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E.,F, Beadle,
Wllllam Adams.
Dawd Adams.

Vol. I.

THE LOOM OF LIFE.

BY EDEN E. REXFORD.

 

I‘ve watched the busy loom of life
And seen the web it wove

To many threads of wrong and strife
How few there were of love.

Da I in, day out, the loom goes on:
’ ime tires not as she weaves
The web as varied in its hues
As autumn’s tolling leaves.

Dark tints of error and deceit.
And want, and woe, and sin,

As flies the shuttle back and forth
The weaver weaveth in.

Oh, weaver at the tireless loom,
That stops not, night or day,

Grow you not Weary of your work,
As runs the world away?

And do ire furnish every day
A thread of love or sin?

God help us for the web of life
A golden thread to spin.

The Leagllg of Three;

BUFFALO BILL’S PLEDGE.

A Story ofa Trail FolloWed to the Bitter
End by the Three Famous Scouts,
Buffalo Bill, Wild Bi“ and
Texas Jack, the “ Prin-
ces of the Plalnl.”

BY COLONEL PRENTISS INGRAHAM,

AUTHOR or “WILD BILL, ran PISTOL DEAD
SHOT,” “mum. THE momma,” “ GOLD.
"PLUME, m BOY BANDIT ” “BISON
BILL. PRINCE or ran REINS,”
“CRIMSON um." “LONE
STAR, run COWBOY
CAPTAIN,” ETC.

CHAPTER VI.
THE rumor. GUIDE.

“ BUFFALO BILL!"

The voices of the teamsters uttered the word
in chorus, for the name, spoken by Kiowa Carl,
had told who was the stranger, and all knew
him well by reputation, though not one of the
traiin had before seen him, excepting the traitor
gur e.

Kiowa Carl was a man of consummate nerve,
and he regained his coolness at once almost, and
said in as free and easy way as that in which
Buffalo Bill had addressed him:

“Yes, and it is not the first time you have
had the drop on me. God .”

“ And I warn you to beware of the third,”
was Buffalo Bill’s response.

" Yes, for the tide must turn; but what means
this attack on me now?”

“ It me ms that I have caught you at your old
tricks of deviltry, and thwarted you."

“ To what do you refer?"

“ You were leading this train into an am—
bush, at the head of which. doubtless, was your
old red-skin friend Black Face.”

The guide turned deadly gale at this bold ac-
cusation, but no muscle of is face quivered as
he said savagely:

“ You have no proof of this, Buffalo Bill.”

“ By the Rocky Mountains! but I will have,
though, before another sun shall rise.

“ Up with your hands, sir!”

The last- was given in a tone that was de—
cided.

The guide hesitated. and Buffalo Bill repeated:

“ Up with your hands, Kiow Carll”

“ You have no right to make me a prisoner.”

“ l assert that right, sir! Will you obey?”

“ No! and I call on my employer and his
men to aid me against you,” Carl cried, sliding
from his horse and confronting toe scout.

“They will do nothing. and if you love life,
worthless as yours is, I shall tell you but once
more to throw up those blood-stained hands of

ours.

y “ Obey, or take the consequences."

The revolver was held as n‘rmly as though in
avise, and all saw that Buffalo Bill meant all
he said.

Wholly at Buffalo Bill‘s mercv Kiowa Carl,
with a bitter exccration, raised his hands above
his head.

Stepping forward. it was but the work of an
instant for Bull‘al.) Bill to disarm him, and then,
taking the lariat from his saddle—horn he ordered
the guide to rum lll'll} his horse, which Kiowa
did with a smothered curse. Once again in the
saddle buff do Bill bound him securely hand

and foot, tying his feet beneath his horse.

“ Now you are safe for the present, and if
my suspicions are Veriflad this night, with the

rmissiou of this gentleman I will shoot yous.

would a mad-dog.”

Then turning to Mr. Markham, Buffalo Bill
continued:

“I would advise you, sir, to at once follow
your tracks back to the regular trail, prosaic
on until you reach your cam of last nighg
even if darkness overtakes you.’

“ But we will have no guide, sir, and-J’

“If this man does not lead you back to the
cam , then I will kill him. so help me Heaven.

“ 0 you hear me, Kiowa Carl?”

‘6 I do.”

“ Sea to it, then, that this train 093 not again
03 the trail, if you value life ” 8

“And where do you go?” asked Kiowa Carl.

“ That is my business; but rest assured I will
be on hand to execute sentence against you if
you play an of your tricks.”

“ You wil return SOOn, sir, I hope, for your
words imply that you intend leaving usl” aid

1'. Markham.

b “kYes, sir, by daylight, or soon after, I will be

ac

 

 

 

“ Yet, should I not, press on once more, and I
will join you at your next camping-place.”
Raising his broad sombrero. with a smile and
bow, he called to his horse, and throwing him-
self into the saddle, dashed away across the
rairie, while Mr. Markham, trusting implicitly
n the man, put his train to the right aboutand
began retracing bis trail down the Loup.

CHAPTEB VII.
A matter. METAMORPHOSIS.
BUFFALO Bun. bad ridden but a short dis-
tance from the train when he came to a sudden
halt, and there satin his saddle, like a man in
deg}; thought.

ter a minute’s halt he turned his ho
gaéloped back tlpward the train. "9 “d

urprise at is return, Mr. Markham
the train, and when he came up asked: MM

   

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“Well, sir, have you changed your mind
about going on ?”

“ No, sir, but I would like to have you move
the train on, excepting one wagon and your
traitor uide.”

Mr. arkham seemed surprised, but gave the
orders at once for the rear wagon to stop back
for awhile, and he and Kiowa Carl, whose
bridle—rein was hitched to the back of the wagon
also did so.

“ What does that strange man intend now?"
murmured Madge, as she rode on, riding by the
side of the ambulance in which sat Miss Sa-
mantha Doolittle, the old maid housekeeper
who was in ecstasies over the physique an
handsome face of Bulfalo Bill.

“Kiowa Curl, I will trouble you to change
horses with me.” said Buffalo Bil , quietly.

The guide looked at him with surprise, and
said in a surly tone:

“Why ask what you have the power to do
without the asking?"

“And I will also change clothing with you,
and borrow yr" - arms, for I know you are a
man to keer "-uh ‘he best- of weapons.”

“1;. Rumors name do you intend to rob me?”

“1m. Kiowa Carl, for I leave mine in the

tra n.

“Quick, off with your duds, or I will help

on.”

“ I will not.”

“ Do you mean it?”

“ I do, for I shall not aid you in any devilish
trick you may have formed to ruin me.”

“ I will take them ofl? of you.”

“You cannot.”

There was a. tone of defiance in the voice of
the man in spite of his bonds, and Buffalo Bill
answered:

“ Mr. Markham, I hate to hit a man when he
is down, but I must do it.

“ Again, Kiowa Carl, will you exchange
clothing with me?”

“You have n. answer.”

Quick as a flash the iron arm of Buffalo Bill
shoz forth, straight from the shoulder, and the
knuckles of steel fell full in the unprotected
face of the prisoner.

Like a log he dropped to the ground, and in-
stantly Buffalo Bill bent over him and after
undoing the lariat coils quickly disrobed him
of his outer clothing and hat.

” I hope you have not killed him, for he fell like
a dead man,” sai r. Markham, who could not
understand the st. unge conduct of Buffalo Bill.

“ No fear of that, sir. I struck him to saw; a
struggle, for I saw that he would not yield, and
I merely stunned him.”

“ But what is your intention, sir!”

“ You shall see.”

Throwing of! his own outer clothing Buffalo

 

Bill said to the teamster:

Wholly at Bufi‘alo B.ll’s mercy, Kiowa

 

COPYRIGHTED IN 1882 BY BEADLE AND ADAMS.

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 25, 1882.

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“ Here, pard, pull these on him.”

“I’m darned ef I dress him up in your rig,
Buffalo Bill, fer he don‘t deserve it; but I has
some old togs in the wagin as will do as well,
an’ they’ll astonish him, fer they belonged ter a
honest citizen, which are myself.” replied the
teamster, and be dragged out a pair of coarse
pants, a slouch hat, full of holes, and a woolen
shirt. and began to pull them u n the still un-
conscious man, while Bulfalo ill was rigging
himself out in the clothing of the guide.

“Thar, now he do look well, an’ you must
take keer, Bufller Bill, yer don’t let ther devil-
ment in them clo’s strike in, fer it are a disease
that are ketchin’.”

Both Buffilo Bill and Mr. Markham laughed
at the advice of the worthy teamster, and the
latter said:

“I do not know, sir, what your intention is,
but I shall take care of your clothing and arms
for you until you come to claim them.”

Buffalo Bill made no reply, but stepping to
his saddle pocket drew forth what appeared to
be a bundle of hair.

But, upon unrolling it, it proved to be a long
false beard, of almost the exact hue of that of
Kiowa Carl.

“ Oh, curse you l”

The oath came from the guide, who had sud-
denly returned to consciousness, and readily
understood what his enemy intended.

“Ha! ha! Kiowa Carl, I can play you pretty
well, can’t I?” and buil‘alo Bill rumpled up his
hair, put on the false beard, pulled the slouch
hat over his eyes, and did look the very coun-
terpart of the traitor guide.

Taking the weapons and horse of Kiowa Carl,
and leavmg his own in the care of Mr. Mark-
ham, he rode away once more, and so much re-
sembled the traitor guide that the rest of those
in the train, seeing him depart, believed that
for some reason Buffalo Bill had returned and
set the prisoner free.

After watching him for son" moments, in
company With the teamster we the prisoner
himself, Mr. Markham rode a- after the train,
and all were surprised at “M change that had
taken place, and which ‘seedy Sam, the wagon
driver, explained in his quaint way to his
pards, while Madge heard from her father’s lips
what had occurred.

CHAPTER VIII.
Burn-Am BILL’s RUSE.

THE sun was casting long shadows across the
prairie, of the daring rider and his horse, as
they moved on up the Loup.

It was very evident that, in changing his
clothing for that of Kiowa Carl, Bufl'alo Bill
intended some bold ruse, and his words as he
rode along, spoken halt aloud, showed what his
intention was,

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Carl. with a. bitter execration, raised his hands above his head.

“I am confident,” he muttered, “that old
Black Face lies concealed in the timber yonder,
with a. score or two of braves, and that Kiowa
Carl was leading the train into the ambush,
and was to share spoils with the red—skins.

“Great heavens! what a fate would that
beautiful girl have suffered!

“I shudder to think of it, and if I am right,
Kiowa Carl will do no more harm in this
world, once I lay my clutch upon him again.

" Now I’ll see if I am right before the sun is
set half an hour, and if my rig will bear mus-
ter with old Black Face.”

He then rode quietly on, the timber ahead
rising before him dark and threatening, and
his keen eyes searching its depths for some sign
of a foe.

As the sun touched the distant prairie hori-
zon, he was within a mile of the timber, which
jutted out from the river to a considerable dis-
tance, and formed a Secure hiding-place for a
thousand savage foes within the shadow of its
large trees and thickets.

After long and untiring peering into the tim—
ber, Buffalo Bill was rewarded by discovering
a moving form.

“Injun!”

The word escaped his lips like an exclama-
tion, and peering still more closely, be con-
tinned:

“ As I thought, Kiowa Carl meant deviltry.

“Ah! there come several of the red rascals
to meet me, or rather to meet him, as they be-
lieve. or I am mistaken.

"Now, Buffalo Bill, you are placing your
head in the lion‘s mouth, and look out, or it
mav be snapped off.”

With a light laugh, as though he relished and
defied the great danger he was running, Buffalo
Bill arranged his toilet more to his taste, as be
deemed it necessary, looked to his arms, and
rode quietly along toward the timber.

Five horsemen had come out of the timber,
and were riding leisurely toward the scout, as
though to meet him, and yet exhibiting toward
him no hostile demonstrations.

They were Indians, in all their glory of war-
paint and feathers, and one rode slightly in ad-
vance of the other four.

B ‘1‘ The devil himself, as I live!” said Buffalo
i l.

Then a moment after he added:

“Old Black Face has noticed that the train
has turned back, for he eVidently had lookouts
in the tree-tops. and he is coming to ask me, or
rather Kiowa Carl, as he thinks, the reason.

“Well, the train was too far ofl.’ for him to
see anything going on of a suspicious nature.”

It was now growing dark, and when Buffalo
Bill drew within a couple of hundred yards of
the Indians, he was confirmed in his opinion
that Kiowa Carl had turned traitor to his own

’ One copy, four months 31.00
TERMS IN ADVANCE. 301m copy, one year, . .’ 3.00

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race, and that Black Face was his ally in devil-
try, for as yet no hostile sign was shown by the
rcrlvskins.

Upon gettin within a few lengths of the In-
dians, Buffalo ill, imitating, as nearly as pos-
sible, and he was a good mimic, the voice of
Kiowa Carl, called out at random:

“ Does the Black Face frown at his white
brother, that he brings not the train into the
timber?"

“The pale face spoke crooked to the Black
Facefi to, bring him here with his warriors.”

6i 0.

“Yes, for his white brother came two suns
ago and told the Black Face to be here.

“ He came with his warriors and he saw the
white chief coming over the prairie, and far he-
hind him the wheel-tepees of his people.

“Then the Black Face saw, and his warriors
saw, that the pale-face turned back to the wheel~
tepees, and then they went toward the rising
sun, on the trail they had come, while my
brother comes on alone.”

“ The Black Face talks of what his eyes have
seen,” said Buffalo Bill, speaking in the Sioux
tongue perfectly.

“ But he knows not what his brother, Kiowa
Carl. has to say.”

" The Black Face will listen,” said the chief,
evidently greatly disappointed at having seen
the train turn back.

“ Let the Black Face have his ears open then.

“ His braves, in the tree-tops, may have seen
a pale-face runner, on horseback, join the train '9”

“ The braves of the Black Face said so.”

“Aha! I’ll make this old wretch tell me all
he knows,” muttered Buffalo Bill, while aloud
he said:

“That was a horse brave of the pale-face
Chief, sent to order the wheel-tepees back to the
Platte, as many white soldiers are on the track
of the Black Face.”

The Indian chief, in spite of his stoicism,
started and glanced nervously at his warriors,
while Buflalo Bill continued:

“ The brother of the Black Face heard all, and
he told the chief of the wheel-tepees which trail
to take, and where to camp, and sent word to
the captain of the horse-braves that he would go
on and find the Black Face and his warriors, and
then come and tell them where to strike his vil-

- 1a 9.”

The old chief fairly shouted with rage at this
bold assertion, failing to see that there was a
pretended motive, and Buffalo Bill cried:

“ Let the Black Face hear, for, by telling the
horse-braves of the whites this crooked story,
he could come on and meet his red brothers, let
them know Where and when to strike the wheel-
tepees, then go back and tell the pale~face chief
a false trail for his warriors to take, and lead
them into an ambush which my brother here
can have ready.”

“ Ugh!” said the Black Face, now seeing
through the supposed ruse of his pretended ally.

" Ugh!” grunted the four warriors, delighted
a}: the prospect of blood, booty and scalps before
t em.

“ The Black Face has heard.” said the chief,

as though anxious to hear more and not willing
to show curiosity to do so.
“I uess you have, you old villain, and if 1
don’t. l12:11 that ugly head of yours full of lies, it
will be because my tongue sticks to the truth
too fast to pull it off,” mentally observed Buffalo
Bill, while aloud he continued:

“The Black Face knows the Lone Tree, to—
ward the setting sun?”

“The Black Face has been there,” was the
pom ous reply.

“ ‘wo suns from this the wheel-tepees will
camp there.”

‘(U h.”

“ Let the Black Face creep upon the camp by
night, leaving their nies far out on the prairie,
and his braves can d): their work.”

“ Ugh,” and the grunt was one of satisfaction
most intense.

“ His brother will be there, and when the
braves of the Black Face have many scalps at
their belts, and their ponies are loaded with the
booty of the pale-faces, I will lead them on to
the spot where the white warriors can be met
in battle and defeated.”

“ Ugh! my white brother is a great chief.

“ Let him come to my camp,” said the de-
lighted savage.

“ No, for I must be off on the trail to seek the
white chief.”

“ The White Panther, the pale-face brother of
the chief is in the camp and would see the Ki—
owa Carl.”

Buffalo Bill fairly started at the name, for he
had long heard of the renegade white, known
as thite Panther, whose crimes had forced him
to seek refuge among the red skins.

He knew him to be also a companion of Kiowa
Carl, and did he meet him at once would his
disguise be penetrated, and death would quickly
follow, and death of the most awful torture
that Indian cruelty could devise.

Remembering that Mr. Markham had told
him Kiowa Carl had secretly met a u bile man
on the prairie, he felt assured that “'hitc Pan-
ther, as the Indians called him, and Salt Lake
Saul as he was known in the settlements, must
be that individual, who had gone on ahead,
when his pard became the guide of the train,
for --0 other purpose than to get old Black Face
as an ally.

He knew he had to be most cautious, not to
betray ignorance, so asked, as a feeler:

“ Why did not the W'hito Panther come with
my red brother, the Black Face, to meet me?"

‘ The Panther has ridden hard, and was tired
and asleep.”

“Ah! but he must have eyes like the stars
now, for I want him to guide the wheel-tepees to
the Lone Tree.”

“The Black Face will tell him.”

“It is well, and I will start on the back trail.

“Let the Panther have a swift pony and fol-
low.”

“It shall be as my white brother says,” re-
plied the old Chief, and bidding the red-skins
farewell, Buifalo Bill started upon his return,
greatly rejoicing in his discovery, and the ac-
complishment of his ruse.

He had gone but a short distance when he
called back to Black Face to bid the White Pan
ther to hurry on after him, and there came back
the answer:

“The Panther shall have my swifrest pony,
and will soon be with my white brother.” .

“It will be a sad moment for him when he 18,
or I am mistaken,” muttered Buffalo Bill, as he
rode on his way, plotting mischief against the
man on whose head a reward was offered as a
renegade and red-handed murderer.

 

CHAPTER IX.
ENTRAPPING A PANTHER.
THE individual known as White Panther was

 

sleeping as serenely beneath the shelter of a

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

  
    

 

 

 

 

   
  
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

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tree, when Black Face returned to the timber,
as though the blood of scores of whites whom
he had murdered did not rest upon his guilty
soul.

He had ridden hard that day, and in fact for
several days had had little rest, so he was glad to
sink to repose in security, and dream of the
booty he was to be a Sharer in, when the Mark-
ham train was at the mercy of the red demons
who were his allies.

He was surprised when Black Face awoke
him to make known that he had seen Ixiowa
Carl coming, and had met him out~ upon the
prairie, and told him of the train gomg to the
right-about.

“ Durn them sogers!" he said, savagely. '

“They is allus pokin’ round when they hnin’t
wanted. _

“But then, as it are, it are better. chief, fer
ef we bed tackled ther train thcr segers w‘u’d
hev been too hot on our trail for save the
booty, an’ all Wi"d hev got w’u’d hev. been
scuips, which you Injuns prizes more 11 we
whites, oniess we has a leetle revenge in ther
biz."

All this was spoken in border English, which
Black Face imperfectly understood, and could
make no more appropriate reply to than that
Kiowa Carl was a great chief. had done the In-
dians many good turns, and knew what was
best, and wished the 'White Panther to follow
him at once, and go as guide to the wheel-
tepees.

“Durnation! more ridin’ and my horse al-
ready played.”

“The Panther shall have the pony of the

‘ Black Face,” was the response of the chief. who

knew that though his pony was a good animal,
that of the renegade was a better one. though
then tired out, and that in the end he would
gain b his generosity.

“ I’llymake the swap, chief, fer I has my eye
on a horse I seen in the train, afore it pulled out
0’ Omaha.

“ Git up yer pony an’ I’ll strike Kiowa‘s
trail.”

The pony soon had the saddle and trappings
of the renegade upon him, and mounting the
villain set off at a swinging lope. which threat-
ened to soon overtake Buffalo Bill, did he not
increase the pace at which he had ridden
awa .

An hour’s gallop and he saw in the distance
the dark forms of a horse and rider, and in-
stantly he gave a shrill whistle.

“ Ho, Saul, that you?” cried a voice, and the
renegade replied:

“ Yes, an’ I hes bed a lively gallop ter ever
took yer.

“ Is yer ridin’ fer a prize, Kiowa?”

“Yes, I am.” ,,

“ Waal, what is ther stakes?” and the rene-
gade drew rein, as his pony got head and head
with the gaunt black ridden by Buffalo Bill.

“ The stakes is White Panther alias Salt Lake
Saul, as you see.”

The answer fell like a thunder-clap from a
cloudless sky upon the startled renegade, while
he felt a revolver-muzzle pressed hard against
his heart.

Salt Lake Saul was a quick man with revol-
ver and knife, and a hard one to surprise, as
many had found out to their cost.

But he had been caught for once, and by one
he deemed his devoted pard.

There must be some mistake, and he half-
laughed forth:

“ What in thunder does yer mean. Kiowa?”

“ Just what I say,” was the stern rejoinder.

“ An’ what did yer say?”

“That the stake I am now playing for is
Salt Lake San], the renegade, and I have won
it.

“ Durnation! does yer think this are a place
ter joke, pard?”

“ Move one finger and you’ll find this is no
joke, but deadly earnest.”

“ What hev I did ter turn yer ag’in’ me this
way, Kiowa?”

‘ I am not Kiowa.”

“ Holy Rockies! then I are cotched.”

“ Yes, the panther is entrapped at last-—
Hold! Keep those hands away from your pis-
tols, or I pull trigger, and it’s but an inch to
your heart from my pistol-muzzle.”

“ Durned ef you hain’t right!

“ But who in thunder be yer that looks like
Kiowa. an’ yet hain’t got his voice, now I ob-
serves?”

“ Have you ever heard of Buffalo Bill?”

“ Bitin’ snakes o’ ireland! is yer thet terror?”
almost howled the renegade.

“ Yes, I am Buffalo Bill.”

“Then ther dance is done, and ther fiddler‘s
ter pay,” was the almost resigned response.

“ Yes, and Death’s the fiddler.”

“D vn’t doubt it, pard Buf’ler, an’ I’ll soon
hev a harp o’ a thousan’ strings ter sing psalms
o’ glory on.” ‘

“ Or a poker to stir up the fire beIOW.”

“ Don’t speak 0’ it, fer it makes me shiver ter
think h0w hot it are, and—”

Quicker than a flash of lightning he had sud-
denly dropped his hand upon a revolver butt,
and it was half out of his belt, when Buffalo
Bill clutched it, and cried sternly:

“ Hold on. sir, for I am your master.”

