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THE VIOLIN'IST-

BY JOE JOT, JR.

 

 

ot himself an old dilap-

He
I ated violin
That held more noise than twenty men

Could ossibly take in.
'Twas fu l of everything save tunes—
Of squeals and ghostly walls,
Harmonious as a drove of pigs
Stuck fast between the rai s.

He tuned it with a monkey-wrench,
And when the strings would snap
He always put some new ones on—
Indeed did this here chap.
He'd 7rease the strings an soap the bow,
R0 up his sleeves, and then—
Torment that awful violin
Like six or seven men!

He‘d roll his eyes aloft to heaven
And draw his face all wrong.

And all of that man‘s sentient soul
Flashed into that fiddle strong. I
He mashed the little notes with the big,

And how the little ones shrieked!
The rests were very loud in tone
And the very bars they screaked.

The fiddle screamed both night and day.
For it was tortured so;
The sun by day the stars by night
For pit ceased to o.
The eras ing of the e ements,
The people’s groans of woe,
All failed to have effect upon
That demon of the bow.

He never stopped to eat his meals,
He never changed the tune:

That fiddle’s shrieks it swept the town
Just like a wild simoon.

The fire flew at every stroke
Beneath that ii ing how,

And fire flashed rom both his eyes,
And set the room aglow.

The tones like streaks of lightning shot
Through all the firmament.

And deaf folks wildly rushed about
With desperate intent.

So terrible did it become
That people in despair

Attempted to cut off their ears-—
They had no business there!

For seven weeks we stood it all.
And then by popular vote
We rose and that vile violin
We chucked it down his throat.
We hung him up; the jury said
It was an awful fate,
But that by strict chronology
It was seven weeks too late.

 

Yankee Boys in Ceylon:

R.
THE CRUISE OF THE FLYAWAY.

BY C. D. CLARK,
AUTHOR OF “IN THE WILDERNESS,” “non
AND RIFLE,” “CAMP AND CANOE,” ETC,

 

 

IV.——THE COBRA AND SERPENT CHARMER.

THE day’s sport had been glorious, sufficient-
ly seasoned with danger to make it interesting.
The poor people of the vicinity looked upon the
hunters as their benefactors, and agreed to pre-
serve the heads of two of the largest boars to
add to the collection which the boys were mak—
ing. They went back to the village, minus
one horse—Will boasting in his gay way of the
manifest advantage of a high rock over a horse.

“In the first place,” he said, “a rock can’t
throw you out of the saddle, and a horse can.
In the second, a wild boar may file his tusks
against a rock until he gets tired of the sport,
and the rock won’t give in; but a horse is not
near so tough. I have almost decided to dis-
card horses in future.”

“All right,” said Richard, as he plodded
along on foot, and suiting action to word he
pulled Will out of the saddle. “ I’ll ride this
horse to the village. I rather like horses my-
self; and as you are so set against them you
ought not to ride one.”

He bounded into the saddle and rode away,
keeping out of the reach of the boy, who felt
that the tables were turned upon him in a far
from pleasant manner.

“Oh, say, Dick,” he shouted, “this is more
than a joke.”

“ Oh, no, Will; don’t you fret, for I will
ride to the village and tell them that you are
on the way.”

And in spite of the protestations of that prac~
tical joker, Will, he kept the horse, and Will
had to foot it to the village or take some other
means of locomotion. Presently he was seen in
conference with the head man, and at a rapid
order given by the chief some of the coolies
sprimg into the thicket of bamboos, and Will
sat down on a rock to wait for them. In a few
moments these coolies joined the. party on a
trot, with a hastily—constructed bamboo frame
upon their shoulders, upon which Will sat in
stately pride with his arms folded on his bosom.
He was bound to ride to the village after all.

“What do you say to my team, Dick?” he
shouted. “I’ve got a four-in—hand, you see.
That is more than you can say for that bag of
bones under you. He is a regular old skeleton,
that horse, and I wouldn’t change with you for
any consideration.”

He stretched himself at full length upon the
bamboos, and, spreading a handkerchief over
his face, enjoyed the ride hugely. His weight
was nothing to the coolies, accustomed to carry
great burdens for a long distance. They had
gone nearly two miles, when a man was seen to
cross the path in front, at a rapid pace.

“Who is that, Pete?” demanded Sawyer.
“ Can it be Abenhua?”

