage to git hold of
that log, we’ll jist stick our own heads in them
holes an’ sail out 0’ here, as soon as it gits dark.”

Fortune again favored them for one of the
red-skins’ head had become w god in the hole
and, steered by his weight the 10 swung tower
the shore, where it was soon easi y secured.

The day passed without event, and when dark-
ness had fully settled upon the mountains the
trappers secured their rifles to the upper side of
the log, and then, assuming the position lately
Occupied by the luckless Blackfeet, they started
upon their perilous and somewhat damp jour-
ney through the canyon below.

n this manner they passed the Indian lines in
safety, and, ten or twelve miles below, landed
and struck out for safer quarters, where there
were less beaver, mink and bear-pelts, but also
less Blackfeet, whose domains very few white
men then dared to invade.

 

 

The Sable Philosopher.

BY THE EX-PARSON.

 

 

“ Hark ” on Theory and Practice.

“ WHAT are you preaching about, old man?”

“ I‘s ’bout gun up dat line ob bizness, Mars’
Alf; an’ I’s ’clined ter think dat, fur es most
preachin’ goes dese yere times, de World kin
’ford ter git ’long widout it, to’r’ble well.”

“ What kind of preaching do you refer to?”

“ Isn’t pertick’ler. Mos’ any kine. Dey seems
ter treat subjicks ’bout alike, fur es I kin see,
dese days. I doesn’t cornfine my ’marks ter de
poolpit. Dar’s a heap Ob fine discou’ses proach
outside, an’ in numerous numbers ob ways.”

“ I don’t doubt it in the least.”

“Yas—sir; dey is mighty bigh-soundin’, an’
dey takes wid de crowd, but dey won’t b’ar fol-
lerin’ up. Ef de man what gits off all dis good
adwice to dem what hungers an’ thirsts arter
’lightenment, could peg out den an’ dere, or else
light out an’ never be hearn ob in dis hemaspear,
hit ’u’d be a good thing all ’roun’.”

“ Really i”

“ Cou’se hit would. You hes hearn dem?”

“ Oh, yes, indeed.”

“ Well, den. dere ain’t no needcessity fer me
ter norate furder on de subjick. Yer kin see
’bout es fur ’roun’ a corner es mos’ folkses.”

“ Just about, I fancy; and therefore I can’t
see what you’re driving at.”

“ Doesn’t yer knows dat day all says one way,
an’ does anoder? Doesn’t yer knows dat de
talks like dey war all types an’ shadders 0
good things ter come, an’ den goes 03 an’ acts
like dey didn’t b’lieve de fu’st word ’bout hit
dereselves?”

“ Perhaps they don’t?”

“ Oh, reckons dey does, mos’ giner’ly.
When dey talks sense, dey b’lieves hit, ef dey
isn’t fools. An’ ’tisn’t fools 1’s ’ludin’ at jes’
now. Nobody is a-carin’ what dat class ob de

perlation hes ter say, or how dey cuts up ar-
gi’ward. Fools don’t count nowhar.”

“ Onl when they pass for wise men.”

“ To be certingly. Dey does dat sometimes.
But do elerment ob socwty what disgusts me
wid humin natur’ don’t come urnder dat head
by no marner ob means.

“ Heaps ob dem am de smarties Ob creation,
an’ de knows hit. Dey hesn’t no strouble
’bout ttin’ a orjince when dey hes a mine ter
8 ak, an’ hit don’t marter what do subjick am,

ey kin talk like a book.

“ Call hit preachin’, call hit lecturin’, call it
noratin’ ob ary fashion yer hes a likin’ ter, hit
draws like a blister. An’ dey talks fa’r an’
squar’——preachers and pollerticians alike—dere
am right smart what a senserble man kin pick
up out Oh what dey lets fall; but when yer gits
de fragmin’s tergedder, jes’ skip, dat’s all. Hit
may do yer some good in dat case.”

‘ If you lin er, what then 1”

“Oh, you ears heaps ob smarties, takin’
fu’st one side an’ den de Oder. Ary one Oh dem
knows mo’ dan de man what proach or norated;
jes’ ter hear dem tell it. Ef yer listens at dem,
yer’ll git all mixed, an’ yer’ll go ’way, like es
not, thinkin’ dat de gen’leman didn’t say
nufillcl; arter all dat you couldn’t say better dan
he di .

“ But dat’s all poppy-cock. Hit’s de fools
yer hes bin listenin at dat time. Ef yer hes de
grace ter go straight ’bout yer business, yer hes
made one p’int.”