“ Yer takes my hand, pard; I pass," said the
disappointed renegade, and at an order to raise
his hands above his head he silently obeyed,
while Buffalo Bill disarmed him.

“Now your claws are cut, we’ll get along
better together, and I want to be sociable, as I
have some questions to ask you.”

“ Shout out fust how ’tis yer looks so like Ki-
owa. as ter take me in, an’ ther Black Face,
too?”

“ Oh, that is simply a little ruse I played to
find out what I wanted to know.” '

“ Au’ yer did?”

“ Yes.)

“ I hopes it will do you no good.”

“But it will, for I shall see you hang along
with Kiowa Carl.”

“ Hes yer got him, too?”

“ I have.”

“ So I sees, when I looks at thet hoss yer
straddles.

“ Waal, waal, We is both tuk in, and old
Black Face made a durned fool of, too.”

“ You seem to feel better over the news.”

“ I does. fer misery loves comp’ny, an’ I are
Enilsgr’ble to a howiin’ degree thet are pain-

u .

“You’ll soon be out of your misery.”

“I’d rather be miser’ble, onderstandin’ yer
meanin’ as I does.

“But tell, me, Buf’ler, whar hev yer got
Kiowa?”

“ Safe.”

“ An’ I are goin’ thar, too?”

(f Yes.”

“ You is a liar l”

The right hand, which had slipped into some
mysterious pocket and quietly grasped a small
repeater, was suddenly thrust forward, right
in the face of Buffalo Bill, and as the finger
touched the trigger the flash and report came
together.

ut, quick as was the act. Buffalo Bill suc-
ceeded in striking up the arm of the renegade,
and the bullet tore along the top of his head,
inflicting a scalp wound only.

Though .slightly stunned by the shock and
momentarily blinded, Buffalo Bill drew trig-
ger, ere a second shot came' from the renegade.
and the wail of agony and hatred that broke
mm his lips told that the bullet had hit him

 

CHAPTER X.
THE CAMP.

I WILL now return to the train, after the de-
parture of Buffalo Bill upon his perilous mis—
sion, and which the reader has seen he accom-
plished in safety.

Riding by the side of Madge, he left the
prisoner, black with rage, under the especial
care of Seedy Sam, who was delighted at the
honor, and warned Kiowa Carl that he would
kill him without the slightest compunction, if
he gave him the shadow of a cause.

“I sh‘u’d hate ter hev ter make a hole in
them garmints o’ mine, but I’d stan’ ther ex—
pense of a bullet-hole ef yer give me ther

slightest cause ter draw on yer,” said Seed y
Sam, like others who own anything, believmg
his clothing which he had loaned to the prisoner
quite too good for him, although a‘mcre tatter-
demaiion suit would be hard to find out of a
junk-shop. . ' r

In fact the teaiiister’s dilapidated appearance

generally had gained for him his name of Secdy
Sam.
“ And you think,” said Madge, when her fa-
ther had joined her and told her of Buffalo
Bill’s haying assumed the mg of Kiowa (Jul,
“that he will dare venture into the camp of
the savages, pretending to be the guide?”

“ Yes, my daughter, for from all  have
heard of that famous man. I know he Will heSi-
tate at no risk to carry out his ends.” _

“ How different he is from what I. had pic-
tured him, when reading romances of his strange
deeds upon the border, . .

“ He seemed to me, as there pen~painte:l, a gi-
ant. and ferocious being, whose hands and cloth-
ing must he covered with the blood of his foes.

“ But we find him an elegant gentleman,
courtly as a Chesterfield, and as handsome as a
picture.”

“ He is indeed a. remarkable man, Madge. and
I sincerely hope will come safely through all his
dan ers.” _ I

“ t certainly is very noble of him to set aSide
his duties, which must be urgent, to get .us out
of the scrape into which that traitor guide led
u

s.

“ Oh, father! what if Buffalo Bill had not
come on after us?" and Madge shuddered, while
Mr. Markham answered:

“ The thought of what would have followed,
Madge, is terrible to contemplate." ‘

And thus father and daughter talked on until
at last the camping-ground was reached and
the tent was spread, which was espeCialiy for
the use of Madge and Miss Samantha Doolittle.

In getting things to rights, pl‘f’pal'lllg supper,
and making himself generally useful, Pipper,
the youth, was invaluable, and won pronounced
praise from Miss Samantha. _ _

“Madge,” she said. “I do be thinking that
Providence was most kind to that boy, to bring
him under the shelter of our guardian wings."

“ Or to us, auntie,”—Madge always called
Miss Doolittle auntie, though trat lady had
begged her to make it “ cousin "—“ for Pepper
certainly has (proven himself most useful in
everything, an is really womanly in all he does
for us.” ‘
“True, Madge, true, he almost seems to me
like a woman, at times: but do you know you
were sadly remiss to-dayl”

“ How so, auntie?"

“ In your duty.”

“ What sin did I commit, and What duty omit,

ra ?”

“'You did not introduce me to that very ele-
gant gentleman, Mister Buffalo Bill."

“ Why, auntie, I hardly met him myself, and
I knew not who he was until Kiowa Carl spoke
his name.”

“ Well, Madge, I don‘t know as I should, and
I don’t know but what I should have spoken to
him without an introduction. under the circum-
stances, for I owed him our thanks for all he
did.”

“ He did not seem to like thanks, auntie.’
“True nobility, my dear; the truest kind,
that avoids recognitition for brave deeds done.
“ If I were him, I don‘t know as I should, and
I don’t know but what-.1 should do the same
way; but—”

“ Here is Pepper to announce supper," said
Madge, glad to cut off the beginning of a few
comments, which Miss Doolittle always made
lengthy when she began with “ But—.”

The youth known as Pepper was a slender,
gracefully formed young man, almost a boy in
years, for he seemed hardly twenty, and his
face was one that few could gaze upon and fail
to see that in it to admire and like.

He was dressed in a free and easy costume.
wore beneath his sack-coat a. belt of arms, and
his hands and feet were very small and shapely.

His hair, contrary to the border custom, was

cut short, and his slouch hat had the rim pulled
down all around. '
“Miss Madge, supper is served. and Aunt
Phillis has made some of Miss Samaiitli’s hoe-
cakes,” he said. in a boyish voice, and with a
mischievous twinkle of the eye. .

“Oh, Pepper! why do you call me Miss Sa-
manth, and neve pronounce the last syllable?”
cried the old maid.

“It’s too much for me to tackle, mim, as I
have a shortness of breath.” replied the youth,
and he led the way to the fire, where Mr. Mark—
ham was already seated at the table, upon which
“ Aunt Phillis,” the negro woman, was placing a
tempting meal.

Mr. Markham and the ladies then sat down to
supper, while Pepper busied himself in aiding
Coon to get things to rights for the night.

But there was one missing from the table.
who each meal had sat with them, and that one
was the gu=de.

In the goodness of her heart Madge herself
arranged a tray with his supper, and carried it
to him, to where he sat upon the trunk of a
tree. securely bound.

“ I have come with

said, quietly.
His head was bent, and at her words he
started, looked up, and the fireiight showed
that his face flushed, while he said, in his quiet
way:

“ You are very kind, Miss Markham; but one
doomed to die cares little for food.”

CHAPTER XI.
BEFRIENDING A FOE.

“ BUT you are not deemed to die,” said
Madge, struck by his manner and the pathos in
his voice.

“ Ah! you little know that inhuman wretch,
Buffalo Bill.”

“He certainly does not look the man [you
paint him.”

“ Looks are deceiving, Miss Markham. as you
will find out when you know him better.”

“ It will take a great deal to make me feel
that he is other than an honorable man, for if
his face lies then where will we ever look for
honor and virtue imprinted on the human
countenance?”

“So I once thought, Miss Markham, and I
loved Buffalo Bill as a brother.

“ I had a happy home. and all about me to
make life joyous; but, like the snake he is, he
came into my mestead, and left only ruin,
despair and sorrow behind him.

“ I sought revenge upon him, and here is his
mark.”

He drew aside his hair as he spoke, revealing
a hole in his ear, evidently made by a bullet
passing through.

After a moment he resumed, and his voice
quivered:

“ He called that ‘his mark:’ but, oh! he had
left far worse scars in my heart. ‘

“ I came to the prairies to hide my sorrows,
and here he has dogged me, and, with his
plauSible story, see how I am, while he has gone

ree.

“ Soon he will return and tell strange stories
of me. saying he has verified all he said, and
your father’s train-men will swing me up like a
dog to die.”

“No, they will not do that: but a trial will

given you.” said Madge, earnestly.

“ There is no justice on this border, Miss
Markham, excepting such as is administered
from the muzzle of a revolver and the point of
a knife.”

“But my father will see that you do not suf-
fer innocently.”

your supper, sir,” she

 

 

“ Miss Markham, your father is a just man;
but the men who are now his teamsters are.
cowboys, and a wild set. who love turmoil:
rather than peace, and Buffalo Bill will soon
set them upon me like a pack of hounds, while ,
your father will be. werless to aid me.” i

“But surely bewill not do this wrong?” i

“ He surely will, and worse, as he has done in r
the. past.” 5

“But remember the splendid name he has '
won along the border as the foe of evil-doers,

 

and the bulwark that stands between the set-
. tier and the cruel red-skins.”

* the incident;

' “fun” to them.

“The stories of novelists, Miss Markham, I
assure you. _ , ”

“ But I can do nothing, so Will say no more.

He bowed his head and Madge was deeply
impresSrd with all she had heard.

She believed Buffalo Bill honorable and. no-
ble, and the guide guilty; but still there might
be a shadow of doiilt to both beliefs, and he
was entitled to the doubt until proven wicked.

“ Answer me," she said with stern abrupt-
ness: _ _‘

“ Why did you leave the regular trail!"

“ As I told your father, Miss Markham, to
flunk a band of red-skins.” I

“ But Buff-iii) Bill said there were no Indians
on the regular trail, and there were many on
the route we were going.” i \

“It is but :1 question of yei‘acity between Us,
Miss Markham. and when I am dead and be-
yond recall to earth, you will find that I was
the one sinned against.” . _

“If I could belieye this, I would this instant
set you free," she said, in her earnest, impulsive
way.

His eyes flashed, and he drooped his head the
more to hide his thoughts, which surged through
his brain like a torrent. .

After a while he seemed to have dec1ded upon
his course. and said in his low, really soft tones:

“Miss Markham. as a man who stands look-
ing down into his own grave, you will forgive
me for what I say to you.

“ I say it, asking no mercy at your hands, but
only to prove to you that I am innocent of the
charge against me.

“ “"11 you hear me?"
“ Yes. "

“And forgive me?”

“ What have I to forgive l"

" That which I have to say to you.”

“I will hear you.”

“ I will only say then, that when a man of
my strong nature loves, he would risk life, all,
for the one who has won that love, and face
death a thousand times to shield her from harm.

“ My love may have made me over-cautious,
but loving you, as I confess I do, I did all in my
power to shield you from harm, and would have
gone hundreds of miles out of my way rather
than have an Indian fire u on this train.

“ I have only to say, iss Markham, that
thus loving you, I could not have willfully led
you into dan er.”

Madge Mar 'ham fairly trembled at the words
of the man.

She had seen that he liked to be with her,
yet, even in her short life she had receved so
much of homage from men, which her beauty,
wit and lovely character commanded, she had
not noticed that he had felt for her more than
friendly regard.

His confession of love, coming as it did from
a man in his situation and deadly peril, fairly
stunned her.

She felt pained, deeply so, for what could she
say in return, not even liking him. in spite of
her admiration for the manly qualities he had
exhibited in their few weeks’ acquaintance? for
the daily marches of the train had not averaged
many miles.

There was one thing this confession did, and
that was just what Kiowa Carl had aimed at.

That was it caused her to doubt the guide’s
guilt, and to feel a germ of suspicion against
Buffalo Bill, after all that she had heard against
him from the lips of the prisoner.

Madge was impulsive, and her feelings fre—
quently prompted her to act immediately. so
she said, after a moment of silence:

“ If you can be so base as to be deceiving me,
may God forgive you.”

“ Ha! then there is in your heart a return of
the affection I feel—”

The man’s eager tones were checked by her
quick and cold words:

“No! no! no! do not misunderstand me, sir,
for I meant not to imply that I cared for you,
for. on the contrary, I do not; but if you are so
base as to have said you love me, merely to
touch my sympathy for you, I repeat may God
for ive you.”

e seemed disappointed, and said in an in-
jured tone:

“You are unkind to doubt me after such a
confession.”

“I will, acting upon that confeSSion, believe
you innocent, and if you pledge yourself to re—
turn within the month and prove yourself inno
cent of the charge against you, to my father, I
will set you free.”

He started. and answered:

“And if I so “prove myself innocent, what
my I expect from you i”

‘r Nothing more than the pleasure I feel in
having saved an innocent man from the death,
which, you say, will be visited upon you.”

“ And that is all?”

If All.”

“ No more?”

“ You have heard me, sir, and I have nothing
more to say.”

She tool; from her pocket, as she spoke, a pen-
knife, and quickly severed the bonds that held
him fast. ,

“Now you are free, and I advise you to lose
no time in making your escape, which can easily
be done now while the men are at supper.

“ -by, sir, and if I do wrong, Heaven
forgive me; if right, I will have my own re.
ward.” ~

She turned away as she spoke, and though he
called to her, she did not stop, but continued on
to her tent, while he, with a sinister, triumphant
smile, glided away into the shadows of the tim-
ber, sprung upon the back of the first horse he
came to, and rode off upon the prairie. the an—
imal without bridle or saddle, and the rider
without arms.

(To be continued—commenced in No. 1.)

 

 

“ California Jack.”

AMONG the last summer “experiences” of
Buffalo Bill is this. Returning from a visit to
Manitou Springs, Colorado, in company with
some friends, on the train was a long-haired,
brawny-fisted, roughly-dressed man, evidently
a mountaineer or man from the mines. He had
beaten his way from Colorado Springs to Maui-
tou junction on the tally-ho coaches by claim-
ing that he had friends in the latter place, of
whom 'he would obtain money immediately
upon his arrival. He and “his partner” thus
managed  force themselves in for a free ride,
and, Wishing to further exert their cheek,
boarded the Denver and New Orleans train for
Denver. General Cook and party were on the
same train.

Hearing that Buffalo Bill was in the next car,
the man ame boisterous, and immediately
declared himself to be “wild and woolly and
full of fleas and never curried below the knees.
You Just go and tell him that Californy Jack is
on the train,” cried the man. “ He knows me
—I’m Californy Jack.”

“ The gentleman from Californy " then pro-
ceeded to pull out a nix shooter and flourished
it around in the car, to the infinite terror of the
ladies and some of the men.

no or two of the entlemen were oin for
“ Buffalo Bill ” in gogd earnest. when 8'the gcon-
ductor came along, and, finding that “ Cali—
forny ” and “ his pardner” had no tickets,
promptly bounced them from the train. The
passengers gathered on the platforms and at
the windows to witness the operation. Cali-
forny Jack was attired in buckskin breeches,
and had an enormous six-shooter strapped to
his‘waist. This he pulled from his belt as the
train started to move, and taking deliberate
aim. began to fire full at the car which General
Cook and Mr. Cody. with their families, occu-
pied. Three shots were fired in all, the bul-
lets striking the casing of the door to the car.

The wonder is that somebody was not killed.
The conductor immediately went through the
train to see if anybody was hurt, and found
that all had escaped. “By some stran

. . . com-
bination of circumstances neither Genera Cook,
Mr. Cody nor Ma'or Oakes had a weapon with

them,” said the ver paper, in chronicling
but had they been armed they
would not have hurt the woolly rough. It was

 

weigigi WORK.

BY STELLA DU ROI.
Pray. tell me good sir, if it please you,
(Your task do not now try to elm-lg)
You‘ve, been talking so wisely about it,
Now, pleaswg sir, what is woman 5 Work?

“ It is not to lecture or doctor,
Thai lowcis a woman l)ecaiisc-—-“
I’ve not asked what woiiian‘s work Has/HI ;
I asked you, dear sir. what it nus.

I almost believe you don’t know. sir.
“ Yes you do?" Well, please tell me, then;—
Yon “ think that a needle in her hands

Is better than pills or a pen."

But. really. a woman can‘t always
Be holding a needle, you know;

And have we learned all of life‘s lesson,
Good sir, in just learning to sew 1'

Suppose God has ivcii her talent?
Perhaps she con (i win a great name?
Perhaps—what‘s that you are saying?
" No woman should strive after fame?"

Oh, no! She should sew, as you said. sir,
Tho’ the pain stab her side like a. dirk;

She may starve on a mis‘rable pittance,
But she‘s doing her woman‘s sole work!

 

The Counterfeit Sun;
03,
THE ENEMY IN THE DARK.

BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL,
AUTHOR or “ uni: AWFUL DANGER.” “ “'ITHOUT
A NAME.” "DID sm‘. SIN!" “CLOUDED
IN MYSTERY," ETC., ETC.

 

CHAPTER IV.
THE Mi's'rERioL's MESSAGE.

DIRECTLY after the quiet, elegant wedding in
St. Jerome’s, Judge and Mrs. Ollivan at once
started for “The Olives," thecountryseat of the
judge, a magnificent place on the Hudson,
which had been named in honor of the first
Mrs.- Oilivan and her baby daughter—both
“Olive.”

It was an immense estate, divided into fields,
pastures, meadows, parks, woods, gardens, and
everything was in a. high state of cultivation.
The manswn itself was a grand modern build-
ing of stone and wood, imposing, picturesque,
yet charmingly quaint. With its turrets and
oriel windows, its balconies overrun with lux-
uriant roses, clematis. honeysuckle, wistaria,
that the first Mrs. ()Ilivan’s fair hands had
planted, nearly twenty years before.

Beyond the mansion, were the hot-houses,
graperies, pineries; further on the splendid
stables, with their tens of thousands of dollars’
worth of blooded stock; while, the approach to
the house, that stood a half-mile back from the
road, was a splendid shaded drive, winding and
spaciously wide, lined the entire length at in-
tervals, with colossal bronzes, matching in bold
grandeur the spear—tipped entrance gates at the
stone lodge. .

it was with pardonabie pride that Judge Olli-
van escorted his bride to her new home, and, as
the Ollivan carriage swept through the wide
open gates, Mrs. Ollivan’s dark eyes glowed
with eager delight.

“ It is magnificent—magnificent!” she ex-
claimed, as she bowed and smiled condescend-
ingiy to the lodge-keeper and his wife who were
profuse in their courtesies of Welcome to their
future mistress. “it is so bright and sunny,
and homelike. And to think I shall live all the
rest of in days at ‘ The Olives!’ ”

The jugge smiled at her pretty enthusiasm.

“ That is hardly likely my darling,” he said,
with tender gravity. “ emember how much

ounger you are than 1, and how very likely to
Ibng outlive me, in which event my daughter
Olive becomes mistress of what will be her own,
and my widow will reside in another of my
places—Park House, it is lied, just one of the
prettiest, completest littlecglaces imaginable.”

Mrs. Oilivan’s bright low faded a little, and
a slight compression of er lips showed she was
displeaSed.

“ Yes? I believe. Warren, I have never asked
you anything about your property. but surely
you will permit your wife to 0 so? Is every-
thing dear Oiive’s?”

The judge did not note the suppressed eager-
ness in her soft. smooth question.

“Not quite everything, Rosamond,” he an-
swered. “ ‘The OliVes,’ however, with all its
appurtenances, and belon ings, and revenues,
are my daughter’s, at my eath. You have no
cause for dismay, however, my darling, for
your future, as my beloved wife or widow, is
assured.” .

“ But what a weighty inheritance for a girl,”
she said, reflectively. “ But in case Olive dies?”

“If married. and having children. my will
instructs the estate to be. left to the eldest. I
am of English extraction, my dear. and I thor-
oughly approve the good old English law of en-
tai .

“ But if she dies unmarried?”

“ God forbid. but if she should, then a distant
relative of mine, an Oilivan, inherits—provided
you had no child, in which case he or she would
take Olive’s place as heir. Yonder is home,
Rosamond. our home. Let me bid you a hun—
dred welcomes, my wife!”

Mrs. Oilivan‘s welcome was an ovation from
first to last. Servants, acquaintances and
friends shared the demonstration, and the bean-
tiful bride was made to feel that her lines had
indeed fallen in most pleasant laces.

A few days after her arriva at The Olives,
Mrs. Oliivan suddenly addressed her compan-
ion, one bright afternocn when, for a half—hour
or more the bride had been sitting at her bou-
doir window. leoking thoughtfully out upon the
beautiful scene spread far and near.

“ Well, Alexander, what do you think of it,
so far? Have I not been successful beyond your
expectation?”

“ Successful. yes, so far,” Mrs. Alexander an-
swered, slowly, with a suggestive look in her
pale, small eyes. “But the end is not yet. The
game is only begun.”

“But well begun—you must admit that, Al-
exander.”

There was a mocking smile on Mrs. Ollivan’s
lovely lips, and her companion understood it
perfectly. .

The days and weeks went on, the months
went by, and Judge Oilivan’s infatuation for
his beautiful wife deepened into almost a wor-
ship of her—whatever she said was right, what-
ever she ~lid was perfect.

Mrs. Oliivan went in the best society, visited
and receiVed at “ The. Olives,” and later, during
the winter. at the Fifth avenue mansion. She
became one of the most popular women in so-
CIety, and was the leading belle and beauty. a
leader of fashion. a patronizer of benevolent so-
cieties, gracious, circumspect, shrewdly delicate
in her flatteries—in a word, a wide-awake, far-
Sighted woman, of whom the ii est venomous
tongUes could absolutely speak no ill.

_Ail these months. since Judge Oilivan’s mar~
riage, his daughter Olive had not been sum-
moned home from school—Mrs. Oliivan no
doubt fearing that the pure young eyes of the
child would see what the father was totally
blinded to—his beautiful wife’s hideous base-
ness, treachery, unworthiness.

Mrs. Ollivan found rend y and reasonable ex-
cuses for difeé-ring Oiive’s return. all of which
were accep e in perfect faith b the 'ud ,
who fully believed that his wife had oxily His
daughter’s good at heart, and was promoting it
at a great sacrifice to herself.

The winter wore away. along round of gay-
est festivities, every day bringing some new
pleasure to Judge Ollivan’s wife. while, in the
midst of it_all. only Mrs. Alexander observed a
gr0wmg air of on rvous expectancy in Mrs. 01-
hv’m’s mannelfia Suppressed eagerness and her
vcusness which she herself shared, as though in
painful waiting for some. expected end.