“ It is!” replied Modo, in an excited tone.
“ Shall I call him?”

“ Yes; he will give the boys some sport. Be-
sides, I would give anything if he would go with
us to Kandy.”

Modo uttered a peculiar cry, at which the
man halted and came toward them. He was a
tall, gaunt, wiry fellow—a genuine Hindoo from
the north, at man of gigantic strength, with a
face so sad that the boys were in sympathy with
him at once.

He wore a white calico tunic, open at the
breast, leaving his massive bosom exposed. His
sandals were dusty and torn, and the knotted
handkerchief about his forehead was stained
with blood. At his back he carried a small
oblong box, and in one hand a kind of flute,
rudely formed from a small joint of bamboo.

“Abenhua!” cried Sawyer, bending in the
saddle to salute him, “I am glad to see you
again.” V

“ Abenhua has not looked on the face of the
Captain Sahib for seven years,” replied the
man, with a 10w bow. “ What good wind has
plown his ship again into the land of the Cinga-

we?” I

“ I have come out with these young men to
hunt the tiger and elephant. ,Will you go with
us again?” .

“ Abenhua promised that if the Captain Sa-
hib came back he would again be his servant.”

“ That is all right. Have you got any snakes
now?”

“ Two,” answered Abenhua.

x “ This is the best snake-charmer in Ceylon,”

‘ explained Sawyer, turning to the young men;
“and as for juggling, he can do things that will
make your hair stand on end. Show us the
snakes, Abenhua.”

The man set the box upon the earth, and
opening a small slide, thrust in his hand. There
was a slight commotion in the box, and he with-

 

drew his hand, holding by the neck one of the
largest of the venomous serpents of India as
well as the most deadly—the cobra di capello,
or hooded snake—a huge creature, over four
feet long, its beautiful mottled body sparkling
in the rays of the sun as it coiled about his
wrist and arm. The expanded hood, marked
with a figure in the shape of a pair of specta-
cles; the thick body, with its beautiful mark-
ings, and the scintillating eyes proved it to be
of that dreaded family. Yet the snake—charm-
er did not appear to fear it in the least, allow-
ing it to coil about his neck and arm, and hold-
ing the head close to his face, teasing it in
every possible way. Yet the snake made no
attempt to bite him, and they began to suspect
that the fangs had been extracted.

“ The young men think that the serpent
has no fangs, Abenhua,” said Sawyer.

“ So much do I think so that I Will take the
snake in my hand,” said Richard, bending in
the saddle to take the snake. The charmer
moved away with a cry of alarm, and Sawyer
caught the young man by the shoulders.

“Abenhua never told a lie in his life,” he
said. “If he says that the serpent is danger-
ous, I, for one, require no other proof.”

“ It is dangerous,” replied the Hindoo. “Let
a coolie bring me a bird.”

One of the Cingalese, who carried on his
shoulder a small pea—hen, which he had snared,
approached the snake—charmer and held out the
bird. Abenhua took it and held it before the
Serpent, thrusting it against his head and teas-
ing him in every possible way, until the serpent
threw back his head, revealing the long white
fangs, and struck the fowl in the neck. Aben-
hua held the fowl for a moment, and then drop-
ped it upon the earth. The bird made no at-
tempt to escape, but remained seated upon the
earth, uttering low, feeble cries of pain. Four
minutes after she fell upon her side, fluttered a
moment, and was dead.

“ Do you doubt now?“ asked Sawyer.
" IVould you like to handle the snake?”

“Excuse me: I was a fool to doubt him, but
I did not think that the man would dare to
handle a really venomous snake so boldly.”

“See here,” said Ned, speaking to the charm-
er. “ If that snake should bite you, would you
really die?”

The man looked at him a moment in silence,
and shook his head.

it  ?9,‘

“ Because I have the golden secret, known
only to my race—the antidote for the venom
of the cobra.”

“ Will you tell what it is?"

"It is a secret, handed down through my
tribe for many centuries.”

“And why not tell it for the common good
of mankind.”

“ I only know one people, and that people my
own,” replied the man. “If a serpent should
bite you I would cure you, but I would do no
more.”

Holding the cobra in one hand the charmer
drew out another with his left hand, and there
he stood, with those horrible creatures twining
about him, a living symbol of power.