“ In what way, uncle?”

“ Dis-a-way, boss. Ef you never knows
nufiin’ mo’ ’bout de gushin’ chile ob natur’ what
yer hes bin a-hearin’, de words may benerfit
yer in right smart ob ways. Ef yer does, do
chances am dat you is woss off for de remainder
ob your days. dan ef yer hed neber heam him
open his head.”

“ You take a dark view of things, I see.”

“ Dat may be kase I’s ruther dark-complec—
ted. But one thing I is sure of. Ef de way
ar’n’t ter talk one way, an’ mean jes’ de opper-
site, hit am ter talk squar’ an’ do crooked. I’s
been watchin’ dem.”

“ I should say you had.”

“De canderdate fer Orfice am all in favor ob
’connermy. Hit am de ’stravagance ob de Gov’-
ment what am clean ruinatin’ de nation an’
everybody else. Hit sounds like Gospill truth,
an’ I reckon hit am; but jes’ put dat identickle
inderwiddle whar he wants ter git, an’ watch
him. I hes done hit, Mars’ A f. Dey is all
alike.”

“ A sad reflection, truly l”

“ Yes, I’s refiectin’ on dem—l knows hit—an’
dey leaves rooni fer hit. Dey tells yer ’bout de
no-’count ’p’intments what has bin made, an’ de
gin’ral forlornity dat hes follered in cornse-
quence. Hit’s de Lor’s trufe, in a numerosity
ob oases. But does dey better it? Jes’ you
watch dere motions. Dey wossers hit.”

“ It‘s bad enough, I’m afraid.”

“An’ hit don’t grow no better. An’ all dot
preachin’ an’ noratin’ am speshly designed ter
frow san’ in do orbits of de public, an’ set dem
ter restin’ on de hope dat do good am comin’, an’
nigh ’bout arrove.

" Hit useter make me madder dan ten wet
hens, jes’ ter listen at de quantity ob home—
_ uni-ls lies dese yere deceivers ob de public man—
idgml to git ofl’, an’ pass current es ginawine
rrue bills; but I hes done got oher dat. Hit
don’t rile me. now wo’th a cent.

“ Et’ folkses am willin’ ter be tuck in, time an’
ag’in, forever an’ eternally—why, let dem; dat’s
all. I ain’t a-carin’.”

“ But do you think, Hark, you are justified in
being so indifferent?”

“ What’s de odds, Mars’ Alf? Hit can’t be
holp. All do worryment dat me an’ you, an’
all sincere pay-triotes, from Mister Dennis
K‘arney ter Sargint Mason, can’t do do fus’
thin ’bout reconstructin’ hit.

“ n’ jes’ like es not, ef we sot out ter try,
We mought fotch up same es de ballunce ob
dem, ’fore we is fdone. Dar am somefin’ dis-
moralizin’ ’bout it.”

“ You give it up, then?”

“I done gun it up, ’fore de ball got well in
motion. An’ hit hes made me ’bout lose faith in
mos’ everything else what’s got tcr be proach
about, like hit needed a lot ob moril props.

“Ef de cause am all right, hit don’t need
‘ dem, an’ do people, when dey hesn’t dere eyes
blinded wid de san’ what hes bin frowed inter
dem, an’ de wool what hes bin clawed ober
dem, kin be left purty safe to dereselves ter

 

mana e ’ligion an’ ebery Oder sort an’ condi-
tion 0 reform.”

“I don’t know that, old man. We need en-
lightenment, now and then—even the Wisest Of
us 17

“ Sartingly; an’ we am allers mighty sure.ob
ittin’ it. But it am jes’ what 1’s in a-sayin’.
f we is corntent wid listenin’ at what day is
tryin’ ter say, an’ don’t ’spect dat dey am
wine ter perform de fu’st stroke ob hit, we_is
gamin’ somefin’, an’ is none de woss fer it.
But, on de corntrair, ef we ins our faith onter
de coat-tails oh 3. pollertic an what preaches
ecornomy, an’ fills his pockets wid de sp’iles ob
orfiCe when he gits dar, we mought es well shut
up shop, an’ he did wid it.

“ Jes’ in de same way. Ef we puts our corn-
fidence in ’ligion, ’ka’se de preacher ’zorts us ter
lay up treasures in Heaven, an’ lets go our grip
onter de pomps an’ vanities, an’ all (is time he
am heapin’ up de shekels, I tells you n ht .now,
we is mighty lierble, when we loses faith in de
messinger, ter lose hit in de message.”