And that for which thny We". waiting came
at last—one winter's night, late in February, a
terribly stormy night, with is high wind and

thick-falling snow, and piercing cold, such a
storm as had not visited New York city in
years. ‘

In her dressing room, in as full feilet as
though callers Were to be expected, Mrs. _Ol-
livun satin a low easy-chair b fore- the glowing
grate life. her dainty feet resting on llie silver
bars 0!‘ the lender, her skirtot‘ myrtle velvet
and silk drawn up our u snowy-white lzice~
ruffled undershirt—the picture «‘1‘ si-lf compla-
cent satisfaction and brilliant beauty and regal
luxury—which struck Mrs. Alexuiiilir as she
entered the room abi'Uptly, iiei' ii~iinily pale
face flushed. her small pale eyes emitting a pe—
ciiliar gleaming light as she looked first at Mrs.
Oilivan, then at a lelter she carried in her
hand.

“Rosamond, the letter has come,” she an-
nounced, quietly enough, but Mrs. ()lli'van
sprung to her feet in excitement. u siltl‘Ilt'd
look suddenly shining in her brilliant dark
eyes.

“ The letter has come—t0 y« or”

“ To me, and I have read it. You remember
it was agreed that it should be addressed to me.
Before I give it to you, however. tlere is a
question I wish to ask )0“, liosairond. You
know how Judge Olliyaii adores you: he loads
you with gifts almost ro_\iil in their magnifi-
cence. You holda position through fill]! that
all other women envy: lltslUCS. his heart, his
life, his scvul, are at your feet. You are his all,
the very breath of his life. And I want to
ask you, Rosamond—do you low him .6”

Mrs. Alexander’s pale, keen eyes steadily re-
garded the handsome face opposite her, but the
dark eyes met the glance unbleichmgly, and
the exquisite mouth, that her hmbund had so
often kissed so passionately, curled with scorn~
ful contempt.

“Love him! Love him!” Mrs. Oliivan re-
peated. “ You know I do not love him. You
'now I love another as much—more—than
Judge Ollivan loves me! Love him—bah!”

Her slender, lissom figure seemed to quiver
with supreme excitement.

“ Very well, then,” Mrs. Alexander replied,
in cold tones, a strange, mirthless smile on her
thin, pale lips. “Since you so plainly define
your present position, I will give you t e letter
—the message we have waited for so long.”

Mrs. Oilivan almost snatched it, in her
eagerness, and at one glance gained the con-
tents, for it bore no address, date or signature,
and contained but one line. And that line, in
a bold, elegant hand. was this:

“ Get rid of him at once. The time has come."

CHAPTER V.
WHAT AWAI'I‘ED THE L'SL’RPER.

“ ROSE-TERRACE,” the home of the Dudleys,
the rightful heritage of our Stelle Dudley, and
the fair prize for which ethe Shirley was sac-
rificing his eternal hopes, in resolution of win-
ning, lay smiling beneath a flood of silver
moonlight, on an evening in September, the
day before the arrival of Kethe‘s letter written
and mailed in New York city.

The great mansion was a grand specimen of
modern architecture, and its setting of park
and wood, lawn and sunny slopes Cesceiiding to
the Hudson’s bank, its far-reaching home farms
and valuable pasture and meadow-land. forest
and fields, was a chaiiring place, well worthy
the love and pride bestowed upon it.

Upon this especial evening, the crisp. frost-
suggestive air of the bright September night
made the great brilliantly lighted family par-
lor more cheerful than usual—or so it seemed to
Dr. Dudley, as, sitting in his favorite chair be-
side the center-table. he looked thoughtfully and
graver at the rich, subdued brilliancy of the
shaded gas—with the abstracted air of one
deeply absorbed in his thoughts. He was a
grave. fine-looking man, in the full prime and
vigor of his manhood. His earnest, handsome
eyes were dark and bright, and his hair. a
warm, sunny brown, was plentifully sprinkled
with gray, as were his luxuriant mustache and
full beard, short and curling.

Superb in physique, broad-shouldered and
tall. with the strength of an athlete, Dr. Dud-
ley yet had the gentle refinement of a woman,
patient and sweet-tempered. while his mouth
showed all the firmness and resolution of his
noble nature. And this noble. generous, brave,
unsuspicious gentleman—this “country doc-
tor ”-—was he whom Kethe Shirley hoped and
meant to deceive into accepting himself in
place of his own son.

For rhaps half an hour, Dr. Dudley had
been t us sitting alone, busy with his own
thoughts, when the door of f! 0 room opened,
and a young girl came in—lllaud Owen, his
ward.

“ Are you alone, doctor?“ she asked, ap-
proaching him, her voice sweet as mu-ic. low,
refined, caressing. “I did not know whether
you had a little time to waste on such an insig-
nificant individual as I. Have you, (lei-tor?”

He looked at her, as he answered her—a look
that Was a revelation of what he little dreamed
betrayed itself so plainly, yet not to Maud her-
self—the look of a10ver.

It was the first, only love of his life—this pas-
sionate adoration for Maud Owen. In his
younger days, before he had attained to nian~

'8 years. he had married a noble, lovely
girl—Stelle’s mother, who had died soon after
her boy’s birth—and Dr. Dudley had thought
the respect, admiration, pride and tender friend-
ship he had felt for her had been the most of
which he was capable. but these latter days had
taught him that-it was for Maud ()wen loawake
all the fullest capacity of his rariii'e. and he
knew it n0w that she was the realization of all
his lifelong dreams, the one fair woman in the
wide world for him.

And she was so exceeding fair, very beauti-
ful, and bri ht. and innocent as a y ung girl
should be. ure and fair as a lily petal. with
loose, curling, golden-tinted hair, always drawn
off her broad while brow and tied at the crown
of her beautiful little head with a ribbon. and
left to float over her shoulders below hm supple
waist: with big, violet eyes: changeful in ex-
pression as the sky of an April din-z With a
sweet, rosy, womanly mouth, Maud Owen was
well calculated to stir the masculine heart to
its very depths—and when her 0“ n yet slum-
bering heart should be awakened by the master—
touch. to love as even women rarely love.

“I want to talk about Stelle. doctor," she
said, dropping lighti) into a little low chair near
him. “ t is nearly a fortnight—quite a fort
night since we have heard from him. Can any-
thing be the matter?”

“I hardly think it, dear. Before new. letters
have been delayed. and nothing was wrong.
He will be coming home soon. now, however.”

“ What a long while he has been away. Near—
ly six years. doctor. Do you think you will
know him when he comes back?”

“Know him. child?” Dr. Dudley said, with a
smile. “Do you imagine six years would so
change a Son that his father would not recrg—
nize him?”

“It seems quite possible, especially since he
went away scarce more than a boy—and will
come home a man. 1—] wonder if he willknow
inc—what do you suppose he will think of me,
coctor?”

“He will think you just what you are. the
sweetest. fairest—” And then Dr. Dudley
checked himself suddenly, and forced himself
to continue, quietly:

“My dear. I do not think I have ever told
you the chief reason I permitted Stelle to go
abroad for so long a time—why I consented to
deprive myself of the proud pleasure of his
companionshi . his ready sympathy, his loving
dutifulness. will tell you now, Maud—~—” and
for a second he hesitated. his handsome eyes
full of a despairing, yearning tenderness as he
looked at her slightly averted face—and then
he brought into play his stern, accustomed
habit of self~repression, and forced himself to
continue:

“ Because, ever since I brought you to Rose—
Terrace, a slim. shy, black-robed child. it has
been my desire that you never leave it, but re-
main as my—my daughter, as Stelle’s wife. I
did not wish you two to grow up together, to
become as brother and sister; so, While you

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I command in the note.

girl, and my son to the noble manhood I knew
would dove-op, l separated you, that, when
you met again, it would be, naturally, in all
rouability, to fall in love with each other.
at that 1 Would force your inclinations. little
irl—not for worlds would I have you marry

telle if you did not love him. But—if you did
—and I knew I should never lose you, I should
lie—be gratified indeed.”

There was a little pause, and Dr. Dudley
could see the warm flushes creep over her lily
fair face. and in the silence he battled fierce y
with his own feelings.
h.Then, in a soft little voice, Maud answered

1m:

" I never want to leave Rose-Terrace—and
you, doctor. I—I-like Stelle already, and—if
-he likes me, why—wh then—”

Her fluttering voice roke down in sweet,
girlish confusion, and despite the words were
just what Dr. Dudley had desiretfiier to say, in
the unselfishness of his noble heart that pre»
ferred his boy’s happiness to his own, yet a
swift spasm seemed to contract his very heart.
As he never had known before, he knew now
how he loved this sweet, fair-haired girl, to
whom he was no more than a dear, trusted
friend—the dearest friend of all. All the pas-
sion that had lain dormant so long, almost all
of Maud‘s bright young lifetime, suddenly
slipped its leash, and rushed over him like the
current of a resistless flood, convulsing his face
in an aished pallor, as her artless words, her
sweet esitation, stabbed his very soul.

. And yet. with that superb control Dr. Dudley
had over himself, he thrust his emotions away,
and gradually led the conversation away from
the painful subject

The next day Kethe' Shirley’s letter arrived,
creatin no little delightful emotion in the house-
hold, w ' a sympathetic Maud cried softly over
the account written of “ poor Shirley’s ” tragic

‘ate.

“Suppose it had been Stellel 0h, doctor,
, is good to a re us this terrible trouble.
Stella has been so 'nd and considerate to the
poor fellow—but Stella always seemed to me
the kindest-hearted gentleman Iever knew. To
think he is so near as New York! And we will
see him soon—he is actually, actually coming
home!”

Her delicate face was transfigured with de-
licious tenderness at the prospectof meeting the
hero of her girlish dreams, and, after along,
delightful talk with Dr. Dudley,‘ou the subject
of Stella’s return, discussed with animation and
eager excitement, Maud bade him good-night,
bestowing upon him her usual good-night kiss,
and went to her room, where sleep refused to
01059 her lovely violet eyes for hours, during
which she dreamed waking dreams of the glad
joy in store for her.

bile below in the library, her innocent kiss
flaming like sacred fire on his forehead, the
blood coursing hotl through his veins, Dr.
Dudley kept wakefu watch, fighting with his
, love for the girl, and determining, with all the
strength of his nature that he would put aside
his own dreams, and live in the happiness of
the two children—gold—haired Maud and his
brave boy Stelle.

Keeping his solitary midnight vigil, be was
conscious of a slow, strange shadow creeping
over the joy he had felt upon the expected re-
turn of his son—a strange dull shadow, as
though an impending evil threatened him—nor
did he know it might have been the eager effort
of his guardian angel to warn him of the stu~

_ndous fraud about to be perpetrated upon

1m. \

Naturally be imagined the cause of the de-
pression to be the fact that he meant to delib-
erately shut himself forever away from the one
blessed happiness Le craved—Maud Owen’s love,
but, whatever the cause, the loomy shadow
deepened and deepened as he w ked to and fro
alone with the silent night and his disturbed
thoughts.

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE BEAUTIFUL DEMONESS.

THE sheet of “paper containinor the sinister
message flutter slowly from lLrs. Ollivau’s
unloosened fingers as she read the brief, com-
manding sentence, and a strange look, ball-ten
ror, half eager horror, came into her dark c yes,
for notwithstanding that the message had been
long expected and anxiously awaited, its com
infliwas a shock to her.

rs. Alexander stood silently looking in
Mrs. Ollivan’s face, that slowly paled to an
ashen hue, and then, she lifted her eyes to b-1-
companion, with a look of appalled horror i1
them, while Mrs. Alexander returned the gaze

‘ith one full of bold, evil encouragement.

“It is a dreadful thing to do,” Mrs. Ollivan
faltered. “ I—I—haven’t the courage I thought
I had Alexander.”

“0 l" Mrs. Alexander sneered,
stooped and icked up the paper.
after all, you 0 love Judge Ollivan ?”

An indescribany taunting smile was on her

ale lips as she smoothed out the paper Mrs.
Ollivan’s nervous grasp had crushed.

“ You know I do not!” Mrs Ollivan returned,
impetuously. “But—he trusts me, he loves
me—and I am thinking of the years gone by
when I could not have harmed a dog who
licked my hand. Now, I am base, unscrupu-
lous, maneuvering, I know, but not so utterly
bad as you think, Alexander. My marriag
was part of a wickedly deliberate scheme, a
conspiracy from which I did not shrink, but
now that the crowning evil is at hand I shrink
in awful terror from it—to cut short the noble,
unselfish life whose happiness is perfect in me—
I—I—cannot—cannot do it I”

As she spoke, she swept suddenly away, and
fell on her knees before a chair, urying her
beautiful head on her arms, while sobs shook
her slender figure.

Mrs. Alexander went silently toward her,
like some evil shadow.

“ How very dramatic you are to—night, Rosa-
mond!” she sneered. “There is not the slight-
est necessity for any such display before me—
nor, even the necessity for you obeying the
You have absolute
liberty to do as on please—continue to be
Judge Ollivan’s a ectionate wife, receive his
caresses and his diamonds, reside over his
household, and soothe his dec ining years. Be
the model step-mother to his daughter, and as
she is sure to distrust and dislike you she will
doubtless influence her father to do t e same.
But you won‘t care—you will be growing old —”

“Hush, hush—or will you drive me mad?”
Mrs. Ollivan said, lioarsely, as she lifted her
deathly white face, a stormy look in her eyes.
"Let me alone, Alexander. You never fail to
stir up the hideous devil there is in me] You
ma :9 me hate my chains: y on make me loathe
the band that has fc.l me, the bosom that has
warmed me. I will obey the letter Lcal sent

cu!"

As she spoke, Mrs. Ollivan sprung to her feet,
her eyes flushing like steel swords.

Mrs. Alexander i miled. .

“ I was quile sure you would, my dear Rosa-
mond,”:he said, complacently. “Everything
is in Order—"

“Everything i»; not in order,” Mrs, Ollivan
interrupted. “ He Las made no new will since
our marriage, and by the terms of the old will,
all I have, in case of widowhood, is the use,
during my life, of Park House, and an income
of ten thousand dollars a 3 car. Leal expected
I would be a second Croesus, I suppose, out of
the Ollivan property.”

“It is a fault which can be amended,” Mrs.
Alexander said, significantly. “ The judge is
as clay in your hands; mold him to our am-
bitious wishes. His daughter is not a home to
counteract your influence, and if you are clever
you can divert to yourself all his honey and
properties from Olive, not already specifically
sett ed upon her from her mother‘s estate. We
can delay acting upon the matter for a day or
so. since a matter of so much importance to
Leal remains to be transacted.”

“And I am so thankful for even a, day's
res ite,” Mrs. Ollivan said, fervently. “ Eager
as was to receive the message, I shrink from
the crowning consummation of our plans. If

as she
“Then,

Judge Ollivan would only die a natural death— L

 

  

if only something— anything, almost, would hap-
pen to sweep him from my path!”
Her breath came heavi y and painful] as she

spoke, rising from her attitude of
ion.

” There would be a delay in any case, at least
until I can refill my crystal bottle; the precious
contents have evaporated in spite of all my
care. “’0 must be more than ordinarily cau-
tions, for it will be a nine—days’ sensation—the
sudden death of one so vigorous, and in such
perfect health. And if, by fatality, suspicion
does arise, it must not light on us.”

Mrs. Ollivan drew along, weary breath, and
nodded in assent to what Mrs. Alexander had
said, and then, slowly and wearily, she Went
down the grand staircase, crossed the great
hall and entered the library. where, before the
grate-fire, Judge Ollivan sat in a thoughtful
reverie, from which her light footsteps aroused
him. He arose at once and went forward to
meet her, a smile on his face, a proud, glad
light in his eyes.

“ Come to the fire. my darling; you are pale
and shivering with the cold.”

He gentl forced her into the easy-chair he
had himsel occupied, and then bent over her,
smoothing her cheek with lover-like caresses.

“You are not looking as bright as usual,
dear,” he resumed, after a pause, then, he
laughed, and went on—“you are not unhappy
about anythingf—a ball you wish to give, a new
suit of jewels you covet a European tri%you
would ike to take? Speak the word, Osa~
mond, and it shall be as yeuwish. Your will
is my law, my darling, and I find my highest
happiness in promoting ours.”

She shivered, as thong an ice-cold blast had
struck her.

“Thank you, Warren—you arevery good. I
—I —am,not worthy of so much kindness. Ah!
the dinner-bell—I believe I am glad of the in-
terruption, for I am afraid I was becoming senti-
mental. Come, “’arren.” _

She laughed, but there was a subtle something
in her laughter that jarred upon Judge Ollivan,
leaving the unpleasant impression that her im-
proved spirits were forced.

All through dinner-time she was gay, enter-
taining, only now and then, in some pause in
the conversation, there would come into her
eyes a fascinated, horrified stare, like that Mrs.
Alexander had seen in them when she read the
sinister message—ta look that testified how aw-
fully hcr soul shrunk from the contemplated
crime.

Dinner over the judge and she returned to
the library.

“ I am truly grateful for the storm to—night,”
he said, as he wheeled a. tc‘tcddéte sofa near the
cheery blaze behind the silver bars. " We will
have one of those rare enjoy ments, a quiet eve-
ning alone. Sit down, dearest, and let me tell
you that I would not change laces this night
with a living man. I believe am almost the
most blessed, the happiest man alive—not per-

fectly, dear wife, for, although you are all the
world to me, my joy lacks a drop of sweet-
ness.”

“ And that is, Warren?”

“' Tne presence of my daughter Olive. I am
afraid I have done wrong in not Laving brought
you two together before this time, Rosamond.
Upon my last run over to see her she begged to
be allowed to come home to see you, but, at
your request, and by your advice, I had her
remain during the entire year. Today I re-
ceived a letter—a most loving, pathetic little
letter in which Olive begs that Iwill permit
her to come home. Shall I not say yes, Rosa—
mond? I am almost afraid I have not treated
my motherless child rightly; she has never
seen you, never been at home since you were
mistress here. To speak frankly, dear, I am
afraid Olive will think her exile due to your in-
fluence, and that she will regard you with bit-
t mess and dislike instead of the love and trust
and confilence you deserve. You must love
each other, because you are both so dear to
me.”

“There will be ample time to cultivate an
acquaintance after Olive leaves school permar
nently. She is a mere child yet, and as I
have often said before, I think it decidedl
best that she remain at school until she gra .
notes.”

"I must differ with you there, dearest. The
child is homesick—remember she is not yet
seventeen, and I shall permit her to come home
for a visit at Easter. I hope you will take
pains to win her, Rosamond, for she is well
worth winning and will meet you half—way.”

Mrs. Ollivan frowned.

“If you knew how I dreaded to play the
step—mother to a tall, overgrown girl, with her
skirt-s t.) her ankles and her hair hanging in u

braid down her back! It will make me feel
awfully old and uncomfortable, lVarren.”

The judge sighed, and a grave look came over

his face.

“I hope and believe Olive will find her
way to your heart, Rosamond. I would like
you to teach her to call you ‘motner,’ but if
yoxi yvish not, she may call you what you
wil .’

“ Shall I tell you the truth, “'arren?” she an—
swered, with a forced smile. “ I believe I am
jealous of her. You fairly adore her.”

"But I have made her second to you, Rosa—
mond. She has been banished from her home
to please you, but now, when I think of her,
lonely, dreary, homesick, pleading to be al-
lowed to come to me, my heart yearns toward
my little girl. Jealous of “Olive, Rosamond!
What further proof do you need that I prefer
my ,darling wife in all things above my daugh-
terl’

A sudden hectic flush tided over Mrs. Olli-
van’s cheeks—she had managed the conversa-
tion well, and her opportunity had come. Her
dark eyes glowed, and her voice was tremulous
as she answered him. '

“Only look at the magnificent fortune she
will have, Warren, while I, your wife, in case
you—should—die, would have only a pitiful in-
come of ten thousand a year.”

“ Pitiful, Rosamond!”

“ Compared to your daughter’s—yes! that
you leave to me is only mine for life; Olive’s is
her own, absolutely. You have est-ates you can
conve to me and make me independent, too.
I Would have spoken of these things before, but
I did not think it delicate. But, Warren, I do
hope you will make things right, by a. new
will, in which there is not such a monstrous,
unjust distinction between a. wife and a daugh—
ter.”

Judge Ollivan regarded her with amaze-
ment.

"1 am surprised at you, Rosamond. Olive
inherits her mother’s fortune, with an addition
from me, nor would I undertake to alter my
intentions concerning her. But I will promise
you one thing ”—anl he smiled faintly—“ I
have not the slightest idea of dying just yet,
and while I live your wishes need now no
limit. DJ not allow jealousy of my little
motherless Olive to warp your beautiful na-
ture, my darling. And remember, toe more
you love her, the better—if it is possible to love
you ,better than I (lo—the better 1 shall love
You. ’

} He leaned firward and drew her fair bead
tenderly against his breast—truly, a. viper he
was seeking to warm and cherish!

The crimson flush deepened on her check.

“Then, Warren, you decline to make a new
will. with further provision for me l”

“You surprise me beyond measure, Rosa-
mond, to hear you persist on a subject of which
Ineverimagined on even thought! I do de-
cline to comply With your request, not because
I do not love and appreciate you, my darling,
but for the simple, Sensible reason that I con-
sider the sums already arranged for you ample
for your wants as my widow. We will let this
discussion end here, dear, and we will never re-
some it.”

Mrs. Ollivan om ressed her lips, but, she
obeyed, for Judge 01 ivan was a man who com-
manded obedience, gentle, tender though he
was, and a little later, she layed Some music
for him, at his request. and t en, retired to her
room, leaving Ju .«ge Ollivan troubled and dis-
appointed, for the first time, in the wife he be-

espera-

 

 

«mum! ,ulmui

lieved to be faultless. The first cloud had dim—
med the clear sky of their married life, an .1 it
was hard to been , as his grave, sad, anxious face
showed as he sat there alone, for an hour or
more.

While above, in the splendid apartments her
husband‘s love, and taste, and generosil had
made so beautiful for her, Rosamond O liVan
sat alone, harboring thoughts of the most hide-
ous of all crimes.

Presently after her entrance to her boudoir,
Mrs. Alexander came in—softly, cautiously, as
she alway s moved.

“ You look like a. woman who has resolved to
risk all on the throw of the, dice, Rosamond,”
she said, locking intently at to beautiful face
turned toward the dancing flu mes.

"1 am resolved,” Mrs. Ollivan answered, in a
hard, constrained voice.

“I knew you would. Has the judge made a
new will?"

"N -! He positively declines.”

“Well, since you can do no better, we will
consider ten thousand a year as not to be de-
spised. And perhaps,” Mrs. Alexander said,
significantly—“ perhaps we can ,3 et arrange to
increase it. I came to tell you I will see Leal
to morrow—if you sa so.”