“That will do for the snakes, Abenhua.
Now let us see some of your jugglery,” said
Sawyer. “ But where is Rona? I don’t see her
anywhere.”

Abenhua replaced the serpents in the box,
and placing the flute to his lips began a low,
soft, melodious strain. At the sound the bush-
es parted, and there came forth a. beautiful girl,
such a womanas the boys, unaccustomed to the
East, had never seen. She was dressed in an
Eastern costume, a rich tunic of satin, slashed
with gold, “and over this a blue jacket embroid-
ered with silver braid. She wore Turkish
trowsers of yellow silk, and her feet were cov-
ered by dainty sli pers, which could not con—
ceal the beauty 0 er little feet. A scarf was
wrapped about her head in the shape of a tur-
ban, fastened in front by a blazing jewel—a
black diamond.

Her face was “ brown but comely ;” her fea-
tures of the Oriental style, with great, brown,
almond-shaped eyes and small, delicate mouth.
Her hands were small, and loaded with rings of
rare price. She approached with a free, care-
less step, and bent before Abenhua as before a
master.

“ You have come at my call, Rona,” he said.
“These men from the West would witness our
skill. Shall it be?”

“ I am ready, my father," she responded;
“what you tell me that I will perform.”

He took two small bamboo cylinders from
her hand, and planted them upon the earth.
Then, lifting her in his arms as if she had not
weighed a feather’s weight, he placed her so
that one elbow rested upon one of the bamboo
tubes and her foot upon another. Then he pass-
ed from one to another, tapping upon them soft-
ly with a small stick, and to the wonder of the
young men the cylinders began to increase in
length, rising higher and higher, until they had
literally carried the girl up to the hight of fif-
teen feet from the earth. Then, striking one
of the bamboos heavily, it began to recede,
leaving Rona calmly reclining on her elbow,
far above them. Then the bamboo began to
revolve slowly, and the girl revolved with it,
supported only by her elbow, upon the point
of the bamboo. Then the charmer made an-
other sign, and she came floating down from
above, slowly as a bird sinks, and alighted up-
on the earth close beside them, while the bam-
boo fell to the earth, apparently no larger than
it was before.

“Wonderful!” cried Will.
explain that, now?”

“ I don’t attempt to explain it,” replied Saw-
yer. “ The tricks which Abenhua does are
only tricks, it is true, but I want to see any one
else do them. Half the tricks which are per-
formed by the ‘ jugglers’ in America would be
regarded as mere child’s play by such men as
Abenhua.”

The charmer laughed, and raising his right
hand he called to Rona to cut it off! She took
a large and sharp knife, and, raising it above
her head, the cl er extended his hand, she
struck with all her force. The blood spurted
from the severed wrist, and he held it up, the
blood running like a fountain.

“He has hurt himself,” cried Ned, leaping
from the saddle. “Help him, Dick; try and
stop the bleeding.”

Sawyer laughed as Rona caught at the sev-
ered hand, which lay upon the earth, replaced
it on the bleeding wrist, and covered it with a
white cloth. After holding it there a moment,
she took away the cloth, and the charmer held
up his hand, uninjured in any way.

“These are small things to do,” said the Hin-
doo, bowing low before them. “If the sahibs
wish it I will cut off Roma’s head before them
and replace it again.”

“No, no!” said Sawyer, hurriedly. “ I have
seen you do that trick once, and it is altogeth—
er too real. We have seen enough for the pres-
ent, but, if you will f0110w us to the village,
you shall go with us to the hunting-grounds of
Kandy.”

“Rona must go, too.
go also.”

“Of course,” answered Sawyer.
understood.”

1

“ How do you

Where I go she must
“That is

 

“ Is she his daughter?” asked Richard, in a
low tone.

“Yes,” replied Sawyer. “Is she not beau-
tiful? Search through all the world and you
will not find a better or purer girl than Rona.
You should hear her sing, and see her dance.”

“ lVe will see her dance when we get to the
village.”

“Not unless she is in the mood. Rona is
modest and does not like to show off her ac-
complishment before the crowd.”

“ She is beautiful, that I am willing to al-
low,” declared Richard. “Try your power up—
on the girl when we get to camp.”