“ You like to see a little more work, I fancy,
and less talk?”

“ Hit stan’s ter reason, boss. Anybody would.
Hyer I hes bin shootin’ off my bazoo fer de las’
quarter ob a hour, an’ dis yere dug-out hain’t
gone no faster dan dc current ob de bayou. I
reckon ou’ll ’gin ter lose faith in my scullin’
properties ’fore long. Hit wouldn’t sprise me
ef you did. De worl’ am jes’ about es slouch—
wa s in one perfession es another.”

‘ Always excepting mine, Hark.”

“An’ what am dat, boss? I ’clar’ fo’ gra-
cious, all do time 1’? know’d yer, I hesn’t foun’
out it!”

“ ine is to do nothing—nothin but talk.”

“ Dat perfession am crowded ars’ Alf. Hit’s
cl’ar overdid, a‘ready. You jes’ mine what I
done tole yer.”

“ What part of it, in particular?”

“ People talks too much wid dere moufs, es hit
am 1”

 

 

Boskins Phy_3_ Base-hall.

BY S. A. D. COX.

 

NOT long since, becoming possessed of the in-
sane notion that he could play ball, Boskins
joined the “ Get There, Elis,” the crack amateur
club of the city.

Boskins had made up his mind that he would
be a pitcher, and for some time past he had been
practicing with a twenty-five—cent ball. He got
so he could throw a curve all right enough; the
only difiiculty was that he could never tell
which wag the ball was going to curve. But
this woul be a benefit, he decided, as the oppos-
ing batsmen would be kept on the gut vice
(short for hop, skip and Jump), to keep from
getting their heads knocked off. He reasoned
that, under such circumstances. they would not
be able to knock the cover off of the ball more
than a few times while he occupied the box.

When Boskins told Jack Sowders, captain of
the Get There, Elis, that he was going to pitch,
that worthy looked dubious. As Boskins’s name
was down on the list for a liberal amount per
month to help sustain the club, he could not well
refuse to let him pitch, however, so he got up a
game with a picked nine, and, with many as-
surances of his faith in Boskins’s ability as a
twirler, put that gentleman in the box to give
the ball. '

Never a man felt prouder than did Boskins on
that memorable afternoon when, the umpire
having called, “ Play balll” he balanced him-
self on one leg and stood ready to deliver.

Boskins fc t at that moment as though he
were a king-pin—a dandy, and he wouldn’t have
swapped places with Jay Gould or Sullivan.

For one moment he stood balanced on one leg,

 

like a turkey gobbler on the watch for a hawk,
glaring defiance into the 9 es of the batsman;
then he suddenly drew bac , made a quick leap
forward and let fly the ball.

It was his intention to throw a combination
of the out-curve and drop, but the curve failed
to materialize; the ball came sailing in, straight
as a string over the plate, and the batsman, a
big six-footer with an arm as big as your leg,
and the e e of an eagle, seeing his name painted
on the ba 1 in big gothic letters, smiled a sort of
I-am~glad-to-see-yourbrother smile, swun back
his wagon-tongue and, letting drive With all
his might, hit the all a crack that sounded like
a clap of thunder in a Kansas rain storm.

That was the last ever seen of that ball. It
sailed away off over right field fence into the
weeds, where it remains to this da , as they
were unableto find it. This little acc dent broke
up Boskins’s nerve, and every man who came to
bat hit him at will. Home runs, three-baggers,
doubles and sin les followed each other with be-
wildering rapi ity, until the opposing side had
batted around twice and Boskins was perspiring
at every pore. He was, what is technically
known as a “ pud,” and it is quite possible, even
probable, that they would be pounding the
would-be pitcher’s alleged curves yet if some-
thing hadn’t happened.

The flrst batsman came to bat for the third
time, and as the first ball pitched was just where
he wanted it, he laid his at against it with all
his power. There was a sharp crack! as the
bat struck the ball; a whiz, as the ball shot
straight down toward the center of the dia-
mond, about three feet from the ground; a
howl, a groan and a thud as the ball struck
Boskins exactly amidsbips, doubled him 11 like
a jack-knife and laid him out on his bac , ten
feet from the box!

Then came confusion, a skurrying of players,
a yell for .a physician, a resort to stimulants, a
cry of “Time!” by the umpire, to await the re-
cuperation of the boss twirler, who, stretched
out on the ground in the shade of the grand
stifind, was coking rather “pale around the
gi s.