A sudden flash lighted Mrs. Ollivan’s face.

“ By all means see him to-morrow, and have
him give you more of the-the—medicine. I
have worked myself to the necessary point of
reckless courage. and I believe I would scruple
to do nothing if detection were not involved. I
will administer the preparation myself. Go
early and be back before dinner-time, and I
will spend the time trying to realize that by
this time to~morrsw night I will be a widow—
free once more!"

(To be continued—commenced in No. 1.)

 

Blue’ierrées and Beats.

BY OLL COOMES.

 

 

IT was September, and the woods of Minne-
sota were teeming with an abundance of wild
fruits. Nature had been unusually lavish in
her gifts. Every thicket was mottled with its
red and yellow plums; every grapevine was
drooping under its load of purple unit, while
everywhere grew large, sweet and luscious
blueberries.

Out of this abundance—without money or
without price—the settlers supplied their need.
It was a royal holiday to the young folks of
the settlements when they could gather to-
gether and go “ plumming ” or “ berrying ” in
the wildwood: and it was upon just such an ex-
cursion as this that the young Liks of Burton‘s
Settlement set out early one morning in a little
sail-boat for the “ blueberry pickings” on the
opposite side of Fawn Lake.

There were six in the party—four girls and
two boys, or rather men. Of the latter Chester
Small was the oldest, being four-and twenty.
He was not a resident of the settlement, but a
visitor at the carin of his uncle, Job'Small.
He was reputed to bea man of education, social
refinement, and some wealth. He had traveled
the country over from Maine to Calfornia, and
his supply of stories of his travels was inex-
haustib e, though to some they seemed rather
ridiculous and somewhat exaggerated. When
it was intimated to him that the “blueberry
pickings” were usually inf‘ésted with bears, be
manifested no little elation, for he claimed to
be a lover of wild and dangerous sport, and
that in his time he had hunted the Mexican
leopard in the San Blas country of California,
showed scars received in an encounter with a
fierce grizzly, and told of many hairbreadth es-
capes in hunting the buffalo on the plains.

Dick Roman, the other young man, was a
tall, broad-shouldered and rather handsome
youth of twenty. He was the son of one of the
settlers, and while possessed of but a limited
education, he was rich in the possession of a
noble, manly heart, a kind and jolly disposi-
tion. But naturally enough Dick could not
help feeling an inferiority in the presence of
Chester Small. He would not have cared had
he not loved Rosa Burton, one of the loveliest
girls in the settlement, to whom he saw Small
paid considerable attention. He did not know
whether Rosa cared anything for him or not,
but if she ever did, he felt that the contrast be-
tween him and Small would make him appear
more plainly what he was—a big, awkward and
rule backworidsman.

Rosa. Burton accompanied the party, and
when they had crossed the lake and entered
the berry patch, Chester kept near her side.
ever ready to extract a nettle from her finger
or hold aside an obstructing bough.

ll'ith the exeepliou of one or two “bear
scares” by the roguish little Ila Morton, the
forenoon passed away Vcl‘y pleasantly, when
the party repaired to the boat for lunch.

After their meal had been dispatched and
Chester had told a very pleasant story of his
travels in Texas, they all took their baskets
and sought a new berry patch further back
from the lake.

Chester still showed a preference for Rosa's
company by keeping at her side. but big—hearted
Dick, with his basket in one hand and his trusty
rifle in the other, walked along in front, talking
and laughing with all.

In a few minutes all were busily engaged. and
in the course of time became somewhat sepa-
rated.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Mary
Gray walked over to where Ila Morton was,
busily engaged in staining her face and hands
for the purpose of perpetrating an Indian scare
upon her friends, and said:

" Ila, I do believe Chester Small has cut Big
Dick out of Rosa.”

“Plague take Chet Smell,” replied Ila, “ he’s
a nice-looking fellow, but he thinks he’s so aw-
l'ul smart. I just know that Big Dick could—”

Before she could finish the sentence a wild
shriek from the lips of Rosa Burton went pierc—
ing through the woods.

In an instant Chester was at the side of the
terrified girl.

“In Heaven’s name! what is it, Rosa?" he
asked, with bated breath.

“Look there!" und, raising her trembling
hand, she pointed toa large bear that w assented
on its haunches regarding her with a savage
look.

Quick as thought. almost, Chester whipped out
a little silver—mounted revolver and fired at the
animal; but the tiny bullet bad no other clloct
upon it than to sting it into madness, when,
with a fierce growl, it charged upon the startled
pair.

Seizing Rosa. by the arm, Chester turned. and
halfdragging the maiden, started to flee; but
Rosa tripping over her basket fell, and before
she was upon her feet again the bear came upon
her, and striking her a blow with its paw felled
hcr llillf stunned to the earth. Chester lcnpcd
behinl a large tree-trunk and turned to file
from cover on the bear, but at this juncture the
form of Dick Roman came lunging through the
berrybushes and was interposed between Rosa
and the beast.

The young settler had taken in the situation
at a glance, and, never stopping to shoot the
hear, he dashed forward, throwing down his
rifle for there was no time to use it, to the mai-
den’s rescue. The next moment his left arm
was seized in the jaws of the infuriated beast
and a desperate struggle ensued. The young
settler managed to draw a hunting—knife from
his belt, and this he drove to the hilt in the
brute’s body. But the keen blade touched no
vital spot, and, before, he could repeat the blow,
the bear seized him, and with a. death-grip
ling ed him in its powerful arms.

“ Flee, Rosa! flee!” cried Small, the destroyer
of many a fierce grizzly, as he maintained his
position behind the tree, and, with a reckless
disregard of Big Dick’s life, kept popping away
with his toy revolver at the bear.

“Help him, Chester! help Dick!” cried Rosa,
springing to her feet and turning with pleading
voice to Small. But seeing the hero of San
Blas moved not from his retreat, the maiden

 

herself proved equal to the occasion; and turn-

   

 

“l umlmlmm

ing, she picked up Dick‘s rifle and cocking it ad—
vanced to within a few feet of the bear, and
with a deliberate aim, that told she was no nov—
ice in handling a rifle, sent a bullet crashing
through the animal’s head.

Iastanlly the brute’s jaws, shattered by the
bullet, fell apart. and with the blood lairly
streaming from its mouth it relaxed its deadly
bug on Dick’s body and fell our on the earth in
its death throes.

Crushed, bruised and bleeding Dick’s arm fell
at his side, the youth staggered and but for the
timely support of Rosa and Chester Small would
have fallen.

b The rest of the party had fled in terror to their
out.

" Rosa, you have saved my life,” was the first
thing Dick said.

"And but for your heroism. Dick, I should
have been killed myself," rejoined Rosa, look-
ing up thankfully into the youth’s face which
bore evidence of great pain.

And these words were spoken in the presence
and hearing of Chester Small upon whose face
was now plainly written the shame of an up
braiding conscience for his cowardly desertion
of the maiden when her life was in deadly dan-
ger.

Hastening back to the boat Dick’s wounds
werecarefully dressed, when the party imme-
diatel y embarked for home, and despite his pain,
Dlilck was now the most jovial and spirited of
a .

Thus in the end—in the hour when actions in-
stead of words were demanded—true manhood
and courage had triumphed, and big Dick Ro-
man became a hero in fact—ay, more than that
in the course of time—the husband of Rosa Bur-
ton. And Chester Small, the hero of many an
encounter with danger, paled away into 0b-
livion and contempt.

Novel Fire Ladder.

0F a late exhibition in St. Louis of a recently
introduced fire escape and ladder we have this
interesting account: “ The ladders, in construc-
tion, are simplicity itself. A single pole of
hickory, with rungs projecti 'g from either side,
is surmounted by a. hook of Norway iron, bent
at a long right angle, and supplied on the under
side with serrated teeth. The ladder can thus
be readily booked through windows of great
depth. In the drill yesterday one of the corps,
with his ladder, got a grip on the second story
window and running rapidly up seated himself
in the opening, pulled the ladder up after him,
reached up to the next window, where he got
another grip, and in a jiffy was one story higher,
and so on up to the Very roof. The descent was
still more rapid. The drill was then made by
four men directed by the voice of the captain,
v. ho on occasion of fires uses a shrill whistle to
convey his signals. It should be stated that
each fireman wore a broad belt of canvas and
leather, depending from the front of which by
a strong strap was a large wrought-iron snap-
hook, so that on mounting to the top of the lad-
der the fireman c‘ould snap his book around one
of the standards and be thus secure from all
poSSibility of falling, and at the same time have
us hands free for holding hose or assisting peo-
ple from the window.

“ The book serves another purpose. Making a
rope fast on the inside of the window, he can,
after taking two or three turns with the rope
around the upper rim of the snap hook, obtain
sufficient friction to enable him not only to let
himself down, but to take one or two men with
him if they are strong enough to hang on.
Chris. Hoell, captain of the corps, lowered him-
self in this way yesterday from the fifth story,
and as he came ast the third-floor window an-
other man caug t on and came down with him.
At the word of command one of the ladders was
hooked over the window-sill. At another com-
mand a man ran lightly up, stopping near the
top. At another command his book was snapped
around the standard. and he stood on the rungs,
his waist on a level with the sill. and his hands
free. Instantly another ladder was handed to
him by fireman No. 2. and, raising it quickly,
he hoo 'ed it on the sill of the third-story win-
dow above him. At another command he un-
hooked his belt, stepped on the second ladder,
and ran up to the third story, fireman No. 2
meanwhile mounting to the second story. Both
men now hooked themselves to their respective
ladders. and a third ladder was quickly passed
up by fireman No. 3. No. 1 reached up with
this and hooked it on the sill of the fourth-story
window, and then, at a. word, mounted again,
No. 2 following to the third story, and No.3
following to the second. A fourth ladder was
passed up by fireman No. 4, and No. 1 hooked
it on the sill of the fifth story. Again he mount—
ed, No. 2 following to to the fourth story, No. 3
to the third, and No. 4 to the second. In an—
other Second each man had entered the Window
of the floor at which he had arrived.” _

 

 

 

Telephone Echoes.

IN the German army more attention is being
paid to the science of acrostatics, and ofiicers
are being trained to make balloon ascensions.
This will fit them to come to this country and
amuse the population on the Fourth of July.

A CHILE allers deserves whippin’ do most
when its father is outcrhumor. Dar’s a ole say-
ing w hat says neber hit a boy when yc’r’ mad.
I wouldn’t give a cent for hit him any udder
time, ’cu’se I ain’t gwinc ter fight nobody when
l’se in a good humor.

SEVENTEEX years old, twice married, once a
widow, and now deserted by her second bus-
band, is the history of a girl who recently at-
tempted to commit suicide at Kansas City.
Don‘t see why she wanth to suicide. She was
having a pretty good time. '

“ YES,” he said, “ I hope the autumn leaves
won’t be handsome this year.” “ Don’t you
love the beautiful in nature?" they asked him.
“ Yes,” he said; “ but if there are no 1 andsomc
leaves I may be able to take down a book in my
library without dropping a. lot from it.”

A Nomusrowx man who couldn't live within
his income. was ndvi~ml f I dispense with a few
luxuries. He ilxilnmlizitcly sold his gun and
hunting-ng and bought a share in a yacht.
Many a 1mm would have smoked it cheaper ci—
gn', and made his wife wear her last year‘s
dross.

“I'S been in dis world fur many years {111’
liris been well acquainted wid animals, but I
ain’t yit found a kind—beamed Cdb. Dziruin’t
no gratitulo in a (-ut. 1101' recollection ob a
good deed ain‘t as long us her tail. Give her a
yiecc 0b meat tor—day, and tor morrcr :lic’il spit
in yer face.”

PARSON JONES bad just concluded his long
discoursv. the benediction had been pronounced
and the congregation was dispersing. Said Dou-
con Brown, a. great admirer of the parson: “ A
fine sermon, and well timed, too.” “ Yes,” rc-
plicd Fogg, “ it was certainly well timcd.
About llillf the congregation had their watches
out most. of the time he was talking.”

IT was Mike‘s third appearance in court with-
in ihirty days, and in reply to his usual appeal
for clemency the magistrate impatiently ob-
served: “ It‘s no “so, Mike, you’re good for
nothing.” “ It’s not my slhyle to be, braggin’,”
rctorted Mike, “but if yer lionneur will borry
a pal i'of shillal he and stip outside wid me, I’ll
make it inconvaynient for ye to howld that
opinion.”

A MAN on 11 Vermont train was heard to
groan so frightfully that the passengers took
pity on him. and one of them gave him a drink
out of a whisky flask. “Do you feel better?”
asked the giver. “ I do,” said he who had
gronned. “ What ailed you. anyway?” “ Ailed
me!” “Yes : what made you groan so ?”
“ Groan' Great land 0’ Goshenl I was sing-
ing.” The generous man will never quite cease
to regret the loss of that drink of whisky.

 

 

l

Popular Poems.

~—-—~40.—— w
LIKE THE ‘VEATHER.

A woman, take her altogether,
Rescmblcs very much the weather.
She always " reigns ” when she is “ fair,“
Receiving “ signal service " rare.
She always wants " a liltle change,"
And " blow ” for blow she will exchange.
She often “ hails ” a car, and then
Remarks, “ Drive on! I‘m wrong again.”
She’s “changeable,” wnll often " storm,"

‘ And when she’s scold she makes it “ warm."

‘ Uneven temperature ” she shows,
And sometimes blows hcr precious snows.
She has a " freezing ” manner when
She doesn‘t “ freeze "' to gentlemen.
Her eyes “ flush lightning " when she‘s mad,
And when she “ tbundcis " it is sad.
Her “ cold wave " to her “ reign-beau "’ will
Bring on at once a sudden “ chill.”
She often has “ wet spells “ of tears;
And, when she’s married, it appeals
She always holds the “ rains “' with case,
And gets up quite a “ spankinz breeze,“
With “hurry-canes," until the " sun"
Is “ set ”—to “rise ” ere day’s begun.

—f\‘crl 53:01.41 71 Herald.

 

 

:02

 

T0 YOUNG MEN.

 

BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

 

Way linger round the sunken wrecks,
here old Armadas found their graves ‘:
Way slumber on the sleepy decks
hile foam and clash the angry waves?
Up! “’hen the storm—blast rends the clouds
And winged with ruin sweeps the gale,
Young feet must climb the quivering shrouds,
Young hands must reef the bursting sail!

Leave us to fight the tyrantcrecds,

Who felt their shackles feel their scars;
The cheerful sunlight litt e heeds

The brutes that prowled beneath the stars:
The dawn is here, the day star shows

The spoils of many a battle won;
But sin and sorrow still are foes

That face us in the morning sun.

Who sleeps beneath yon bunnered mounds,
That proudly sorrowing mourncr seeks—
The garlandobearing crowd surrounds?
_ A bright-haired boy, with beardlcss cheeks.
‘Tis time this “ fallen world ” should rise;
Let Youth the sacred work begin!
“'bat nobler task, what fairer prize
Than Earth to save and Heaven to win?

 

20:

 

PA RTBIDGES.

 

BY A. T. WORDEN.

Under the alders, along the brooks,
Under the heinlocks along the hill.
S reading their plumwre with furlivo looks,
ninllly pecking the’leavcs at will;
Whirr! and they flit from the startled sight—
The forest is silent and the air is still.

Crushing the leaves ’n eath our careless feet,
Snapping the twigs with a heavy tread,
Dreamy October is ate and sweet,
And stooping we gather a blossom dead:
Boom! and our hcait has a thunderous bent
As the gray apparition fills overhead.

U1} from the path with a. thunderous roar
hat startles the dreamer amid his dreams,
Till he peers into vistas that open before
For t efiash of the plumage with silver gleam;
Why, modest brown hermit, thus fearful of him
\V ho would share in the secrets of forest and
stream?

I lie on windrows of leaves and gaze
At thy innocent preening of serrate wing.
Or watch where the last crimson colors blaze.
And the red Autumn leaves to the maple cling,
Too fond of this life myself to destroy
The motion and life I am worshiping.
~Ruchestcr EJ’pI‘r-A'N.

 

20:

 

CHESTNUTS.

 

Brown children of the autumn wood,
You tell me of the olden lime

When o‘er the hillside paths I roamed,
1n bright October’s golden prime.

\Vhen ‘ncath the maples all afiame,
I dreamed the golden hours away;
While round me like a picture fair
The woodlands in their beauty lay-—

And the white, mist-like fairy vail
Came slowly creeping up the hill,

From where the river hastened on
To the broad pond bosi'le ilw mill.

There, ‘iuid the grass and fragrant ferns.
Jnsl Dzirtcd from their hurry homo,
Amid the leaves all saffron dyed
The chestnuts lay around me strewn.

All! then what joyous task was mine.
My basket with brown nuts lo fill!

Il'hilc ‘mid the Loughs ihe light-winged jay
(juvc me a. welcome loud and shrill.

How well I love each v'oodlund voice!

The squirrels chirp; the brook‘s low song;
The music of the uir-burps wild

Borne by the wandering winds along:

That mossy seat beneath the trees;
The wood with spicy perfume sweet;

The carpet—golden, green, and brown:
By Nature spread beneath my feet!

I ne‘er shall see such woods again;

Those autumn days can come no more»-
F.)r life has drifted inc away

From Youth‘s enchanted, flowery shore.

How strong the tie that binds the heart
To all it loved when life was new——

The hillside path, the orchard slope,
The pastures where the berries grow!

And here, in cmnmcrccvcrowdcd mart,
Amid this restless, busy life,

\Vlicre all the world seems im-t to see
\Vho shall be foremost in tlic strife;

’Mid all the sounds: that fill the street—
These small brown nuts in boxes piled,

Bring back to me my vanished youth,
And I am once again a child.

 

 

102 ~
'l‘llE Ill 1811 EMIGRANT.

BY J. \l'. MATTHEWS.

It was a jolly Irish lad, who sailed across lllc main.
And loft lllH Biddv cryin‘ on the Sllhl't';
" \Vupo not," said it" “ llll' durlinl, il' l llI'VI r ('Ollll‘
again,
Bcgar! I will never be bore any morc."
Then he paced the lowcr deck, with a (fudge l in his
hand
And quietly observed to those around.
“If we fail toruicli the shore, 1 am afraid we‘ll non-r
land.
But we'll never know, lil‘usc gracious, till \vv‘rc
(lbl‘OWil'dT

Then he took a scrap of lupcr, «lid this burly Irish

in ,
And be \vrol w: ltzisly hole to lllis effect:
“If ye cvir catch izio i.j.;liiii‘, it will be “lli‘u I am

sad,
If (load, I’ll not bo br‘hlbin‘, I expect;
And if ivi-ry bludlly son iv us should sink beneath
the seas,
Aforo we slbriko the ‘urhor in Now York;
Then, be jubcl‘s! Mr. (Explain, take this letter. if yo
please,
And send it buck to Diddy Shay, at Cork. "

By this the son of Erin to a deadly pallor grow
And wildly clulclmd lllo gual‘d-rri at his side,
Exclaiming somewhat llorccly as lxis last men] came
to view,
“ By inc sowl, I‘m going outward wilh lln- tide."
Then the captain spoke to cheer him, in a reassuring

way,
And cko the lubbcr's cycs begun to shine;
“ Had I (bio) nivcr loft Auld (bio) Erin, faith, I‘d not
be llt‘l‘l‘ til—day,
Distbributin‘ mo (hic) enthrziils to the brine.

“ Am I dhreamin‘? Blessed Virgin, look in pity on
me win,
Howly lollier! snatch a sinner from the sea. ,
It’s Infcsclf will nivcr schwear ag‘in, unless I get pro~
anc,
Nor (llirink, begarl unless I‘m on a spree.“
Then the vessel gave a lurch, and this Irish lad so
bold
Went tumbling headlong over in the main,
And some one board llllll mutter, as they brought
him illro’ the bold,
“Egad! I‘ll nivcr dhrown mesclf again."
—— Tole lo L‘Jlulc.

 

 

we... «yaw ’f'“

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

  

 

g d g) (
3
Published every Monday morning at nine OC'OJ'k.

NEIV YORK, NOVEMBER 25, 1882.

 

 

BEADLE‘s WEEKLY is sold by all Newsdealers in
the United States and in the Canadian Dominion.
Parties unable to obtain it from a newsdealer, or
those preferring to have the paper sent direct, by
mail, from the publication office, are supplied at the
following rates:

Terms to Subscribers, Postage Prepaid:

One copy, four months . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. $1.00.
“ ' one year . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . 13.01).
Two copies, one year . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 0.00.

In all orders for subscriptions be careful to give
address in full—State, County and Town“ The pa-
per is always stopped, promptly. at expiration of
subscription. Subscriptions can start With any late
number.

TAKE NOTICE—In sending money for subscription,
by mail. never inclose the currency except ll]. a re-

Istered letter. A Post Office Money Order Is the

est form of a remittance. Losses by.mall Will be
almost surely avoided if these directions are fol-
lowed.

W” All communications, subscriptions, and let-
ters on business should he addressed to

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM ST., NEW YORK.

 

Take Notice.

Swinls appearing in [his IVEEKLY will not
be republished in Lbrary or book form.

 

 

IN OUR NEXT!

Lion-Hearted Dick.
The Gentleman Road-Agent.

A Wild Tale of California Adventure.

 

BY ALBERT W. AIKEN,

AUTHOR OF “OVERLAND KIT,” “TALBOT 0F
CINNABAR,” "CAPTAIN DICK TALBOT,”
“ FRESH OF FRISCO," “ CAPTAIN
VOLCANO,” ETC., ETC.

A reintroduction of the now celebrated char-
acter of Richard Talbot in a story of wild in-
terest, and with actors of the type only found
in the Sierra Camps and Mines.

Talbot is here pitted against a bevy of rogues,
and by playing the daring feat of

Tapping the Stage on the Road!

“ goes for ” the real road-bandits in a surprising
manner, little surmising the extent and ramifi-
cations of the villainy he is ordained to un-
covar.

The Beautiful Female Barber—

a strange woman with a big history—soon
comes into the drama, to intensify both its ex-
citement and its mystery, and to become, event-
ually, the person, next to Talbot, of central
interest in the memorable train of events. Of
the side characters we have

Joe Bowers, the Inveterate Bummer,

once more acting his odd part, always on hand
for a drink, for a row, and for any mean ser-
vice that offers. '

Altogether it is the story of the year, and
both for the author’s sake, and for the celebrity
of this “ hero ” of romance, it will command the
attention of lovers of realistic stories of the
Wild IVest to an uncommon degree.

“3

Great Serials on the Schedule!