For some reason the rough sailor had a great
influence over the beautiful Hindoo girl; and
so, when the lights were blazing, Rona sung
the wild melodies of her native land in the
voice of one inspired, and danced an enchant-
ing figure to the music of her father’s flute.
That night the younger lads went to their blan—
kets raving about the beautiful girl, but Rich-
ard threw cold water on their rhapsodies.

“If she cares for any man it is for rough
Dave Sawyer. But, be that as it may, she is
a good and beautiful girl, and her father is a
great addition to our party. You must be
careful not to do anything to drive him away.”

The boys promised, and went to sleep to
dream of dark-eyed Houris, dancing to ravish-
ing measures, and only awakened when the sun-
rays, streaming in their faces, warned them
that it was time to be on the road.

 

Two Men.

JENNIE DAVIS BURTON.

 

BY

 

“ ONE, two, three!”

Two men with the deadliest earnestness of
the duello in their leveled glances, with pistols
raised and grim mouths set, responded to the
word. There was a simultaneous snap and
a dull flash in the pan; both weapons had failed
to go off.

One of the contestants flung his to the ground
with a muttered imprecation; the other turned
to his second, coolly.

“We must trouble you to reload, Darley.”

Darley hesitated. “I wish,” he said impetu-
ously, “you could find an explanation possi-
ble. Don’t let this thing go on, Crode."

“This thing will go on,” said Crode. “I
thought I had convinced you of the impossibil-
ity of any reconciliation.”

“Oh, well,” responded Darley with a shrug,
stooping to recover the discarded weapon of the
other. This gentleman had walked impatiently
to a little distance and stood leaning against a
tree, from whence he watched with frowning
brows the process of priming the slender Span—
ish pistols that were not apt to play such freaks
of failure.

The two men were in position again, the slow,
impressive tone of the second repeated the
“one, two, three,” like a death-knell, both prin-
cipals wheeled face to face with fingers pressing
the trigger, and—again there was the same re~
sult.

This time a White gleam went over the face
of Crode. He turned upon Darley.

“ Have you connived at this?” he demanded
fiercely.

“Not I, upon my word. Hang it, Crode,”
aggrievedly, “have I ever shown myself the
fellow to go back on a friend in any fix? It’s
a pity that you and Tresser there are so persis-
tently intent upon blowing each other’s brains
out, but since you won’t listen to reason I'm
sorry that the opportunity is such a perverse
one. Blame fate, this detestable morning, any-
thing you like, but not me.”

There was enough sincere annoyance in his
tone to convince Crode. There was a hasty
consultation between the two seconds.

“Satan himself couldn’t insure everything
to be correct in this rain. It’s no fault of
yours, but that powder must be damp, Darley.
It’s hardly dignified for two sworn foes to try
at each other with weapons less effective than
a schoolboy’s pop-gun, and I speak for Mr.
Tresser in asking that the meeting be deferred
until surer measures can be taken. He is as
anxious as you possibly can be to put a deci-
sive ending to their difference.”

Under the circumstances no objection could
be made. Crode gave his cold assent. His op-
ponent received it as coldly, and walked away
toward the dim sea—line, where tawny—crested
waves rolled “ mountain high ” and broke with
a thunderous sound upon the rocky shore.
There was an easterly wind and a sharp rain,
that on the previous night had been at a wildly
tempestuous hight. Then the clouds had glim-
mered constantly with dazzling, forked light-
ning flashes, and the war of the ocean was as
if it meant to break its bonds and burst in a
second deluge upon the land. “ God help all at
sea,” was a prayer on many lips, and while
scores watched the wild, black night with awe
and trembling, Tresser and ‘Crode, once fast
friends and companions, met; the “bitter
blood ” which had separated them was in the
ascendant still, and this morning’s fruitless en-
counter was the result.

With the morning light, a ship, dismantled,
was seen drifting helplessly outside the little
bay. An hour later she struck upon the point
of rocks which made the channel dangerous,
where she still remained straining with every
wash of the sea, liable to go to pieces at any
moment. Tresser walked past the excited
groups gathered upon the beach, men with
coils of rope at their feet and the end about
their waists ready to dare the waters in the
effort to save any helpless beings who might
near the shore. Some, by calling and making
signs, were trying to induce the imperiled
creatures to trust themselves to the waters, but
either the distance was too great for them to
be understood, or the danger seemed too immi-
nent to be risked while the wreck still held to—
gether.