Boskins had had all the pitching he wanted,
and said so; but he was game, and after a few
minutes had passed he arose and announced his
readiness to play ball. Sowders, the captain,
was gom to put the ex-twirler out in right
field, but oskins ot in ahead of him and said
he would catch. f course he was allowed to
go behind the bat, and while he remained back
at the backstop, before any one was on bases, it
was a picnic and he thought he had struck a soft
snap.

But, presently, there was a base-runner, and
Boskins had to come up behind the bat. He
would not don the wire mask, however; he
didn’t need any such protection—oh, no! not at
all! Such a thing was necessary only for boys.
NO one remonstrated with him, as the knew it
would do no good, and he was allowed, to have
his own way.

He stopped one or two balls all right, but the
thirdor fourth one was one of those terrible
foul tips. It whizzed back ofi‘ of the bat with a
sort of up-shOot, as quick as a flash of lightning,
and struck Boskins fairly and squarely on the
end of his nose, knOcking that useful member
clear back out of sight in its owner’s face, and
distributing rich, red, Boskins blood over the
ground and the players who rushed to the in-
jured man’s aid with great impartiality.

This .cured Boskins of wanting to catch, but
he (leaded that he could play first base to the
queen’s taste. SO to first he went, and the game
was resumed. One of the players hit a ball to
short and made a break for first. Boskins was
watching the ball, and did not know that he was
standing right on the line in the way of the
base-runner. He found it out, however. The
short-stop got the ball and lined it to first, and
just as Boskins’s hands were going to close on
the sphere, the base—runner ran into him full
tilt, his head striking Boskins fairly in the
stomach, and the great and only first baseman
landed upon the flat of his back about ten feet
from the bag, where he lay, dazed and helpless,
ghllgfihe badse-ruqner galloped merrily around

e iamon , ant scored “ a i ' -
dits of the multitude.” m d the wad plan
This mishap advanced Boskins to second base,
anal-he) hfadn t mbuch more than taken his position

e e e ore a ase-runnerc ' ' '
foremost and spiked his footfitme Bhdmg m feet

 

That settled the matter, so far as Boskins was

concerned. He had all the base-ball he
wanted, and more too, and started to limp across
the diamond to go to the. dressing-er to
,change his clothes, when a big left-handed 
man made a terrific lunge at a ball, missed it,
the bat flying out of his hands and striking the
disabled Boskins with a thud like unto that
made by hitting an empty beer-keg With a club,
and Boskins was knocked senseless with neatness
and dispatch.

They carried him home on a shutter, a bungcd,
bruised, broken-headed, and badly uSed-up man,
and he had to stay in bed for a week, so sore,
and stiff and broken-u was be. And when he
got out again he had ost all interest in base-

all.

He hasn’t attended a game since that awful
afternoon, although previous to that time he had
been one of the rankest, craziest cranks in town.

He is cured

 

Advice to a. Novice in Running.

 

BILLY ROBERTSON, one of the best trainers in
the countr , says the average athlete of to-day
does not do a great deal of training. Unless a
man is instructed by a competent trainer, the
chances of learning are comparatively small.
Long distance running is not so difficult, as a
man after running for a time naturally acquires
a style.

Continuing, Mr. Robertson says: “ When
startin in to train for sprinting he should com-
mence y taking easy jogs, from one-quarter of
a mile toa mile long, when convenient. A is
fled time cannot be advised for an amateur. ost
amateurs train in the evenings. A professional
runner, when training for a race, goes out two
or three times a day.

“ In order that the muscles brought into play
by running may get in good condition, the
novice should keep lisp his easy running for
two or three weeks. hould he do an v olent
work at first he runs the risk of stra ning the
cords in his legs. At the expiration Of—say
three weeks—if he is training for 100 to 200
yards, he should commence to practice start-
in .

g One of the most essential points is,to leave
the mark quickly and properly. He should
take about ten starts and breakaways~that is,
running from thirty to forty ards from the
mark—each night, and he mig t run the full
distance through at a moderate pace occasion-
ally. Once or twice a week he should run right
through at top speed. That is about the work
of professional runners, although they do more
of it.

“Dieting has been done away with. An -
thing which agrees with the novice he can safe y
eat. Sweating is also a method of the past, and
a good rub down after running has been sub-
stituted. A shower bath is sometimes beneficial.
Steve Farrell, the professional runner, has been
known to take a bath after every heat, but the
novice had better not tr it. It all depends on
his constitution. Shou d a shower-bath not
agree with him, he should trya bath in rock-
salt water, as it takes the chill from the body
and burdens the flesh.