A Superior and highly ingenious DETECTIVE
STORY, whose locale is Washington City, by
Anthony P. Morris.

Another BUFFALO BILL ROMANCE by Col.
Prentiss Ingraham—one Of exceeding novelty
in its “make-up” and the nature of its inci-
dents.

A CITY-LIFE NOVELETTE of a character sure
to arouse inquiry for its revelations of the mys-
tery of an astonishing series of crimes—as
strange as Poe’s “ Marie Roguet."

 

A brilliant and bright ROMANCE OF THE SEA,
of ingenious construction, and all-pervading in—
terest.

These, following in quick succession, are but
the forerunners of others which We have pro-
vided from the pens of

The Best Romance Writers

in America. Not mere experimenters and
amateurs, but those of wide reputation and of
confessed eminence in the world of popular fic-
tion.

 

The lh‘ide Mke Papers.

M IC AWBERISM.

SAYS an exchange, “That was good advice
which an old man gave his sons: ‘Boys, don’t
you ever wait for something to turn up. You
might just as well go sit down on a stone in the
middle of a med ler with a pail ’twixt your legs
and wait for a cow to back up to you to be
milked.’ ”

It was good advice, indeed, for there is noth-
ing more detrimental to a young man’s chances
of making a success of life than a tendency to
Micawberism—to wait for something, some
Work or some situation, to “ turn up ;” and busi-
ness men and moneymaking men, with good
positions or investments to oflfer, are no more

ikely to f] y out of their business orbits in search

of dawdling young men to offer them to, than
a cow would be likely to back up to a waiting
herdsman to be milked.

No indeed! The men for whom something
does “turn up ” are the men who are not wait-
ing at all, but working at; something—~Whatever
they can find to do—all the time, and 'ust as
hard as they can work. It is in the rapi revo-
lutions of busv lives that changes and advance-
mentsare constantly occurring; while the men
who are just waiting, keep on waiting and get
so used to dawdling that they never half do
anything if even by some rare chance anything
“turns up ” for them to do: and they end by
making a failure of this undertaking, ahd losing
that situation, and returning to the old aimless,
idle, contemptible Micawber like life.

Bah! I have not a bit of respect for such
men, and I cannot understand how they can en-
dure such an existence. For an idle man—that
Is a man out of employment, and without any
definite purposes in life—is a hundred times
more despicable and more of a. dawdlcr than
any s0~called idle woman. The idle and butter-
fly girls at whom men are so ready to have their
it i ng have their music, their books,their rick-rack

 

and their embroidcries, their sets of_ socials,
their calls, their fancy work.and their shop-
ping, the study of the fashions, correspond-
ences and making over of dresses, dusting of
parlors and beau ifying of their own rooms..and
scores of little pursuits to occupy their.ttme;
but the man who is waiting for something to
turn up is always at a loss to know what he
had best do with himself—after he has eaten
his late breakfast, looked over the morning
paper, smoked two or three cigars, and snoozed
for an hour or two upon the Sitting-room iota.
Well, I could soon suggest something thathe
might do, and if he would follow my suggestion
some regions of the world would be wonderiul
ly improved. He might start upon an expedi-
tion to find the north pole and put a flag. upon
the top of it, resolving never to return Without
accomplishing that feat: but probably be Will
start instead for an infinitesimal walk. to the
nearest cigar or liquor store, where_ he Will
“ brace up ” his energies with a fresh Cigar or a
gin-cocktail to endure the arduous occupation of
holding up some corner store and staring out of
countenance all the pretty girls. By the way,
do you know what I would (lo—if I were _w1fe or
mother to a young man who was waiting for
something to turn up? Of course you do not,
and you cmnot guess, so I will tell you, and the
young Micawbers can keep out of my way—as
they will be sure to do when they hear .my
plan. I would not let him waste much time
waiting for something to turn up, but I would
give him a position immediately .by pay-
ing ofl’ my servant and installing my young
man in her place. “See here, June,” I should
say to her, ‘ you are a faithful girl, and I am
sorry ti) send you away, but I cannot have any
one idle about my house—I cannot afford it—
and since John has nothing to do, and is sighing
for employment, I must give him the kitchen
work to attend to.” Of course when I In-
formed John of his new position he would say
he knew nothing about such work. But I would
soon settle that point. “John,” I would say,
sweetly, “ I’ll teach you. I Will show you how
to do each thing once, and then you will be able
togo ahead upon your own responsibility. If
you were offered a position at $3,000 to—morrow,
you would not refuse because you were some-
what unfamiliar with the duties of the position.
You would set to work to learn them. To be
sure I cannot give you more than $12 or $14 a
month, but that is Immensely better than noth-
inga month and nothing to do!” And I just
would not do one thing that Jane had been in
the habit of doing until that waiting young
man found some employment as steady and
more lucrative than that with which I could
supply him! Indeed, I would not!

by, I know a young man—a healthy, hand-
some fellow—who has been waiting five years
for something to turn up! How I despise him!
If he were ten times handsomer than he is, and
the only man within a thousand-mile radius of
the region in which I take my daily promenade,
I would not look at him—the umbitionless fel-
low! And you must acknowledge for a “ Belle ”
who is partial to masculine beauty and masculine
smiles that that shows an awful amount of con-
tempt for the individual under consideration.
He will not take this position because it is some-
what inferior to the one he had last, nor that,
because the salary is too small, nor another he-
causa it is not in a fashionable quarter; and so
he keeps on waiting for something to turn up
that will exactly suit him. IVell, nothing ever
will, and I hope he will eventually get started
into acting as a car “ spotter ” or u. hangman—
anything that is quite low enough to pay him
sufficiently for his Micawberism.

I know other young men, who were worth a
score of such as I have just mentioned, in birth,
breeding, education, social standing, and excel-
lences of charaCLer, who have not been ashamed
to employ themselves in ever so humble a way
rather than wait for something better to turn
up. One became a street—car conductor, af’er
having held a fine position in a broker’s office.
But he was not a car conductor long. While
earning what he could in that way, he met with
other and far more lucrative employment, and
is now as “ swell” as any one. Another young
man consented to take a position at $500 a year
who had been used to salaries four and five
times larger. Anything was better than wait.
ing. he thought, and conquered pride to work
at $500a year. III four years he was getting
more salary and held a higher position—in
that very house—than ever before in his life.

The cow will not come to you, young man, to
be milked. You must go and milk her; and
the more persevering and patient you are the
greater will be your success. Micawberism is
not profitable, but industry and perseverance
are, as expeIience will teach you, if you will
only cease waiting for great things to turn up
and set about finding the great things. If you
are not familiar with Bible lore you may not
have heard that “unto him who hath shall be
given,” but it is worth remembering.

BELLE BRIGHT.

 

 

Mosaics.

ARRANGED BY B. ARUNDEL SIMPSON, LL. D.

II.—ISIVIII%GY.

“He shall push the people together tothe
ends of the earth.”

~DEUTERONOMY xxx. 17.

“ He drew not his hand back, wherewith he
had stretched out the spear, until he had utterly
destroyed them.” ——JOSHUA viii. 26.

“ I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked
the spoil out of his teeth.

“My glory was fresh in me. and my how was
renewed In my hand.” —JOB xxix. 17, 20.

“ I will not give sleep to mine eyes, or slum-
ber to mine eyelids,

“.Until I find out a place for the Lord, a habi-
tation for the mighty God of Jacob. ”

-PSALM cxxxii. 4, 5.

“ The hand of the diligent shall bear rule.”

-—PROVERBS xii. 24.
“ Love not sleep lest thou come to poverty."
—PROVERBS xx. 13.

“ Be thou diligent to know the state of thy

flocks, and look well to thv herds ”
—PROVERBS Xxvii. 23.

.“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it
With thy might." —ECCLESIASTES ix. 10.

“In the morning sow thy seed, and in the
evening Withhold not thine hand.”

-—ECCLESIASTES xi. 6.

_“_They shall run like mighty men; they shall
climb the wall like men of war; and they shall
march every one on his ways, and they shall
not break their ranks.” —JOEL ii. 7.

u Why call ya me, Lord Lord a d d
the things which I say gn ’ 2 D 0 not

 

—ST. LUKE vi. 46.
“ Quit you like men; be strong.”
-—I CORINTHIANS xvi. 13.
“ Whereunto I also labor, striving according
to His working, which worketh in me might-
Ily.” —COLOSSIANS i. 29.

“ Ye both do and will do the things which we
command you.”

—II THESSALONIANS iii. 4.

“Fight the good fight of faith; lav hold on
eternal life.” -—I TIMOTHT vi. 12.

“ It is high time to awake out of sleep.”

—R0MANS xiii. 11.

“ Awake thou that sleepest; and arise from
the dead.” ’ —EPHESIANS v. 14.

“Be ye doers of the word. and not hearers
only. ’ —ST. JAMES i. 22.

“ If ye do these things, ye shall never fall.”

— ST. PETER i. 10.

‘_‘ Look to yourselves that we lose not those
things which we have wrought. but that We re-
cere 8. full reward.” —II ST. JOHN, 8.

f‘Behold I come quickly. and My reward is
With me, to gIvejevery man according as his
work shall be.” —REVELATION xxii. 12.

 

 

 

 

  

TWO LOADS.

 

FARMER JOHN rides in his wagon, jogging
along merrily to market, at peace with " all the
world and the rest of mankind.” Some of the
contents of that wagon are the comforts and
some the luxuries of life; all are of a market-
able value, and all mean money. This man is
well off, as far as the goods of this world are
concerned; he counts his money by thousands;
he has a big account at the bank; hisdand
spreads in all directions; he is adding daily to
money and land, and he will never “come on
the town.” .

On his road to market he often overtakes his
poorer neighbor who walks on the rugged way
to and from his work; he has been unfortunate;
sickness and misfortune have made sad Inroads
on the little all he had; money and land have
dwindled away, and now he must seek to keep
the wolf from the door by hiring out for daily
toil. All he has are his two willing hands, and
all he gains is a bare living, and laboriously
earned at that. . .

Farmer John cannot give his neighbor a
“lift” in his wagon because he has “ too heavy
a load.”

Too heavy a load, Farmer John? Do you re-
member that your tonling brother has a load as
well as you hav::? A load of a disappomted.
wrecked life. and one filled with‘sad thoughts
and with scarcely anything to brighten It, and
hardly anything to look forward to of a bright
or prosperous future?

Every one sees the load you carry, Farmer
John; everybody knows it has a money value,
and that when you return from market you
can clink the dollars and dimes in your pocket;
but, somebOW, people do not envy you, for the
oftener you open your pocket-book to put mo-
ney therein, the closer you shut your heart,
and that is what is wrong in your compOSI—
tion.

Your neighbor hides his load; he does not
care to parade his cares and troubles before the
world. People may brag of their riches, but
no one cares to let others know how oor
they may be; and I think, because the nod
1's in the heart and hidden there, it is harder
to bear and much heavier than the one in the
wagon. _

W'ell, Farmer John, we know your load 18
heavy. and as much as one horse can carry, but
you might lighten it by leaving some of your
articles at a house on the way, and call for them
on your next trip. You would lighten your
heart and relieve your conscience of a heavy
burden. It will not cost you much to givea
fellow traveler a “lift,” and though you might
possibly lose a little of the clinking coin, haven’t
you enough of it already—as much as 15 your
honest share? Think what you will gain in the
great hereafter if you can do one truly humane
act!

Farmer John, your neighbor’s load is heavy
——heavier than you have any conception—and
yet, were a person to need his 5 mpathy, a kind
word to make life seem less reary, a gentle
hand to guide one from the wrong path into
the right, or a. few pennies to assuage the crav-
ings of a famishing being, heavy]' as his load
may be, and poor as he may be, e hasn’t the
heart to say: “I cannot give you a lift.” To
another who is toiling along the rugged path-
way of life, weary a d footsore, he cannot be a
stranger. There is one load that he hasn’t to
bear, and that is selfishness, and the worship of
his money and forgetfulness of his fellow-
beings.

Atter all, what is the worth of the market
“ truck ” compared to that of a human being,
or the thoughts of the body to the care of the
soul? What the gain hereto the reward here-
after? Ask yourself that, Farmer John! If I
were to change places with either of you
it would be with the neighbor who trudges
along the highway; and you may ride along
with your load—you may still count your
acres and your gold if you can find hop i-
ness in so doing; I shall not envy you. I no
does?

You go to church, Farmer John, and you’ve
heard the text: “Bear ye one another's hur-
dens.” Did you never think what it meant?

POLLY PARLEY.
*
A Hunting Story.

LIEUTENANT NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN sends to
Field the following description of an choounter
he had with a bison in the woods of the Maha-
rajah of Mysore:

“I had no companion, so took with me one
of the local shikaris, named Kampa, and another
man to carry my spare rifle. My battery con—
sis‘ed of a D. B. 8-b0re rifle and a D. B. 12~borc
rifle. I took the 8-bore myself, and, giving
Kampa my 12 bore, crawled up to the herd
through the grass. Out of some high grass just
in front of me rose a. splendid old bull. He was
only about twenty yards off, and was just mov-
ing behind a clump of bamboos, when I fired at
the point of his shoulder with the eight-bore.
A great stampede took place. The smoke
hung in the long grass—which as I knelt
was nearly up to my neck—and I could not
see to give him the second barrel. I ran for-
ward, but could see nothing: so, still running,
I opened the breech of the rifle, threw out the
empty cartridge, and was in the act of push-
ing a fresh cartridge home, when, from behind
a small thick clump of bamboos, some five
yards from me, and about thirty yards from
where I had started, I heard aloud snort. Ka m-
pa gasped out, ‘Karti!’ (bison) and vanished;
and at once the bull came charging down at me.
I only had t me as he hurled himself at me, to
spring behind a small tree on my left. He whiz-
zed past like a battering-ram, cutting a large
slab of bark out with one of his horns, and
turning almost in his own length, was round at
me again. This occurred four or five times, but
my attention was so fully taken up in dodging
him that I could not get the rifle ready for use.
To make. a long story short, it ended by m
catching my foot in a creeper. I fell over back-
ward, und as I rose he ran in and tossed me.
One horn—I suppose his left one—fortunately
went clean through my breeches and flannel
shirt, tearing t‘: em to ribbons, and, as far asI can
remember, I seemed to sit on his head; while his
other horn passed under my right arm. He threw
me a long way, and I fell on my back under some
bamboos, the rifle dropping out of my hand
from the shock of being tossed. I wasagood
deal shaken and out of breath, but I think my
first thought was thatnow he would leave me if
I kept still; but he ran up again and stood over
my body, shaking his huge head over my chest.
I thought then that it was hopeless. I could
think of nothing better to do to protect myself,
so sat up and struck him four or five times with
my fists on one eye, which I could just reach
when his head was down. He shook his head
and pushed me back with his nose. I managed
then to plant several severe kicks on his muzzle
With my heavy hobnail boots, and be com-
menced sparrtn at my legs with his horns. I
did my best to cap them out of the way, but
gota few bruises on the shins. This began to
get monotonous, and I knew another toss would
not find a friendly pair of pants. He was still

of hobnails on his nose, shouted at him, and sat
up to hit him again; then, to my intense relief,
he gave a bellow, left me, and went crashing
off down the bill. I never saw the bull again.”

‘

HE THREE HARDEST WORDS-A ver
learned man once said: “ The three hardest
words In the English language are, “ I was mis—
taken.”

“ Frederick the Great once wrote to the Senate:
I have lost a great battle, and it was entirely
min“ firm” a T.

o ( smI says: is confeSSion dis 1

more greatness than all his victories.” p ayed

Do not be afraid to acknowledge your mis-
takes, else you will never correct them: and
you are really showing how much wiseryou are
than when you went astray.

 

 

 

 

"h minim-mm

  

Buffalo fill as He Is.

THE idea sedulously disseminated by a certain
class of “cultivated” people that Buffalo Bill
is but a border rough, or o. bloodand thunder
showman, who goes around the country to de-
moraliZe people, is so absurdly false as to be a
source of amusement to him and his almost
countless host of admirers and friends.

The “r. al facts ” are so to the contrary that
his would-be critics and censors ought to blush
for their evident malice in trying to disparage
this “hero of a hundred dime novels.” Such
detractors, however, are not accustomed to
blush at their Own perversions and stu idlas-
sumptions, and the great scent and ndian—
fighter can as well afford to laugh at them as at
the dead-beat, California Jack, (as elsewhere
noted,) who made “ fun ” for the train.

As to what Mr. Cody really is, and is now
doing for his State, as well as for himself, we
give on the (MI page a very interesting item
from the Philadelphia Times.

Capt. Mayne Reid.

OUR readers will be pleased to bear that their
old favorite, Capt. Mayne Reid—who, by the
way, now writes for 7'0 other American pub-
lication sat-e BEADLE‘S IVEEKLY— has come
into a little stroke of fortune lately. To be sure
it was dearly bought, but perhaps none the lets
welcome for that. Thirty-three years ago
Capt. Mayne Reid led the American forlorn
hope in the storming of Chepultepec, before the
city of Mexico, and was shot down by an esco~
)ette-ball through the thigh—~11 wound which
has never healed up entirely to the present day,
but has brought him to death’s ooor several
times. For this wound he has at last received a
pension of $15 a month, running back to the time
of his injury.

The genial captain has lately become inter-
ested in breeding a very remarkable and bean-
tiful breed of sheep, jet—black, with milk-white
face and tail. He has succeeded in establishing
them as a distinct variety, calls them “ Jacob’s
Sheep,” and we hope soon to have some speci~
mens in this country.

That the great story teller has lost nothing of
his vivacity and power to interest, the series of
papers now running through our paper (see 8th
page) will attest. The narrative is a reracious
one—the actual adventure of a. British army of-
ficer in Assam, from whose rough notes the
ca tain distills his pleasant “ yarns.”

a ne Reid’s present address is Ross, Here~
fords ire, England.

I

Extraordinary Shooting.

OUR correspondent and contributor, Dr. Frank
P0well—“ White Beaver ”—-—is, as the La Crosse
News says, “ a bad man with a rifle." Some of
the surgeon’s performances the reporter thus
chronicles: “ The first shot was made at a pin
stuck into a target. The doctor retreated about
forty feet, took aim and fired. The ball struck
the pin 5 unrely on the head, causing it to be
finely im dded in the board target, and when
removed the bullet clung to it. A single strand
of thread was then hung down over the target
and the doctor, returning to his former i-
tion, sent a ball that cut it in twain. A lig ted
match was then held up and a well—directed hul~
let snuffed it. Following this a small cork was
placed on the top of the head of one of those
present and it was cut exactly in the center at
the first shot. Cigars were held out and snuffed:
and tooth-picks and fiveicent pieces were re«
peatedly shot from between the fingers of the
gentlemen who held them. A hazel-nut placed
between the forefinger and thumb met with the
same fate.” After which we are quite willing to
believe the stories related of the man’s powers
as Fancy Frank and White Beaver. \Ve haw),
however, other marvels of his mat ksmanship to
relate which would seem incredible were .they
not only well attested but are repeated as occa—
sion offers for the doctor’s diversion.

 

A Texas Bat Cave.

WESTERN TEXAS abounds in bats, and the
collecting and shipping of bat guano bids fair
to be the prominent industry of the State.
About twenty miles north of San Antonio.is
one of these bat caves. The shaft is used only
for hoisting out the guano; the entrance. both
for man and bat, is at the natural portal in the
center of an oak grove. In spite Of the Odor
and the pungent ammonia. I climbed half-way
down the incline, but the creatures looked so
uncanny upon a near approach that 1 was fain
to beat a. retreat, and, stationing myself on
a smooth rock directly over the entrance,
awaited as patiently as possible the time when
they should see fit to come out. Suddenly I
was aware of a bat gyratiug around the bottom
of the pit in an irresolute, indefinite but ex—
tremely rapid flight. And lo! instead of one
there were three of them crossing and recross—
ing each other’s tracks, and then as quick as a
wink the pit was full of them! A stream of
them was pouring from the archway into the
bowl, like a stream of water from a sluicewa
opening into the bottom of a tank, and like It
they whirled around and around in a rapid
whirlpool from left to right, crowding so closely
that they hid the rocks on the opposite side,
flooding the pit higher and higher imtil they
reached the brim, when they ovorflowed at a
pomt just above where I was sitting, and
poured off toward the eastward.

Such a. jolly crowd as they were! No room
full of schoolboys just let loose were ever half
so glad of their liberty! Their curious pig-
shaped noses seemed to sniff gleefully at the
fresh evening air; and, though I could not see
their eyeS, their wings seemed to wink at me as
they went by. Everybody knows that a bat
never can fly straight even in his sedatest
moments, but these were simply uproarious.
They wabbled and s‘aggered as If tipsy: they
reeled from side to side, first one wing upper-
most and then the other; they swung their
arms and legs about like unskilled performers
upon the slack-rope. At first I was afraid lest
some clumsy one might strike me in the face,
but Ivery soon saw that I was in no danger,
for however erratic their motions they man-
aged to avoid each other in spite of the fact
that there were at least three bats to every
cubic foot of space in a column fully thirty feet
In diameter. and all in rapid motion. POSSIbly
they mistook me for a stump, for, though as
the column swayed from side to side I was at
times In the very thick of them, none of them
so much as grazni me. The head of the col-
umn led off due cast and the rest followed in a
straight line, though the individual members
acted on‘the principle of ‘ ‘ diversity is unity,” for
they never retained their relative positions for a
moment, but Single ones, crazier than their fel-
lows, turned two or three summerscts on their
own book, and even then were sucked back into
the. current and swept on by it. The whirr of
their myriad wmgs was tremendous. Nothing is
more noiseless than the flight of a single bat as
he declines to “ come into the hat ” of the New
England boy, but the beating of these thousand
Wings was like the roar of a tempest. The
made no other sound, their shrill squeaking be-
Ing hushed as they came out of the cave. It
was exactly 7:15 o’clock when the first but ap
peared: and ten minutes later, when I turned
to watch the direction of their flight, the head
of the column was lost in the distance. The
superintendent told me often, when they have
come out early, he has marked the column for
fully. ten miles, still keeping together, and all
heading In one direction. Even with a power-
ful field-glass he has never been able to perceive
any deVIatIon from the direction, whatever it
may be, that theyr take at starting. Darkness
descended while watched the stream, as, with
undlminished volume, it poured out of the arch-
way, Swirled around and flowed eastward. At
nme o’clock the noise of their wings was as strong
as ever, but toward ten, when I went out for the
last time, the stream seemed nearly run out,
and there were breaks when the whirring
ceased, and then it would start on again as a
swarm of belated ones came out. ‘

 

 

 

 

  

Currespondghts’ Column.