While Tresser watched, the strained timbers
gave way with a crash, which was heard faint-
ly above the storm; there was a tumultuous
upheaval of the foaming billows, then spots
that were known to be human forms were seen
clinging to the black, slippery rocks, and disap-
pearing from them, washed, some few within
the reach of saving hands, by far the most to
swift destruction.

“This may settle our question as effectually
as powder and ball,” said Crode’s coldly even
voice beside him, while his glance went over
the boiling surf. “I give you credit for not
flinching before the one. Will you dare this?”

“I would have dared it without your chal-
lenge.”

Crode was gone however without waiting for
that answer. He had caught sight of a dark
object through the driving mist, and leaping
out waist deep, was borne seade by a reced-
ing wave.

It was but a few seconds’ work for Tresser to
throw off coat and boots and follow, though it
seemed to him that some sort of incubus was
upon him preventing haste, and then the two
bitter enemies were swimming nearly abreast,
buffeted back by the same huge waves, having
the same object in view and threatened by the

same fate. Better the last, surely, than hands
deliberately reddened with revenge-spilled
blood.

How had such a pass been reached?
have the story.

You

 

A pair of hazel eyes, a pale brunette face, a
sweet, red, scornful mouth, dewy and tremu-
lous, a true seal to the wavering character of
the girl, though no one suspected her then of
indecision. Miss Mona Sax-gray, at your ser-
vice, with a pleased sense of being sure of her
own power, and an uneasy sensation of not be-
ing sure of herself.

She leaned over the railing of the veranda,
pulling a scarlet geranium to shreds while she
talked gayly to Tresser, who was holding the bit
which his black steed was champing impatient-
1y.
“How can I say what I think of your new
purchase, Mr. Tresser, when I exhausted all my
adjectives of admiration over the last. Do
they match?”

“ Is it to make me doubt your appreciation
of horseflesh that you ask? N0, Miss Sargray,
they do not match in any respect save color.
This fellow,” laying his hand carressingly on
the glossy mane; “is light enough for a lady’s
horse, gentle, and swift as the wind. At least,
that is the character I had with him. Will you
show that you think well of my choice by
mounting him this morning, and please me 2”
the last sotto once, with a glance of appeal
straight into her eyes.

“ I would advise you not to think well enough
of the invitation to accept it, unless Tresser
agrees to put a stronger curb upon the crea-
ture.” This from Crode, lounging upon abench
apparently between sleeping and waking, in
reality counting the flowers of the scarlet clus-
ter she was strewing to the winds.

“Oh, you are an advocate of the curbing
system,” she said, just flashing him a glance.
“For my part, I never could approve a tame
spirit, be it in man or beast.”

“Then you will go?” asked Tresser, eagerly.

“One, two, three, four, five,” counted Crode,
“and there are two left. Which one do you
intend to discard, Miss Sargray?”’

The white hand left the geraniums and a
glow like a reflection from them mantled her
cheek.

“ What does it mean?" curiously from Tres-
ser. “Are you settling the question to ride
or not to ride by means of the flowers, Miss
Sargray? Which is it?"

The two scarlet heads came off together, and
Miss Sargray turned to him smiling graciously.

“ I will go with very great pleasure, Mr
Tresser."

Leaving the veranda to proceed leisurely to
her room, the image of Crode before her at the
foot of the stairway startled Miss Sargray.

“If I offer a curb to your inclinations it is
because you force me to do so,” he said, putting
out a hand to detain her. “ To my knowledge
you have rejected five chances; must mine be
numbered among those lost? One moment,
Miss Sargray. If you ride with Tresser, unless
as already pledged to me, I shall take that as
the seal to my sentence ”

The spirit of coquetry which had carried her
triumphant through many similar scenes, re-
fused to rally in the face of the grim import
which underlaid his quiet. She did not resent
his compelling will as many a woman might;
it took the decision out of her hands in a man-
ner, and for that she was grateful.

She had ceased to be so by the time she saw
Tresser again, for two of the equestrian party
made up for that day failed to join it; and the
next Tresser had left the place and Crode was
recognized as master of the situation.