“ In training for a distance race a man should
diet slightly, as the stomach must be in perfect
condition. Common sense should govern. In
the afternocn or evening, if trainin for from
one to five miles, 0 about half the d stance one
day and two-tbir the next at a fair gait. Do
not, under any circumstances run yourself
out. Once a week go your full distance at a good
ga t.
“ Should you desire to train for a ten-mile race
run about three or four miles a day, and about
once in every ten days it mi ht be advisable to
cover seven or eight miles. his should be ke t
up until two days before the race. During t e
last two only enough exercise should be taken to
keep the muscles limber.

“Of course it is impossible to make rules
which apply equally to ever man, but the
above rules are followed by t e crack~runners
of to-dav in this country an England. During
the first year he should not become discour-
aged if he does not prove to be a wonder, as
the best work is usually done in the second
year. Sometimes a good trainer can bring out
all there is in a man in three or four months,
but not often.”

“

 

Telephone Echoes.

 

“ STRIKE when the iron is hot,” said the serv-
ant-girl, who made her demand for more wages
on ironing day.

TOM—“ It pays to buy a good watch.” Jack
—“ Yes, you can get all the more on it when you
come to pawn it.”

WHEN the Judge of the District Court at St.
Joseph is ready for business, he says: “Open
cote, Mr. Sheh’f.”

OLD GENTLEMAN—“Which of my daughters
are on after, young man 'i” Candid Young Man
—“ hat’s what I want to know, sir. What are
their respective fortunes?”

BARON LIEBIG says that there is as much nu-
trition in winch of flour as there is in eight pints
of beer. ell, they don’t drink beer for the nu-
trition—they drink it for the free lunch.

WOOD—“If I had my choice I would spend
my summers in New rt and my winters in
Florida.” Ryde—“ hat would you do in
spring and autumn?” Wood—“ Oh, I would be
failing in New York."

AS the family is about to sit down to dinner
the news of the death of an aunt is received.
Suddenly little Emile asks, looking longingly at
the well filled plate: “ Papa, must we cry now,
or can we wait till we have eaten dinner?”

Orr"an SOFTMAN—“ Aw, Miss Ethel, do you
know [—aw—mean to give that fellah a piece of
my mind when—” Ethel Sharp—“ Good gra-
mous, Mr. Softmnn, don’t. He wouldn’t even
recognize the gift, and it would kill you.”

ABOUT the most distressing thin that can
happen a man is to meet the girl who rejected
him a year before when he is out rolling the per-
ambulator containing the bowling pledge of
the affection of the girl he married ‘just for
spite.”

“ Do you know, my dear Clara, that Robert is
such a reader of novels that he even takes a book
With him when he goes out shooting?” “Oh,
that’s nothing, Mamie, William never goes in
Elbe field without having a magazine-rifle in his

am .

“'1”: (who has a seVere cold, to husband about
to start for his place of business)~»“ Plede stob
at the beat barket, Charles, and order sub beat
for didder.” Husband (who also has a cold)—
“ What kide of beat do you wad, Bury?” Wife
—“ Any kide of button will do.”

THE ( 'ongroguh‘mrah’st tells of a unique request

for prayer which a minister recently received.
The request read: “The prayers of this con—
gregation are requested for a man who is get—
ting rich.” When he actuall becomes rich, he
will probably keep the bret ren pretty busy
praying.
' CULTUS——“I’m disgusted at the way this road
is conducted. Everythin seems to be done on
the laissez faire principe.” Breesey—“Lazv
fare! You’re off there, old fellow. They’re
prompt enough after their fare. But they’re
azy enough getting anywhere. If you mean
that, l’m with you.’

NAPOLEON III. never had the reputation of a
wit. but he said one sharp thing after he had
made himself master of the destinies of France.
It was at the expense of his princely cousin Plon
Plon, who said to him one day: “You have
nothing of our uncle about you." “ Yes,” he
replied, “ his family.”

YOUNG TRAMP—“ Here comes a well-dressed
fellow down the street singing, ‘ Ten thousand a
year is my income clear.’ I guess I’ll strike him
for a dime.” Old Veteran—“Don’t do it; he
hasn’t got a cent. Strike this workingman com-
ing here, whistling, ‘I’ve got fifteen dollars in

 

my inside pocket.” He’s got it.

 

 

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