[This column is open to all correspondents. ln-
quirles answered as fully and as promptly as circum-
stances will permit. Contributions not entered as
" declined ” may be considered accepted. No MSS.
returned unless stamps are int-1031a).]

Declined: “ A New Pilgrima e;“ “ The Dennis
Acolvte;" “Prodigious Joe;" " ‘wo to Measure;"
" A Specific for Heart Disease;" “ Hump Yourself!“
“Inter Nos;" “A Yard cf (lold;" "Buck Fever;"
“ A Double Hug;” “ Cuyler's I’ct;" ” Not a. S oon;"
“ Ah 1" “ Natural Things ;” “ llis Home ouri'”
“ Tho Fordham Dced;” "Sounding the Deep;" "In
Close Quartets."

JOE asks: “Who is the Goddess of Justice, and
what docs the mine Zoe mean?” Nemesis, the cod—
(less of retribution, was considered the personified
tion of retributive justice—Zoe is an old (ircek
name. It means Life. See in Byron‘s poem “ Maid
r f Athens,” the line Zoe mou sue agape (My Life, I
love you.)

CHARLIE vaaas. Su )poso your boat club adopts
the name “ Undinc "? ’lllzc word is derived from he
Latin undo, a. wave, and means one of a class of
fabled water-spirits. “Na'fad "' (a water-nym h),
“Viking "(a pirate chief of tho Norlhmen), “ au-
tilus " (a sailing shell-fish), are excellent names for
a boat club.

\V. F. A. The common castor-oil bean is the
rir-inm; nommun/s. The description you give of the
plant (Palmu Christi) growing wild in your State
answem to the rill/Ins v. There are a number of
varieties of the. l'it‘iillls, planted chiefly as orna-
mental or color plants, but all are oil producers.
In South Carolina the Ii 4st 4-. ought to flourish
splendidly.

PRINTER. The first Greek Testament )rinted on
this continent was publishrd by a noted 0 d printer,
Thomas of Worcester, in 1800. lec Worcester (‘ity
Library has a copy of it which once belon ed to
Emerson, and in It has Emerson‘s autogra .—As
early as 1639 the first printing press was esta lished
in America. The now rare and costly hook, the
" Bay Psalm Book,” was printed on it in 1640.

STUDENT. The Harvard Annex has something like
forty or flfty lady students each year.—You are mis-
taken. Some of the finest pastorals Pope ever wrote
he composed when he was but sixteen years old,
and he never improved upon them after—James
RuSell Lowell is a youthfu , fresh and fine-looking
man, though over sixty years 0 age.~—In writing
you should never abbreviate such words as doctor,
colonel, etc, except in connection with the full
name, as: Doc, Graham, Col. Bundy.

INQUISITIVE. Lime is a. successful wood- reserver.
The planks should be piled in a large tan ', covered
with quick-lime and slaked with water. The timber
requires nearly a week to be thoroughly impregnated
with the limewater. It is then taken out of pickle
and must be slowly dried. The entrance of the min‘
eral particles into the grain renders the wood harder
and enser than before. Beechwood becomes like
oak, and without losing the elasticity that fits it for
tooldiandlcs, is far more durable than oak.

UNCERTAIN. You should certainly acknowledge
the receipt of every birthday, Easter, Christmas, or
New Year card, with which your friends favor you.
Do this by a. brief, kindly note of thanks—0f course
it is pro r, and more than that it is imperative,
that a la y should thank a gentleman for his cour~
tesy in escorting her home—There is no law in the
United States that forbids a man marrying his
sister-in-lnw. Such a marriage here is as legal as
any other. In Massachusetts a man cannot marry
his step-daughter.

Ton McK. writes: "I have called upon a young
lady several times and like her ever so much—so
much thntl would like to keep on calling on her
and would like her to consider me a lover. Would
you advise me to propose to her?" No, sir, not by
any means. You need to know a great deal more
about a young lady than a few calls can teach on,
to justify you in concluding that, you would iln her
a congenial life-companion. You can keep up her
acquaintance, and a year from now, if your
lopinions have not changed, declare yourself her
over.

A. B. C. If vou are so nervous, use no strong tea
or coffee, avoid late hours, lead a very regular life,
take plenty of exercise in the o n air, and takes.
sponge-bath, night and morning, In cold water.——The
late Professor Farada advanced the theory that one
hundred years shouljbe the natural age of man——
There are several remedies for revcnting the prema-
ture falling out of the hair. oraxswater, sage tea,
and strong tar-water, are all recommended; but per—
haps the best remedy is the {reguth shampooing of
the hair in cold water softene with spirits of am—
momu.

IGNORANCE asks whether it is pro rand custom-
ary to hang pictures in the main all, and, if so,
what kind should be hung there, and whether a hall
should be furnished in light or dark colors. Yes, it
is growin more and more fashionable to ban pic-
tures on t e wall in one’s hall. These should e of
black and white, mostly, as there is seldom li ht
enough to exhibit colored pictuIes properly. se
etchings, prints, photographs, engravings. etc. with
ve narrow or very plain frames on them. f the
hal is very dark it should be furnished in light col-
ors. If there is lenty of sunshine or light in the
hall you may use ark colors.

K. C. G. The general] received significations
of the initials I. II. S. esus Hominum Salvator
(Jesus Savior of Men), and In Hoc Signo (B
this sign.) are real] forced constructions. I H
are. the first, secon and last letters of the Greek
I H S O U S. which in Latin is I E S U S, and in
English J E S U S. The second letter of the Greek
name, which has the same form as the English H,
is in fact the Greek long E. These letters are writ-
ten. in ancient MSS., and printed in old books, 1118,
close together, without any periods or spaces be-
tween them, and are simply an abbreviation of the
name Jesus, as most words were abbreviated in
ancient MSS. and early printed books.

HARRY BENSON, Nantucket—The “Flying Dutch-
man ” is a name given by sailors to a nantom ship
supposed to cruise in stomis oil’ the ape of Good
Hope. There is a tradition that a Dutch captain
on his way home from the Indies, encountered
continuous head-winds and heavy weather. off the
Cape of Hope, and took a dreadful oath that
he would beat round the Cape if he had to beat
there till the Day of Judgment; and that he was
taken at his word and compelled to beat against
head-winds all his days. Ie sailors believe that
lr's sails have become threadbare, that the ship's
sides are white with age, and that the Dutchman
and his crew are scarcely more than shadows. It is
said that, though he cannot lower a boat, he some-
times hails vessels throth a trum ct. and asks
them to take letters home for him. t is robable
that this superstition has its origin in the coming,
or seeming suspension in air of a ship cut of sight;
a phenomenon caused by unequal refraction of the
ItiWOl‘ strata of the atmosphere, and often witnessed
a sea.

CHRISTOPHER. Washington, N. J ., writes: “1. Will
you tell me how to get rid of a correspondent I do
not care much about? 2. Is it proper to fold my nap-
lzin, or leave it unfolded, when I dine at a friends?
‘3. How can Iget rid of a watt on the face? 4. Is
there any way in which cars can be made to set
closer to the mad when they naturally set out? If
you will answer these questions you will confer a
great favor upon one of your constant readers.” 1.
To get rid of a correspondent of whom you have
grown tired, shorten your letters very pcrccplibly,
and lengthen the intervals between them, until you
can cease writing altogether.—2. If on remain at
vour friend’s for the one meal. only, cave your nap-
' n unfolded. If you are visiting for a day, or
several (lays, fold your napkin the same as any
other member of the family would do.—3. Apply a
little aromatic vinegar, daily—4. If the tendency of
cars to stand out from the head is attended to in
childhood, it can be effectually corrected. There is
no reason. however, why you should nct attempt
to cure this ugly defect at any time; and patience
may bring about a desirable result. Wears. ban—
dage over them every night.

StBscnIEI-zn asks who Demetrius was. You are
hardly explicit enough. There was a Demetrius,
sumamed Poliorcetes, who lived about 338 B. c. to
282 B. c. He was a king of Macedonia. He was
called “the destroyer of towns.” At the age of
twenty-two he commanded an army and achieved
wonderful successes in war. There was another
Demetrius who reigned over Macedonia ck vcn
years. Another, son of Philip, King of Macedr nia,
who was put to death IS!) 3. 0., through the jealousy
of his brother. Still another, surnamcd Nicanor, or
Con ueror, who was odious for his pride and
lilo thirsty o pression, and was killed outside
the gates of olcmais which was shut against
him by_ his wife Cleopatra. Then there was a
Demetrius Phalerius, an Attic philcso her, who was
so popularwith the Athenians that t cy raised no
less than three hundred and sixty brazen statues to
his honor. .Aftcr ten years of sovereign power his
enemies raised a sedition against him, his statues
were .ihrown down, he was condemned to death, and
he, himself, put an end to his life by the bite of an

p. _ It Is said that be enriched the library at Alex-
a duo with two thousand volumes. There was an-
other Demetrius a cynic, in the age of Caligula, who
died at a great old age and of whom Seneca, the Ro-
man phIlosopher, said, ” Nature brought- him forth
to Show mankind that an exalted genius can live se-
curely Without being corrupted by the vices of the
surrounding world." And there are fifteen other,
morepr less noted, persons: by the name of Demetrius
mentioned in the classical dictionaries. You prob-
ably referred to Demetrius Phalerius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

A was...

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fireside Ballads.

THE SBITIHER'S’ PLEDGE

B! T. C. EABBAUGH.

“ I do not drink,” the colonel said
Upon the festal morning;
There was a toss of beauteous head,
And bright eyes full of scorning.
“ As woman’s eyes this wine is fair,
I know ’twould make us merry;
But I will lodge in water clear,
And not golden sherry.”

“ Why, colonel, why 2” the bride spoke up,
Sir Edwin‘s fairest daughter;
“ Why do you scorn the honored cup,
And pledge me in cold water?
Upon your words there hangs a tale
And we to it would listen;
Methinks I see your cheek grow pale,
Your eyes with tear-drops ghsten."

“ My bonnie bride, the tears I shed

Above this glass of water,

Are for the best and bravest dead

T'I‘Vhat e'er rode dfiiewln totslanbihtlfr.

as 1 ago w on e n

0! 113:5! '3 river,

We met the ssians rank to rank,
A sword or spear to shiver.

“ The night before in Powell’s tent

The officers were drinking,

A ceaselem round the goblet went-
A shameless round, I’m tbinkin .

The morning found us flushed wit wine.
With hand and brain unsteady;

But when the Russians formed their line
Of battle, we were ready.

“ I reeled, but still uponmy steed

I sat and ave the orders

That form- the gallant ranks I’d led
From England’s hist‘ric borderS'

I curse the day I saw them mow
Down in the fire infernal,

For braver troopers never rode
Behind a drunken colonel!

" This order came to us: ‘ Advance,

And hold the Ridge of Bannonl

Beyond it shone the foeman’s lance
Above one hun cannon. I

We gained the rid and there drew rem,
But only for a rite,

The demon Drink had fired my brain—
The harms of hell seemed in it!

“ I shouted ‘ .!‘ and thro’ the oke

We left the Ri of Bannon.

And faced the in d flames that broke
From all those Russian cannon.

We aahered here, we sabered there,
D ite death’s horrid rattle;

We 1 our comrades everywhere
Upon the field of battle!

“ How each man like a tiger fought
’Tls told to-day in story;
The foe's success was dearly bought,
And dearer still our glory.
gallante rode with me

Butpdiilly nine ved to see
Once more e Ridge of Bannon!

“ With wounded heart by time unhealed,
That fell morn in October,
I alloped from the fatal field,
murder rendered sober.
Behind me lay upon the plain,
By murmuring y,
Four hundred men w ’d ne’er again
At blast of bugle rally.

" nst our arms the battle went,
feat succeeded slaughter,

And all because in Powell’s tent
We did not dpledge in water.

The sword i rew that fatal day
Is rusted now, and broken.

’Tis well! for it must ever be
Of crime a horrid token.

“ Now this is why in eyes with tears

To—day are ove owing;

Above my comrades twenty years
The grasses have been growing.

Come fill each cup and say with me—
(Stilled be your childish rattle!)

The day is lost, as it shoul be.
When brandy leads the battle.

" I’d drink to all whom bones are white
Beside the distant river; ' '
‘ Their gallant blades to-day are bright,
And will be bricht forever!
In water let us pledge the braves
Who questioned not. but follow’d—
Who ceful sleep in soldier graves
By mack lances hollow’d."

“ Fill u i” cried out the bonnie lass,
Sir lwin’s fairest daughter,
" Pour out your wine, and fill each glass
With clear and sparkling water!
We drink to them who will no more
At best of bugle rally—
The gallant ghosts that guard the shore
f whispering Iragally!“

It was no woman’s foolish whim
As tearful eyes attested,

They filled their glasses to the brim,
And drank as she requested.

He bowed his head—the soldier gray
Whi led his men to slaughter;

And those beside him heard him say:
“Since then I pledge in water.”

 

 

 

John Armstrong, Mechanic;

From the Bottom to the Top of the
Ladder.

A Story of How a Man Gan Rise in America.

 

BY CAPT. FRED. WHITTAKER,

amen or "nsno, KING or THE ramps,”
“MAN IN RED,” “ONE EYE. THE can-
soxm,” are, ETC.

CHAPTER IV.
FALLING OFF THE LADDER.

IT was half-past nine, by the clock on the
tower, when John stepped into the street, 811%
he felt rather gloomy at the prospect befor
him, the more so after the remark just made
by Stryker. He looked up and down the street
a moment, and was just about to set off for the
works, when he felt his sleeve pulled, and Ella
Morton was smiling up in his face with a
plearlin , grateful look, as she half-whispered:

“ Gogbless you for your kindress to me, last
night. I couldn't say it before, but I say it
now. lVon’t you come and see my mother
some time, that she may thank you too? We’ve
only a poor place, but you’ll be always wel-
come.”

John looked down into those brown eyes for
the first time in his life. He had not noticed
the girl’s face before. He turned very red, and
said awkwardly:

“ Thankee, miss, I’d be glad, ef I thought—if
I thought I’d not be in the way.”

“ In the way!” she echoed. “0h, you’ll
never be in the way in our house. And then,
you’re alone in the city, and, thou h we’re

r, you may want a friend some time, you
now? Do come, please. Here, see, I’ve writ-
ten down the name and number, so you can’t
make any mistake. Mother longs to see you.”

John turned redder than ever, and stood
twisting the paper nervously in his hands, as
he said, very low:
“I'll come, miss. I’ll come. But lease ax
yer ma not to thank me. 'Deed, I di n’t do it
fur thanks. ’Twarn‘t much, nohow. Any man
as is a man would ha’ done the same.”

“But two who called themselves gentlemen
did not do it,” she retorted, warmly. “No;
you must promise to come, as. soon as you can
possibl get away. When Will you come, so I
can telfmother?”

John hesitated.

“ I can’t rightly tell, miss. Ye see, I’m
kinder feared this muss ’ll get me put. out of
my job at the shop, and ef that’s so, I’ll hev to
look for work. But I’ll try to come on Sunday,
if so be I’ll git a place. ’Scuse me, miss, but
I’ve got ter go now. Mebbe things ain’t as bad
as I thought they was at the shop. Good-by,
miss ’

“Goodvby,” she said, with another smile.
“ Remember, I shall expect you on Sunday, at
the very latest.”

Then she went away, and John watched

 

’ back a good ’un.

her as she turned the‘ corner, with a new feel-
ing stirring at his heart.

“ Ain’t she got pretty eyes!” he said to him-
self, in a wondering sort of way. “ They used
to say Almiry Bonnet had the biggest eyes in
Painted Post; but they warn’t nigh as han’-
some as this gal’s. And what a nice name!
Ella! Ella Morton! Sounds kinder soft. I
wish—” ,

And here he broke off and strode away
toward the shop, which was a long way from
the court-house, and which he reached just as
the clocks were striking ten, to find the placo
as full as eVer.

John had made up his mind what to do,
which was to go to work as if nothing had ha -

ned. He took of! his coat and went straig t

Barker’s forge, where he found the gloomy
Briton with the usual scowl on his brow, aided
by the helper who had been stigmatized as a
“slouch,” and who now had a scared, stupid
look on his face, born of much scolding.

Barker made an imperative sign to the
drudge to drop his hammer and resume his
task of yesterday, when he and John went to
their riveting as if both wanted to make up for
lost time.

As for John, he had never worked as hard in
his life before; and, when the steam whistle
at last blew for noon, Barker exclaimed, with
a British oath of satisfaction, throwing down
his hammer: -

“Weel doan, man! Thou’rt a good ’un, to
W'e’ll mak’ a day’s work
on’t yet, if thou’rt game to stick to’t.”

And he actually laughed aloud.

As for John, now that the noon hour had ar-
rived, he knew that his own time had come
with it, for decision. If he were to be dis-
charged, he would be sent for to the office.

Barker noticed him look that way, and broke
out:

“ Thea needn’t be‘afeared. I heerd on’t all;
I heerd on’r. Didst thee gi’n the gemmen ’and
a wallopin’, didst thee? Stick to’t, lad, stick
to’t! Steve’ll stick by thee, now. Ay, by
crikey, a weel.”

And John noticed, as the workmen went out
to dinner, that more than one friendly glance
was cast toward him, while one man called out:

“Good for on, country. Give him canal
style, did ye? y gosh, you’re a ’un!”

And then theishop became quiet, and John
realized that he was very hungry and had no
dinner with him.

Manson and Wheeler were at dinner a little
way 03, and John had made up his mind to go
to Mrs. Shafer’s house to get dinner, when

 

 

 

 

 

 

he heard his name called, and saw old Mr.
St ker beckoning him to the office.
eturneda shade paler as he went, for he
expected his dismissal; but, a little to his sui-
prise Steve Barker rose and followed him to
the office, where stood the head of the firm,
looking grim.
“Armstrong,” he said, “go to your dinner
now, and come here as soon as they knock off
work’in the evening. I’ve got a word to say to

“Very good, sir,” returned John, and then
he turned away, his heart a little easier than
before, and went to his dinner.

He found Mrs. Shafer waiting for him, and
as soon a: she saw him, she came nervously to
him, saying tearfully:

“Oh, Mr. Armstrong, I’m reel sorry. I know
you warn’t to blame; but what kin a poor wid-
der do? They swears they’ll all leave tozether
if you stay, and I‘ve got ter give 9 notice. I
don’t want nothin’ fur the trifle o wittlcs you
ate, and you can hev yer dinner here, but
you’ll hev to look out for ’nuther place to-
night.”

John heard her through, and slowly nodded
his head, as he said:

“ In coorse, marm, twelve dollars a week ain’t
to be throw’d away. If ye’il give me my din-
ner, I’ll pay fur it toonst. I don’t ax no favors.
Reckon New York's a. b' place, and I kin find
somewhere to eat, afore starve.”

Then she brought him out a plentiful dinner,
whictlli he ate and paid for, after which he asked,
quie y:

“Where‘s the young man as I hit, marm.’
He warn’t in the shop at work. I’m sorry if I
hurt him bad.”

She pointed over her shoulder to the next
room in a frightened kind of way.

“ He’s there,” she whispered, “listenin’ I
reckin. Don’t say nothin’, lease.”

“ Oh, no.” said John, “ wouldn’t like to
quarrel with him, warm; but if you'll be so
good’s to tell him su’thin’ from me, I guess he
won’t feel so bad.”

“ And what’s that?” she asked, curiously.

“ Waal, ye see, ’twarn’t fair, my hittiu’ him,
of he hadn’t ’a’ made me. I used tobe in chums
with a fi’tin’ man wunst, when I were servin’ my
time; and he used ter put on the gloves with me
and teach me all be know‘d, till he ’lowed I
could (~’ona’most wlii him afore l were twenty-
two. And some the time he put up two jobs
on me with the gloves on strangers, and I
knocked ’em both out. and wunst I nearly killed
a man on the canal. and I got kinder’shamed to
think I mou’t be called a. fi hter, and give it no,
owin’ to dad’s bein’ sick. But I thought mel'be
if ye’d tell young Mr. Stryker how I were j°st,
as one might aw, in the business. he’d not feel
so bad. kno what these gentlemen is when
they gets whipped They feels as if it oughtn’
ter be so. Will you tell him?”

“Sart’inly, Mr. Armstrong. Why, I seen it
all through the windy, and I must say as how
you lpoked as if you was the most skeert of the
two

“ I were. warm; I were. I were thinkin’ all
the time I’d have to hit out, and lose my place

 

 

“ Then you're just the man I want.

 

 

fur whippin’ the boss’s nevy. I’d e’ena’most
made up my mind to take a bastin’—ouly—”

“ Ouly what?” she asked, for he had stopped.

“ Only.” he returned, in a low voice. “ I
thought of that pore gal runnin’, and I thought
he’d go arter her again, and my old dad would
ha’ felt ’shamed of me, then. Ye know dad
said as how the old sojers of the army never
fought so well es arter they’d been whipped age in
and again, so the enemy got tired of tryin’ to
keep ’em whipped, and nally they clomh right
up on ’em and beat them. Waal, Mrs. Shafer,
marm, ood—by, marm. Hope you‘ll ’scuse the
liberty ’ve tuk in talkin‘ so much, and here’s
wishin’ you long life and health, marm.”

Then John walked away back to the shop,
feeling lonely and deserted, and said abruptly
to Steve Barker:

“ Mister, I ain’t sure on it, but seems to me
you said su’thin’ lasttight ’bout your lady bein’
willin’ to take me to board, reasonable. Ain’t
it so?”

Barker looked at him dryly, replying:

“Yes, it be. But ye wanted to goa wi’ gem-
men ’ands. Thou’t ye’d git enough on ’em.
Drat ’em l”

“ Well,” returned John, slowly, “ there ain’t
no hard feelin‘s ’twixt us, as I knows on, and if
so be you’re willin’ to let your lady git meals
fur both on us, I’m willin’ to pay fur it, if they !
don’t give me my walkin’ ticket tonight.” I

“They won’t give thee no walkin’ ticket,” ;
retorted Steve, scornfully. “ 0wd man knows I

 

when a’s got a good ’and, if thou doan’t. ’E
woan’t let thee go. Dang it, man, I‘d go my- l
sen wi’ thee, and thou and I get another berth ‘
in the Vulcan \Vorks. A good riveter needn't ’
look long for work.now.”

John felt comforted at this, and Steve then
went to bargaining with him for the price of
his board, in a way that showed how money
was uppermost in the Englishman’s mind at the
moment.