There was an evening gathering, an informal
farewell party given by Mrs. Van Weiss to her
dearest friends. By no means a small affair.
The good—natured, kind-hearted German lady
would leave hosts of well-wishers behind her,
and not one who would regret her more sin-
cerely than the girl who had been her com-
panion for the two years of her residence in
America, Mona Sargray. It was due to Mrs.
Van Weiss that the young lady’s career in
the higher circles had not been cut short ab-
ruptly some eighteen months before, when
the wheel of fortune turned for her as it did
about that time for many of the high and
favored of our land. Mona Sargray with a.
competence. and Mona. Sargray penniless,
thanks to her generous friend, had run an
equally brilliant career which would end bril-
liantly, by the an dit, in her alliance to Crode
about the time Mrs. Van Weiss would be
steaming out of the bay, homeward bound.
The German had an unfeminine horror of
weddings, which accounted for this one not
taln'ng place before her departure, while Mo-
na’s friendless condition accounted for the
speed with which it would follow.

There was a broad streak of romance in
the nature of good Mrs. Van Weiss, and a
long moonlit hall was given up to youthful
promenaders. Miss Sargray was led into it by
her partner of the waltz, and presently left
in a screened nook with the ivory light sift-
ing through lace curtains upon her pretty
head. A voice spoke her name, and she looked
up jug: a shade startled into Tmsser’s hag-
gard eyes. She ad not known he was there,
and the change ‘ bim gave her a shock.

“Will Logan be back?” he asked, uncere-
moniously.

“Mr. Tremor! You were the very furthest
person from my thoughts. No, Mr. Logan
will not be back. He was glad of the dis-
missal which I was glad to give him, attracted
by a pretty face not a hundred miles off, I
suspec .”

He took the seat beside her, unsolicited.

“It is nothing new to find myself the fur-
thest person from your thoughts,” he said,
bitterly. “ Is rumor correct in naming the
nearest one?”

“If you refer to Mr. Crode, rumor is emi-
nently correct.” Contradicting that calm tone
had come a quick change of the sensitive
countenance like enlightenment to the man be-
side her. ? -

“Then heaven pity him more than me.
has the greater need.”

“Mr. Tresser!”

‘ “ I mean it. You have no right to take the
love he offers you and give him none in return.
You might at least have retained the merit of
truthfulness and shown him the precipice he
stands on. If I was given my free choice to-
night, loving you madlyas I have done and do,
I would choose my own place rather than his.
Rather my misery than the disillusion which
must come to him some day. In his place and
understanding you, I should never rest for fear
love should come to you too late.”

She had not attempted to stem the togrent of
his passionate utterance, and there was no op-
portimity given her to answer him, but his
words sunk into her memory nevertheless.
Crode’s keen eyes had spied out the pair, and
were lit with a jealous gleam as he approached
them.

He execrated that same jealousy when his
bridal morning came, and was ready to smile
at the phantoms of doubt his mind had held in
the past. Phantoms that would be exercised

 

He

 

forever once he should claim his bride. He had
fought his own exacting disposition, and as an
evidence of having conquered it had asked
Tresser at the eleventh hour to stand as one of
his ushers at the quiet wedding.

They were in the vestibule of the church
waiting for the bride’s party to arrive when a
messenger slipped a note into Tresser’s hand.

“ I have seen my mistake,” it read, “and
dare to obey the truest impulse of my life. I
can only guess yet how much I may owe you
for opening my eyes to the truth. I go with
Mrs. Van Weiss. Break it to Mr. Crode, and
tell him the wrong I might have done him—-
deeper by far than this disappointment can
be. If he does not thank me sometime he
will not have cause to curse.

“MONA SARGRAY.”

While Tresser held the open page, doubtful
how to act, Crode confronted him with low-
ering brow. He had recognized the writing
and demanded to see the note. Tremer gave
it to him with a few hurried words of explana-
tion which the other did not heed.

Crode never lost his outward calmness, but
the blaze of white fury was under it as he
turned upon his former friend.

“I know to whom I am indebted for this,
and you may trust me to pay the debt,” he
said. “ By your own admimion as well as her
statement you have parted us, and if you are
not a coward as well as a traitor you will be
responsible for the act.”

“ I will hold myself responsible for anything
I have done,” avowed Tresser, stung by the
other’s words and tone.

Others came between, preventing further
disturbance then and there, and it was due to
the interference of friends that they were kept
apart, in the hope that time would heal the
hurt of the one, the pride and resentment of
the other. It seemed to have done so, until they
met by the merest accident that stormy night
in the seaside village, and the antagonism which
had' smouldered from that date broke forth
anew.