By the time they had settled it to mutual sat-
isfaction, the bell rung, and work began again,
when the two went at their task with such vigor
that. when the six o‘clock whistle blew, Steve
cried out:

“ A good day’s work arter all, mate. I towd
thee We’d do’t. Dang it all, thou’rt worth nigh
onto two men when thee wakes up good. Coom
along now, and ta 0wd woman ’ll give thee a
real 0wd-country supper. None 0’ their danged
Yankee ‘fixens’ as they call ’un. Ods! but a'm
weary, I be.”

“The boss wants to see me fust,” said J obn,
doubtfully. “ Ef ye could wait a minit or
50——

 

“ Wait be danged! A’ll go wi’ thee,” replied
Barker, heartily. “When Steve Barker takes
a shine to a man, ’6 doan’t do things by ’arves,
’e doan’t. A’ll go to ta boss wi’ thee.”

And, just at that moment, they saw the
well-known figure of the chief of the iron works
at the ofiice door, so John went thither, followed
by Steve.

The old man looked at Barker coldly.

“ Do you want to see me, Barker?” he asked,
so i3in that most men would have shrunk
back. But Steve never flushed, answering:

"Yes, boss, a do. A yvant to say—”

“ Hush !” interrupted old Stryker, sharply.
“If you’ve anything to say you’.l rive to wait
till I get through with this young man. I sent
for him, not for you.”

“ A know’t well,” retorfed Barker; “ but a’vo
got summat to say, and I doan't care a dung i’,
a. lose ma place for’t. There’s other shops i’
town, wheer a good rivetei‘ can work. If this
young man goes, a go, too. That’s all, boss.
I’ve said ’un.”

And he slouched back to an anvil and sat
down on it, locking sulkily at Mr. Stryker, who
said not a word in answer, but motioned John
to cntn‘ the office, where be shut the door and
look a seat before he said a word to the work-
man.

“Sit down, Armstrong,” he said at last,
pointing to the sofa. “ thy were you late at
work this morning? It was ten o’clock before
you collie in.”

John turned a shade paler, but answered in a
quiet, matter-of—l'ac: way:

“ I was in court. sir. They took me up, last
night, arter sweepin’ out. and ’twero half arter
nine ufore they let me out.”

“ that was it for i" asked Mr. Stry ker, bend-
ing his brows. “Mind, I’ve heard nothing cer-
tain. Only Sheppard told me of your arrest,
and I heard from Mr. Munson that my nephew
was struck with a slung-shot. Are you the man
that struck him?”

J ohu bowed his head.

“Yes, sir, but not with a shot, or anything
but jast my fist, and I didn’t want to do that,
sir. If you want the hull story, sir, you kin get
it from the ladv that lives at this here address.
810 seen it all. I don’t want to say nothin’
more, sir. I s’poso I’m to be discharged. I
’specteui it for whippiu’ the boss’s nevy. I
don’t. blame ye, sir. Blood’s thicker than wa-
for.

And John handed the old gentleman the ad-
dress of Ella Morton, which Mr. Srryker calmly
copied before he said another word. Then he
returner] the slip to John and observed:

"You’re iirht. Armstrong. We have to do
things we don’t want to do, sometimes. I shall
have lo discharge you.”

John’s heart sunk within him at the words,
though he had expected them. We are all apt
to hope against hope.

Mr. Srrvker turnei to his desk, and wrote
rapidly for scvora! minutes, when he turned
round again.

“ You can do your sweeping tonight and get.
your pny to-morrow morning for two days’

 

work. I’d like to keep you, but it wouldn’t do. 1

I suppose I shall lose Barker, too. I’m sri'ry;
but, as you say, blood's thicker than water. 1
must support my nephew, though I suspect he’s
in the wrong. Come here in the morning, as
soon as you see me: but don’t go to work with
Barker. This is your last night in these works.
Good—night.”

Then the old man went out and said to
Barker, coldly:

“ You needn’t go to work tomorrow. I
don’t let my hands dictate to me. You can get
your pay at the opening hour. You're dis
charged.”

Then, without waiting for the amazed Barker,
who was growing cooler, to say a word, he
strode out of the shop, his farewell words ring—
ing in John’s ears:

“ This is your last night in these works.”

 

CHAPTER V.
CLIMBING AGAIN.

IT was with heavy hearts and sober faces that
John Armstrong and Steve Barker wended
their way from the shop that night, to go to
supper. The surly old Briton had not expected
to be taken at his word so promptly, and he had
not been given the least opportunity for a quar-
rel. Mr. Stryker had discharged him quietly.

The feeling that comes over a workman sud-
denly cut off from work, w' h a family on his
hands, is not a pleasant one; nd Barker looked
gloomy and revengeful, as he sloucherl home-
ward. He was a good specimen of the improvi-
dent artisan, who lives freely and never has
any money saved. He said nothing all the way
home, but showed John, with a. sort of surl
civility, to the hospitalities of his house, whic
was only a crowded tenement, where Mrs.
Barker lived, with four children. But if Steve
was surly, Phoebe. his wife, was a neat, cheer-
ful Englishwoman, who welcomed John heartily
and made him sit down to a plentiful and whole-
some supper, at which Steve was the only silent
member. ~

John watched him closely to see how he be-
haved to the children, and his eye brightened
when he saw that the little ones hung on their
father, who did not repulse them, though’the
gloom never left his brow during the meal.

When it was over, he said to Phoebe:

“ Gimme some money, lass. I’m goan out
wi’ Armstrong.”

John saw the woman‘s face fall, and noticed
that the children stopped talking and looked
frightened.

Mrs. Barker gave a little nervous laugh, and
observed:

 

I make you foreman of the Riveters.”

“ There bean’t much left, Steve. Thee knows
I had to pay—”

“Gimme the money and bond the danged
tongue, will the?” growled Steve, so savagely
that John started at the sudden transformation.

All in a tremor Phoebe pulled out a. little, old-
fashioned purse, crying in a terrified tone:

“There, Steve, there. Don’t be angry.”

He snatched the purse into his pocket.

“ I bean’t angry, if thou doan’t mak’ me,” he
growled. “ Coom, lad, let’s go out.”

And without another word he slouched out of
the room, leaving the woman and children
white and scared.

John looked at them a moment before he fol-
lowed; then said in a low voice:

“Don’t be ekeered, marm. I’ll see he don’t
come to harm.”

“ But he’ll go to drinking. I see it in his eye,”
sobbed the poor woman. “Oh, don’t let him
drink. It makes; a devil of him. He comes
home and beats us all, and— Oh! what has hap—
pened 

.“ He’s bin discharged, niurm,” said John,
sadly. “But never mind,” he added in u cheer~
ful tone. “ I won’t let him spcml his money to-
night. and we’ll get more work in the morn-
hag—n

Here the voice of Steve roared from the bot-
tom of the stairs:

“ Armstrong! W'hat the deuce ails thee! Be
thee co:min’ or not, dung thee for a spoil sport.”

John nodded to the children and went down-
stairs, where he found Barker scowling and
grumbling.

“What sort 0’ man be thee, onyway? Do
thee want to be tied to a lass, do thee, dang
thee? I’m goan to get some beer. Au’ tlzou’it
coorn, coom. An’ thou woan’t, go to blazes.”

And he was slouching away when John sud-
dcnlv caught him by the arm, saying, coolly:

“Be ye a reg’lar tarnation fule, or a born
greeny, Steve Barker? This here ain’t no time
to spend money that orter go for them pore lit-
tle kids up—stairs, when ye don’t know wheer
the next’s a~comin’ from. Now you jest look-
a-here. I took you fur a man as was a man;
but, darn my skin, if you go off and get drunk
tonight, you ain’t no man at all.”

He spoke without a semblance of passion, but
looking the other in the eye all the time and
the wild beast in Steve Barker quailed or a
moment.

“Who talked o’ bein’ drunk?” he growled,
half~apologetically. “ I said beer. It’s me own
monfiy to spend, bean’t it?”

“ o,” answered John, firmly. “ It ain’t, and
you know it. That ore woman and the kids
had it, and you took it from ’em. You 'est act
like a man, and let beer alone to-night. Twon’t
do ye no good.”

But Barker had turned his head to avoid
John’s eye, and now he suddenly wrenched
awnv his arm.

“Leave me alone, dun thee!" he growled.
“I'm no babhy to be her cred about. If thee
wrmts beer, coom, if not—”

lVitliout another word he turned and strode
away. in as ugly a temper as John had ever
seen him. He was a stout, square-built man,

 

 

 

 

with the muscles of a giant, and John said to
himself, half in despair:

“ How’n thunder be I goin’ to stop him? I‘ll
hev to give him one, and that’ll be two fights.
But I must stop him, somehow.”

So saying, he ran after Steve just as the lat-
ter halted in front of a low corner groggery,
and called out:

“ Look-a—here, Steve, Mr. Barker, sayl I tell
ye what I’ll do with ye.”

_“ Well, what?” growled Barker, wheeling on
him With the port of an enraged wild beast.
" Thee can’t stop me, do thee hear, dang thee?
I’ve licked a bis op afore this as tried me, and
got six months fur it, too. hink (hm can stop
me? I’m goan to drown sorrow, lad. Dang
that auld Stryker. ‘Theo needn’t o to work
tomorry,’ says he, dang him. I‘d ike him to
know I’m as good 3 won as him or thee.”

He was evidently trying to work himself into
a passion; but John coolly said:

“ In course ye be. Who said yo warn’ti Tell
ye what I’ll do with ye, Steve. I’ll give ye a.
wrastle for that purse. If I throw ye, square,
yell go home with me. Come, 1 never seen the
Eu lisher ’u’d wrestle a side-bolt, yet.”

e had struck the right chord; for a grin dis-
torted Steve’s surly face. Like many another
man, devoid of education and mental resources,
he knew of no way to escape ugly thoughts but
the bottle. He had flown there for excite—
ment; and here came another form of excite-
ment. .

He positively laughed out, as he cried:

“ rustle! Thou! Dang thee, now, I’ll do't
all night, catch-as catchcan. Coom!”

And without more ado he ran at John, with
the intent of catching him by surprise and
throwing him.

But John Armstrong was quicker than his
burly opponent, and stepped to one side, avoid-
ing his rush with practiced caso; then, taking
the initiative with a peculiar throw be had
learned in his young days, he had Steve on his
back with a thump that he purposely made so
hard as nearly to knock the breath out of the
other’s body, all without- giving the Englishman
a. chance to grasp him.

Steve Barker lay still a moment, and then .

scrambled up, growlin :

“Dang thee! ’twere a foul. trick. I’ll break
thy noddle for thee.”

11 another instant he was hailing a shower of
blows on Armstrong, who backed away, evad-
ing him, for a few steps, and at last sent in a
“ hot one”right on the mouth of Mr. Barker,
who went down slowly, with a dazed, silly
smile on his face, and sat staring up at his an-
tagonist as if he did not know what was the
matter.

Then Jobn put out his hand and said, in a
quiet matter-of-fact way:

"‘ here, I‘ve downed ye twice. Now come
home with me, and get yer face washed. No
hard feelin’s, I hopel’

Steve got slowly up. The sullenness had
gone from his face, though he was bleeding pro-
fusely from nose and mouth, but his voice was
quite good humored as he said:

“ Thou’rt a good ’un, dan thee! By crikey,

ou’rt a better mon than teve Barker, and a

now when a’ve got enough. A’ll crom
whoam wi’ thee. Odds, but that smack made
me see stars!”

He seemed to be perfectly reconciled at going
without his liquor. The sudden stunning blow
had given just the needed shock to his nervous
system, and disposed him to seek quiet. John
took him to the next hydrant, where be washed
the blood off his face and discovered a nose and
lip puffed into very unsightly proportions, but
it was with a perfectly sober, good-humored
face that he went up to his room again and
tossed his wife the purse, saying:

“ There, lass, there. I’ve thought better on’t.
John and me will go to work at Vulcan Works
to morry. please the pigs. Wheer‘s ma pipe?
Smoke, John, wiltha‘s”

“No,” answered Armstrong. “I’ve got to
sweep up the shop yet, Steve, and the watch-
man will be waitin’. Good—night to ye.”

And he went away to his task, feeling within
himself a sense of satisfaction that broke out in
words, as he said:

“ Ain’t it different, fi’tin’ a man as 1's a man,
and a mean man? Steve’s a good feller, if he is
aBritisher. Darn my skin ef I then ht they
had sich stuff in ’em. Not a particle o? malice
and a good father when he’s sober. Guess I
kin get him to take the pledge afore I’ve
done.”

Then he set to work at the shop with Slep~
pnrd. and it was only eight o’clock when they
got through sweeping.

John laid down his shovel and looked round
the vast shop with a sigh.

“Ain’t it a, pity ’l” he said to Sheppard.
“Here we’ve got the work down to a fine
point, and I’ve got to leave. I kinder hate to
do it. Got to like the old place, though I’ve
only be’n here two days. But ’tain't no use
cry in’ over spilt milk. ucky I kin sleep in the
office, if ’tis the last night. Tell ye what,
Sheppard, Boss Stryker’s a man all over, he
is.”
And, as Sheppard offered rude consolation,
he stopped him with:

“Never mind. No use talkin’. Had to be
done. Knew it when I hit the boy. Reckin I
won’t have to fight no more. Hope so, any-
way. Good-night.”

And the simple-minded fellow was asleep be-
fore five minutes had passed, While Sheppard
began his patrol of the shop.

It was early morning when John woke up
and went round to Steve Barker’s tenement,
where he found Mrs. Phoebe, radiant as the
day, at work getting breakfast, while Steve

still S] t.

Shegi‘eeted him with a. smile and whispered,
pointing to Steve:

“Never was a better man when he’s sober,
Mr. Armstrong. The chillen was frouted to
death at first. but he put ’em to bed hisself, and
if I say it as shouldn’t say it, never was a better
husband than I’ve got.”

Then they had breakfast, and John and Steve
went back to the works us the seven-o'clock
whistle blew, to find Mr. Sti‘ykcr walking about
as usual anions the men, his keen eye. every.
where; saying little, but with a word in time
for every one.

As soon as he saw tlrcm he went to the oflice
and they followed him there, where they found
him, with the pay—roll open before him.

He nodded to them and said to Steve:

“You’ve two full days. Here’s the money.
Sign the roll and take it.”

Steve turned a little red and took up the pen
awkwardly, asking:

“ theer be I to sign, Fir’r”

Mr. Stryker showed him, and Steve looked
still more awkward.

“ Don’t see the name, sir.
The clerk allers writ it.”

Mr. Stryker gave him a sharp glance and
then wrote his name, when the English work-
man affixed his mark.

John then came forward, when the old chief
asked dryly:

“ Can you write?”

“ Reckon so, sir. Not to say like a book-
keeper, but ’nuff to sign.”

And he wrote his name in a style which
caused old Strykcr to lift his eyebrows and ob-
serVe:

“ there did you learn to write?”

“ At Painted Pr st, sir,” returned John, with
some pride. “ We had a fust—rate writin’-
teacherindietrick school. Thank ye, sir. That’s
11' lit.

and he pocketed his money with a slight sigh,
when Mr. Stryker said in an indifferent sort of

we :

‘yAh, by the by. where do you think of going
now. Armstrongl”

“I dO'Z’t know, sir,” returned John, frankly.
“ Steve, here. and me, we ’lowed we’d try the
Vulc’an Works. I don’t rightly know where
they be. sir, but Steve knows, I reckin.”

Mr. Strykcr nodded and drummed on the
table in an absent sort of way for several
seconds. till he said:

“ l’in sorry I’ve got todischarge you. I nevrr

A don’t write.

said as much to a hand before, but I mean it.

 

 

 

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_ l l
I _’M—~‘ - ' _ . . ' . i ' I
___.- . . could sco his figure from the waist up. 1115 T G I D k P I d p I,
5‘ Pd “1 ‘ to take 3 l“ 1‘30"" int it can’t be done [more m n on the boner UVKT “high so mined  arms were ll'iiig loldcd on the tree, and he was i     '30- l
. {5 1 TL , A, L A ’. _' A ,I , _:,, r, - .‘I, l caln]0 Hi I _ : I . ‘ “K I I I) \I II SH“ - _______ I
Ynn know that Armstrong. Hush, don’t speak. trouble lial aiisen, aliil.Ib€fU‘ifI“? d l- , ’tone 13y EMILIE CLARE. leaning 101 uaid, lasting on Iihem I'IL \ us I I BY THE ,IEXYREPORTERI” I
We“ you‘ll noéda Jim: to the manager of the madwm‘h progress thaw he 0 new , u a l __ ing Pleasantly “glue. ll‘rak lift ino’Ie, mm
i , . ... v . '. - I . . .  - hours v. I rfivp vui-(lci‘rom iini. saw, 111“ as I _ ..
 . . .  i] on I went to bit 0. lelltf. _I . . I Yr 8. Ihavdioplsiufutuie nun 3 _ I I I I I I I I I II I SI
“01,131 .It m‘il.{“,.‘3{.tfl tIdt'oguid out the whole “ Guess il wid blow QVer, boys. 0116111))?“ To roam again Wlthllice, plainly us 1 sic )‘ou. I noticed that; one of the I' “'1 HM)!» itahpiobiIbIlytIiIo “inf: lg‘eiIiquIiIiItIlIIsmail?
Mrs. Ioi on a: 1‘ DI " t t ~av to on Arm- sharp: bu: he’s like a firecracker. Big neisc, .Mid Eden’s ,,(,VI.,._f,,dmgflowerSI IIUIIIIII buck IIuImIISmI III-II. Flu-II [mm “In, bmkvu. II “..tcrIm e wm ( iiin I_ I II II II -“\ I I , I
Storyn‘om “£31.1an wantcik’)ibi ~lit ill Llil‘ou 'll and then it’s all ()Vr‘l‘ Put-w! That’s some- From pain and sorrow free. Ana ank ,. IIII aIIIkIII II, a IIWHI IImIII “JIIO and “.“II II", mlmwmh I, “III” I, H I, IIIIVIHIIII I
)- . vv ac 4-;r i '7. ,v .I " y. . ): - I. y — - i r . .I‘ I I ‘I II .I III II. I
itfioiifizircdiifl r2510?  I hotpe ’Vou‘ll shfkc thing 11k.) work. blie’ll be ready in tum. ’ II AIIIWD IhaI “vermsung “do IIId ’not 100k a day “Mm. than LI, (“,1 0,, II,“ I IitI afraid; l)!:XIIIII::II:);,':1(EI:(ll Artuin:iIiIIsIIIiIiIiIiIIIIpm I
h OI I‘ t artin‘}. Emil} ,kI. 111i51)0t(“f1_oul m._. to Then, as in. In 1) were washing up Iii-0n; then Where endless mgggings no,“ I morning he was smoIIIIIIWII m he sun“. 11,5 I III” uni; I l(  . “I LII- IIIII I'IIIIIIIIIII {III‘IIIII r l
Mdng dp tl Dni'ii‘w rcr of 1hr Vulcan (‘cni- Iwork, Mr. Handy came down again. 1“ hls Th’jl‘L‘, hand in hand. tliOI‘C, Side bysmc’ fur;- wru iis iii-xii ziiid lib linir us lilifl‘lx: US “ 1W” I “mm” ',"."1”.‘, I'm'IImII “ I , .33”. I} i, .. . 
r. rnltgvry’illlget  i‘i'ork Gik‘od-bv.” ml)“. Ut‘l'VUUS‘ "a." and calledfut: Together we “'1” 140- he was Vouip. I Slile't‘ t0 le- 110‘“ i “0“ .i'“. l fruliudrliit ‘v‘ll‘l it-m  in; (iii-n7. till-r-i-diii‘il‘i:
Palanh :11 out his liand to John, who fiu<hed up i i. WhPl'c 211‘“ 1'10“? new men-W , I A paradise Cm,“ “DI hog—Inna SW”; ,ijpiy leaned on Itllt‘ lug nizd Sill-it‘d I ‘if‘itle'unIl‘fI-I‘CHIII;  I‘III‘IIiI‘I‘I "IIIIII‘IIIIIIIIIII a” I
t) II, t- nu )los and could hardly spvukas he look Tun others looked ui. each other, while ii b”Sh My mm] will, an jrsulim'msI gmvdy at ma 1 Sprung mm the sir-uni“ and , I d, s I I_I I iIvIw I. I 'II S f. I III_I { Ihi f I
Q MEI If, I B“; he [managed 3,, say: (tunic ovni- {he pally; but as Himer impatiently I 11’ 1-3“ of thy i-iulouriug mnilc— (“I IIIII‘Ucner AI. 1 “pm-OI,de the 0mm. 1pm],- I iiI illiIi ilIli‘ice olrI  (I  Liy,  iI., II  it: I ifloi IoI
1‘; ‘i‘ V Q‘llll' ye kin lly sire, ('ioovl-bv " repeat“! “1" (111"5l"-’”v JM’“ and Steve “(Tiled 'l‘hy fond encircling arms. III I II”,qu am“. IIImmCI. and (“UNUUI and “NH, I l.iIe_(Im,i s w in, l pIilo ,aI iy pi; cl.» 1( iiIi mu .iIvIIrlnS
I“ x x I . . .-  ', , .1 ,-‘ ~m I ,I ‘1‘ I I . . . . ,, I ., ..(I , ..S I.
The“ “"35; we"? “11% Of “1" Ofii‘v' New B”— Ouiti’ and John hall‘f gummy' I‘vo pruycl tliosin 10b0, forgiven I cziiim clue to the tiee it “w: {-Olli. it (1113 lf‘l‘i‘vlbrl bids: fill; nilciitliilix‘if(liisf‘ “'lll‘t‘ll i'i‘c’ozing v ,
kei- looking unusually quiet and thoughtful as Here “(x Lo, su. I l d t f t Of “ms MIN“ HI,“ not disapmur IsquwlyI but.) gradually fm e weather dIIIveg the and.“ IIIIIIIIIIIF down II": bay I I
thev Imsged th-,,I,_.I, the Shop mm)”: the wmli- . Tuo manager scanned him from 168 0 00 , Aim“. [he 1‘1-1(,'L11,“S JHIYS of llL-flVL‘D away. “men It was. but a hint (llzt-llll’c I Cduuid “IIIUIC tIIO wild c0191,“ dI‘Ie, not grow The “a , j
' r h ' “ ' “"l" ‘ ' ' 71(0 lm: “'licrc naught, is; vanity. . . 't - «,miliuw sadly i scenic 0 ‘ -: A  > - I ‘ I
men who stare-l at them in suipiis. . and Hi «i and a: ' II I_ I ,, u - see that 1 Wi’h . A . r. - I  , . . I . ._ . I I
Ith1.;w‘IIj]en]Org they werc in the street, wcnd- l “ ll ..cro have you WOIkIed befoic? I I The burning tears of mid- I~,.e Shed me, I searchc I thoroughly, but could find no 5‘” a“ talk? g‘l’tswligl 0:1“ gift to it:  £2):th  
1"” Him-1‘ an t0 IIIC‘VUlm“ 11'0" lvorks' about “ SDI-mgtwm Arsenal" CO” S “0‘01 y’ Exoex- Ilavb failzd to wash cwm‘ foot tracks. Tin long» 50ft; mo S grownig on the ‘ 9’ 1: “m d <0 l x sI‘hle O oml ‘ k ‘pi. L i :-
 _ , . . A ., . ‘. . . : - - ..  a ' c .. . 3—ia' : 
5i; bla‘ks off J) n with the letter fast in his 5101‘ li’orks.’ ictuined John, SilOl fl) . I _ The mummy of tin» hopes; long ficd tree where he had re led his arms wasiubickcn. VILW 1;! {Mme DIG  I teIfiflltiIthg II (I IIINIIIVL J I
hand iddre‘séd t0' “Show me your Work and your mates'f'n‘ And 10“ their sad (190513" I rocrossijd the stream, ate my breakfast, and deep {1‘ 91‘. am Iv_19,5d1( it! it IHI let} . I
I k I" . the dilVf continued Handy! in the same qu'Cki II the SOUR Of I108”, .1”. gown m ,6 on my j,.ur.wy n which is next in ponit of excellence, feeds With :
~' 7' I '  u. {ow .‘*‘ . _. 1. ,. i_ II A - _ I I I . II I I

i MR. ABEL HARDX. I 1111 ciqous \i ‘13- . \{imml,,,V1,I.,,,.I-S0001,00,.0I mark was “lent for a few mmutesI and then . them and robs thcni ICIIf their food as soon as I
“filanagm‘ “than Iron IVON‘N'L Oh“ promptly dld as requested and Handy And that glad thrill, once all its own, resumed in a musing. puzzled tone: “I have they 1””‘3 It to a”: 15m a“). l l - f l '1
I ' ' wen 0”: - 051“ never wake“ "10"“ ’: Voice several times since I first A “1‘63 PNP‘” Um} 0f, t 1" POP“ 3'91"“ . 0 ‘