 

Among the brave men who struggled to pre-
serve those imperiled lives, none were more
reckless in their bravery than Crode and Tree-
ser—Crode foremost, as became his firmer will
and impassioned zeal. He was grappling with
a dusky weight for the third time, his eyes fill-
ed with the salt spray, and a vague, distant,
sounding roar which held itself distinct from
the boom of the waves filling his ears. He felt
his burden slipping from him, himself sinking,
and sudden horror overwhelmed him. He made
a desperate effort to recover himself, then was
conscious that the undertow was drawing him
in, and knew no more beyond a dim, desperate
struggle with ingulfing waters until he found
himself, dizzy and faint, on the wet sands, rough
but kind hands unlocking the clasp of his rigid
ones from that object to which he had clung
through all, and a cheer, which at first he did
not understand, going up around him.

“Brave fellows!” in Darley’s,familiar voice.
“ Hard to tell which of the lot, rescued or res-
cuers, are nearest gone though. Tresser brought
up the other three locked together as you see
them. A grand feat, upon my word and hon-
or. Tresser, my dear sir, you have done en-
ough for one man in conscience name.”

Tresser looked white enough to faint, but ral-
lied and asked:

"’ Was it worth doing? Are they alive?”

Crode, knowing what other debt he owed to
this man then, wondered at the chance which
had made him save the life that day which he
might take upon the morrow.

 

Somebody stooping over the two bodies which
had been swapt from the wreck rose now.

“It looks like death,” he said, softly, “and
I‘ll warrant none of you ever saw it come in a
prettier shape.”

All turned to the sight, a man and a woman
locked close in each other’s arms. A handsome
man’s face with blonde beard and fair hair
clinging about the temples, and the tender ex-
premion which a smile had left about the lips,
but the woman’s face wore a look which in life
must have transfigured it. It could be seen
that the pair had met their fate without fear,
with a kind of solemn joy that where death was
inevitable they might die together.

“ Husband and wife,” said some one, indicat-
ing the little hand on which the wedding cir-
clet gleamed.

“Good God!” cried Crode, quite under his
breath. “Mona!” Then looking beyond, his
eyes and Tresaer’s met. The latter came around
the little group who were taking up the bodies
reverently.

“ We could not imagine her wearing that look
for either of us,” he said, with strong agitation
sinking his voice. “ Crode, I have not the heart
to remember what I once thought were my
grievances—I was foolish enough to think that
she might have loved me but for you—or to hold
anger now. Can’t we bury the past and begin
better lives?”

“ I did you a wrong. Forgive me,” said
Crode, giving his hand, but wearing the look of
a man who was stunned.

Was be thinking of the Providence which
guides these things, and contrasting their evil
passions with the thoughts of those two on the
brink of the hereafter—inspired then with a
trust and peace which had left its seal?

However that may have been, the difference
between those two men who had loved one wo-
man all too well, is this:

'fime may blunt Tresser’s grief; he may
marry, and all but forget this episode of his
life, but Crode never will.

 

Ripples.

A THIEF in Evansvfll' e, Indmna,’ stole the
contribution box out of a church. He evi-
dently went there to prey.

A wag, noted for his brevity, writes to a
friend to be careful in the selection of his diet.
He says: “ Don't eat Q-cumbers; they’ll W-up.”

Charles Lamb, when speaking of one of his
rides on horseback, remarked that “ all at once
his horse stopped, but he kept right on.”

The nation that produces most marriages is
fascination. And perhaps the nation that pro-
duces the most divorces is alienation.

“ Madam,” said a gentleman to his wife, “let
me tell you facts are very stubborn things.”
“What a fact you must be,” quoth the lady.

“I shall follow her soon,” said a sad-eyed
man at the grave of his wife. Within a month
he was following another woman.

The OSWego Palladium mentions James
Clark and wife, who “ were born, died, and
were buried on the smile day.” Jimmy and his
wife must have been awfully young.

It was rather personal in a California news-
paper man to chronicle the purchase of a mule
by a brother editor as “ a remarkable instance
of self-possession.”

There is always one particularly active and
noisy fly these mornings that makes it his busi-
new to call a fellow up for his breakfast—the

a

 

 

fly’s breakfast we mean.

 

 

   

 

 

 



 .. 

   



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