' v t d l - - heard 08s
As they neared the works. .eve 5221 in a ow u How many men were on this bOiler this af— Th III S“ otm ISIC of “Ibplst ‘3“. him HIq I-I.,,,I§I,,p I hem. “Mummy I I Havre do Grace, which is only a few miles
' ' e Wi ( 'c h ‘ a . . . I - .I - I I I  II . .

toiiIv- , .. .a. .h I] n reel Uemman ternoon?” , Oi-(:a11’.«,.-;.--1in to bloom i have never, excepmng one tune, heard ember I above the flJiS, maLeIa business 'oIlI" flsIlungIlm I

BOSS $13k.” 3 “ 3' ca a I b ’ J01“) Pursed up his. mouth' . ,, One budding joy, untimely cast the footstep 01- the vm‘ce when 1 am on the summer and ducking 1n Iuinter. I 16 legis a- I
artm- all. . I I I, . .. iTwaivn’t my bliSIDESS tOlOOk, _Slr, _ Into an 631.13, tom}, mine or in the unclad foothills. Joe loved the ture Iot- luarylapd has fixed the tune for the

U-Auj Igupss there am t ino bettm’v his com- Mr- Hand-V gm’e an almost lmperceptlme gou‘ritains when he was alive, and now his shooting to begin on the lst of November. each
panion replied. uBut heres the \‘VIOle. I feel Start and twitched his lips, then Wheeled on M I\ q “It apparent] I refuses to dwell OlseWhereI boat being reqmred to take out a Ihqense and
Wei” gain? to get a good Job here. Birih, asking: a . h S“. . fins morning I} heard him walk up to “W gun only three days m a “reek ITIIIS ,S done to 

' “Wen' you “’Cn’ h°w,}-nany men were on 858" m t e "11' camp-fire and seat himself by my Side. Until p1‘0¥_ent the (111ka IfIroIm beiIngdmt'Ien fIiI‘tipittliIei:
’ that bl’iler this afternoon . . . ., . ” . _ v the Stealth footste , had {0]. ft‘9( ing groom. . IS on y on it: i s a
CHAPTER ‘ 1' “ij, sir—l thought you were an a hurry so THE OLD PROSPECTOR’S srom. I met you to d?) y I

 

 

. . , .. lowed me steadiin I [lav-e notiped that the S‘lllk boats are allowed to be used. flhyese boats
THE SECOND ROI :1). a 129(31me “it: fcvurse ”stcriilv interrupted BY FRANK \VILKESON. weather affects these manifestations sharply, Die OfflV(“1'3bggilgpllfgrtoggg’lr{:(}2;Ib;l:§,a:0:81i;§ I
M” ABEL HANDY proved to .‘e 3,533“: fert- h b er “ 0.1. ‘Psmkgw line the work of the — During damp, stormy Wcathcr I newr hear the iIHOr'e I Hiltlmd habviu gcanvag “Inga on a frame
gf‘tlc [Dani mm "inch Tolle'tafdkfmih billglvcilgigr ttfieiglfifligifl. THE water had fails] in the mountain gul- footsteps or the Voice. During bright weather gagghefg bv III“ 08150 the b6“ “II-IIIIII by means I
hlm'glaq “30 plaid] 0h Ci‘l‘i‘itéiidenle: fofa. cor~ 0 This Birch was unable to do without cilli‘iig ches. My season’s work of placer mining was I always (‘XPCCt It0 [1931' the foothills, andIon of pieces 6f iroi are sunk to, I label with the 
“gulf-5'  fie sugs'iieriu erson which the men up and Mr Handy who had become over. Time began to hang heavily. I had those rare days \\ hen the 2111' seems to be alive water Decoy; are then put out and drawn
pomumnumb (a‘ 0' all)"0 -' neisp lie ‘had to ver silent ,and watchful at; last interrupted tired of walking through the forests looking at and the age,“ feel young and actIVO, I expect t9, 1, thém flog-kg of duck-{come so néal‘ the Run-
HIT]? at%lfl’ci§€l‘lwt m~ 1:11 Iilliilockholdcra while the‘ywrauglino that threatened bv saying: game I had no need to kill. The work of a bear the vaice and maybe to see the phantom. ng’r that, he has no (IimcuIIy In kimng them
9 II“:  - “fec‘orf- but he took a.  ride “Tliat’ll d8 I understand: r. Birch, re— family of beavers that had greatly interested IiiIteI‘ruptmg my friend, I agkegIt ‘I DOGS “Qt with & mm of small caliber AS many as five
bu tymk'. lb‘m Slimli‘m ‘ f' r iorc sgfiow Iilian o l; to the office tomorrow morning at seven, me was almost completed, and their hous -s this unseen presence annoy YOU. At first It thoupand hIIve been Sum htérpd (In the fier Gav
ill: “3 a  {Slfigwilcsio‘rfilifbrl n y 1 Before going to work.” Were W911 above the “at” 0f their am“ When I .U‘qumed me gl‘eafly' bu,t “,”‘V.I all“? apleasure 1' of the sc‘asdn and carriedgto Havre de Grace to
10;: Zinnia circlesqu over Mr. Stryker‘s note Then, with the same abrupt, haughty way he bade them good-by for the winter. In ifs ICQIDPWYI. dl ileum“) ""35 “5 1f "3 15 long be Shh;me by rail to different CIIIGSI ’
at. fir-3., but’rcad it 21 second time with more always put on in tbs tshcti ), on purpose to over— RI héidhgvzglfctlolggdfl;    fefiilt'egiiecald pive and smoked Silently Riv“. poihts on which c,mf0,.tI.IbIe minds
, - ' ‘_ - w z :1an I I _r _ ‘ I I r .. .
Satyj’tbnuilildzulialsi:  be“, Whml called up a a‘?3t{1o%$§njul: Sgdved) yotlilrelmcon, this after— seentiilicrelin zbabe summer, but they had niigra- for a few minutes. I was about to speak. See- have L991) bliilt are the fzivontc resorts of the

. . . _ . v . § , T . - I. ‘ . .
“'l‘il'c these two men to Birch foreman of noon my lads. You can work if you’ve a mind, ted to the bare liiils through which the North iiig my intention: be. r5111;ch liisIliaIndI, shook it Iiggigfilfiflauaeifig’Ifigdtglgallfiftjnpflgfzhg;§
the riveters. Tell him to put tbcni on at first- and I'll see you do or I’ll know the reason why. Platte river flows. C'llllillg down the ruggel negatively. and 5 :id. lease (.on t, “ail; un- I ., v .

 

. - .. - i. .. - . ' ‘e ii " w n, r . - and re- air to it as they may have the oppor-

Cl‘dSi Work, {‘0 ONES" M“ S I'l'k'k‘l' 0f the Ex"e]‘ Tim“ 311-” . moumam flank” I lm‘t-J'm 9‘11)“ nlmctf’ uap— t1] .It 11.3er ,iznjiqhedfic ,1.li:?.l,1‘71”h‘f‘§s?"ip;,§ tuniiv.pAn evening spent in one of these cabins

sin. and report II, me in Ihe evening» Tue men fumed away Wlth Sly glances atIeach pan prospector, whoml had known )eaisngom piifIi 01} II} I). .II-I. II ' IIIIIOIILTI]. the 4f~0re~€ (I’D ) I or (IO-III}qu is an occasion of rare (Ininent.

Then he nodch verv slightlv to the men, other and sundry winks, while Handy said to Idaho, towuig a while donkey up the ‘log ill— v» hi.e “a inandIoutIy I I-In I_ I diff Ha Amund’; warm Stow, 0,. open fire “H.901”. {our

whom he had not addressel in‘ any way. and Juli]! Armstrong, in a very different tone: cumbei‘el trail that led thi'ougn the lofuy pass path beatip Ii.iI.‘0t lint/if“ I! S-‘IO'E’W .I ‘3 "If. 3; (.Im'wnml spin-IS gather. Tm, prospect of 8
turned lihis desk again, as if too ‘bmy‘to do ' “ If you and your mate here are not in :1 in the Snowy Ringo. heard a VUlC. tea i i LUE 10((Onldf‘ ca. mg - c

 

- . . . . 1 .r . , 1, . - . . m y i I, l in n I _ 2 favorable wind and good slioctinn in the morn-
anything but wri c, whil» Ar mfrong and er- I hurry to (to to Siipper, I want to Isee you in the Jim and IA “910 staiicuI fiienIdsII We “hid InnilljvgnIchIlcminIe   IIIIIIlgiléfig I jug IS (IIHIUIFNII EIICII one has a. Story I0 IOHI
kel‘ form-‘73” the 1393' t"""173‘h 51 r'iiw‘l) CVUH ' oflicc. You’ll nolL be sorry tor it. ’ camped togmhIeiI OIElI the (own u Acne )Ilouii—  I13“: r‘II-I QII;IIIII‘I’3I: $01}; IIHI‘le as ‘II'YIIIII’ I“. son“. Wendel-{III acme“ mews to ruin“. (on;
larrur than ill“ like». . V'le nc itly ur- : Tilt‘ll he nodded and strode away to thquunr- iuiirs; we hail fishy. in Lie Icleai, inpid Iv. .liClI: htildl .IiIigI av  I1 ,(III..I éIIIIIIIIII‘ IIIII lIrIrIr I? I CITIIIIIU gunninfi in Ye on“) “In? “by” game
' kvvl flu!)  'liu'c 'lil ‘ici mmwii‘ to be so for of {He filers where t‘ncv saw him plclilll", up or 'liiompson s river, “0 bar. polml a rude rm, liars 1.40 LU. Int ~L  .i  , ,_ I .  _ I.)  bun I_ d I I f “II I a I I
lan’f" ’  ‘7  L ‘ ‘ 1 ‘“ .1 - . .T. . .’. ..- ..r: .I in 7 fl. t" nqu] o BHIl’l d’Or -illx- like Once bilinn in u rc- (lNiiIifi Wilt-I'm] is S‘Fv‘t‘rzlllfl “1 ll EI‘xHW-ua 02', l"“‘ “01‘ a V" an m.) In“ “"10"!” Fum'ph l
mug-n work doing. Mu; than] one _ l}l{l$lll:IC (Hiding: and {honing ..ii .11 ( Jun, I .It Iing rm. ..n I c . _ I. “I. .1 I f I .I III. I In. I II VI III III I IIIIIIII I “aI \IIIIII I IICIIIId the VOICE I “TUTTI Toward IICI “me some mm SIIIQLIIISIS a
was ille wu‘ i3." workmen rc taking lhr‘ll' I one obi-wt to anotuerlikc an inq-nsitive crow. ce~s mnmg the in. n, VH: m .UJnel out upon .. .. . .  . , I

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
  

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. . . . . . .  ., . . . . m 2“ - ‘ ’ ' - i (\'('c$~l\’e
- . - - - . -.. -i -. - . . . ..., . ' n  r . w n vi: < ,-  ~-i.I mm A- 1., «ml was about to i.-ii 4.6 LlV etc» to leuin “Qt lflml} and IDOL“ 53} I'm.‘~ “1 A
time-over iliur J l «in :in -_».Iili_it had llC\Cl I“ llflillllgleW tum and glaiicmg .ill Ova the tin bpolnine Iz.i.i.iii.. ind <l.L.i_ l uncuici i t . i drmkmg b, “(I IdeuIflId mI I-m. IO be II “1,0,1
been seen in the Ext-rider :sviop. John and

‘ ' - - - . . - v . .. i. -.u 1..  . r . .;,i
shop without seciiiiiiu 10 do so. go lilluliiL-ll‘ camp at lili,‘ ll~ll(‘l \ for the pur. mlio CQJ'J] luL, “uni, I..i (if to ill) Lorin,
Stevj \vrc iii; a? up in the form: in of the l‘lV- '

,5.

marksman one n‘ukl; huvc a “ level head and u

"’E be a sharp ’u':," olbcrved Steve, in a page of biiyiriga li'csli salmon, orio stay Vx‘llifl‘o on iii {.idv of ti siccp lii.l. I di-.l llLJrl the

 

 

 

 

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l
. .  ,r. -. I_.L II_ lgk,.‘., e)! ‘I1“.‘O.II,.:II_ .I._
etnrs a i‘.’ 1‘; man who had a k aen, i‘itellignnlL i wliisp -r "A’ll bet a pound "t‘ln swung a sledge we were, 11) s :icly. Clark hu:l suggested that, noise Callill‘l'... 1: )Id on.’ I llIlilllI.1ili/ l lIifniil ill)? I, II-IrguIitIuIivgiIiiniIlél Illlll‘;)OC;IlIlqnlIl;:;h]-I(I l'_\hofll:1};db:::ili
. H  i ..if, . a - V ', . r v , - ‘7 LI "I II_ - A I I v II -‘ , , .IHI; _ _I‘ III II I I ‘ I>I / AI I I _
1:308de a 00:1,I-.,,.I.._II139I “I.” 1:41;,pr aqu-e tub-I that ’e looks. so smooth. \l‘iut does the chief, bpoi. iichLuiiiy, Might- bi (llll‘ilm, and 541-“ Of 4“ ‘1"‘:01“'[3 N'f’i‘ ~ ’1‘";  ,,JL{ :5, l,- I,, I1,,, mg, I;.,,I.t (If dud“. Von. (,ftm, it, is a
i looked at them rather siipm'ciliouzlv at ’e want wi’us I wonner?” lie was a trifle disJi—Trccubl“, not to say inuli. over Ithc snow. Iberia it I .l,.lllli:I II (an I(IAI-RI(‘II~II;IIIIII‘nyor aIIVIIr-Ié “IIIIII‘.II(-) nét ImIIjne
. A -. o»- ~ “A ~‘ ’ . . . .‘_ I'II o I .-. .I I“ .I‘I‘, . III. ,. ,:1 ,I_ r J‘ , ‘ I-h‘ > ‘
first, but pu‘. them to work at once on a new  John liesdutcd and said, very low: cious, when in his < ups, .ii.d iii ..d.iition to ([11,, in dI‘ ILL .Vvlnll calm; sump y lli (us ll ( x I
y I

. _ ,. , , . . _- , - . . . . ,.  - - ..  . .r .  -. .. I -. .II, the 32;“.5: gmugg - I 53in to mvsuif: thcguiiic l0 l_l_\', or they do not notice the de-
bOiler, and before long the two fiieu-ls wei “1m kinder ’ieurd llu \\ ants one of [is two to I‘ltiabl.)lllt,y tlnie was an “libel.le [111.111 con llimuK s I (I IySI III, aIIIIUIputim] I5 Nazism”, and IIIIIIIIIng

. . . . , _- .. r , ~     . . - ,\ ~ r  h -- “ ~'_- .1 '. lie has concluded to 'iiii me.’ I
clinching I‘lVOlis in a style that hill never bee boss the iiVeteis. btcx e. The) re nngut) sluik (ellllllg a spottid pony bctuccn (rally and 1t» J (‘1‘ ‘ J air and exprciseis an exuenem amwtizflfor an

seen before in the Vulcan shop. round here, and this here lookin’ round by fits Clark. Nuturallytuo hitter was disinclined to had askcil flu IicguulutiifnCIeItO 8‘} “121’ ml" 9” a i MI.” mun”.
When the noon whistle blow, and the new- and starts ain’t; like Mr. Strykeris way of doin’ meet the dusky Chleftfill) when surrounied by hunting expel lLlJfl: II ( “lard In InscrI. “cup. I -~ II.“ a cinéuhr fact not yet accounted for
comers threw down their hammers, Birch things. They wants good men for fort-men five or SIX hundred braves. IAs ,Clrirk iersely POSGd 119 I“55 PQWI (‘Jlllltlin flyill‘ tjol hlI‘O-l the; “hm; Ifim‘lucks a’re first driven from thé
came to them, and said, in a sort of bantering here. You’ll have to take it, ’cause you’re the expressed our movements, ' We shipped for snow-shoes. 1 shouldered my ii 63 {int “n Lcd II » r I
I

 

 

 

. - - .-. .  . , ,' ' . . ' ‘ V  be largest proportion pass by the mouth

. . ndI’i lne Bitter Root Mountains and Flsh Cieek bllsbly along the trail. I‘thpath l d in and “fist; .;  I . _ I
suppose you fellows ara going to wet your Olgttitygashook his head with a sigh. Pass as 50011 as it bocame sumt‘iently dark to out anio"g thICkCtS of young 1””63 am.) spruccs’  103113;: 1&1?! -andren1:?fi 2h? ("I'E‘fi‘l‘g’VX-hff:
names on the pay-roll. You know that‘s the “No, lad, no, 'tis thy place, I dunno how to mask our mowments. fOHIOWHig 1119- ]“Vf‘l “5 “early as POSIlbl“ 0‘" ,iifiéomlulnhsl: in? hérsitiikefg, 0.050,, mlarkis-
rule of the shop." read. A couldn‘t; take it. A couldn‘t. A’il I was glad to meet my old comrade. \l'e sat casmnally a guru in ihe pat-nled to toe foot of 4 man a "ocdg .1 C1,], H Ti; Bra ahgilf‘on un to
“’I‘warn‘t so in the ’Selsior,” dryly replied rivet ag‘in’ ony mon, but as for foreman, ’tis a on a sunny log and talked. He told me that he the mountain, around which tue tl'zill led IIrII I: tthm d “In Inga If in“) c-IOI‘Icgmgn will
Steve Barker, looking grim. V step above me. There. B055 is gone to the was goingacrosstbe range to search fora placer to the placer mine Village, and_ I could See I ’h re III (I 0 t ~SII It fr hi‘glbregdfl ,Id r
“'Selsior be hangedl”retorted Birch. “They Office. Go thou and take thy luck.” that his comrade, Joe M_itlocIk, had discovered through the comparatively open umber far up £?_Itnhl)itII 0 II 6  .Vf d8  gm d h “mo 8
don’t know how to do things in that dog-hole. They went slowly to the office, and found when on his way to California in 1850. They the steep mountain-Sides. Vhen I thought; I “l I Allin 6 0 110 S agge 8 gen-

 

_ . . . . . . . . , , ' y lly find that he has not more than one duck
t ‘eat men like men her1 and those that Hand Sitting back In his turniu ~cba1r, With had been driven from the overland loute lead— was far enough along the trail to be where in) cm I I, I _ _I

dog’t Ilike it are quite w-?lc0m<:,to Q‘llt. You’re an airyof relief on his face. smokingga cigar. He ing up the Cache 1a Poudi'e riwr, by tlie Ute acquaintance trying to Intercept me 511013“ i to 9“?” fight ’hobts fig?ng Alrfmb tht” {9185011

English, ain‘t you? “'ell, you know the nodied and smiled to them with a genial. if Indians. They had crossed the mountains and strike the Path» I dropped the bum Of my “fie an Immense 1mm er 0 "9"“ng or ea "we

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

rules.” rather patronizing air, that contrasted with his entered the North Park. While there Mqtlock on the frOZeri snow and leaned against a, tree. Come t0 (Itéiei tingeSIhCOtléig eggshell; has
Steve unwillingly went down into hi: pockets, previous behavior, producing in J Ohii’s mind a had prospected, and found good pay somewhere I took my pipe a_nd tobacco from my pocket, SgTsngiréCMr “val {son I“ III 3 £205 grim.th BEE
gm ling: sense of insincarity, as of one acting a part, on the eastern slopcpf the second range. It and was preparing to smoke, when I again A “where in -a cabin you the BIN] fiver “Ned
“ W'ell, if a mint, 9. must, a sunsey. though Steve was wonderfully impressed by it. was this gulch my triendeas going to search heard, clear and sharp, the swish of snow-shoes all" fit -Ifiv ITS of II Ive-“I‘m s in a [6‘31];
JJllll Armstrong made no diifi -ulty about his I “Come in, come in. be s,” be said. “lVell, for. As he talked the desire to Join him took Sw1ftly gliding over the snow. Looking pp I b If .V Che lfah “If 7 k g _ _ qt vb UII'IS.
share of the tax, for he knew the omnipotence . how do you like the Vulcan, now you‘ve had 11 possession of me, and I Slld: "Jim, come home saw a man Who was mounted on a prur of fud Sromk 0% 18 1i} tlflls nof‘ts  “ Ieiib 0
of custom. N w 0):!) r: bail to treat the men 'd.iy in it?" with me to-night. To-morrow I will go With snow—shoes that were painted a dull red. Isaw AP 533119 a!» f Ellho‘ISGfUII‘G l - II “3 iIIiIaIra $38 I
in their part of ihe shop, or take the couse- I “lVery much, sir," retni‘nod Steve. with a you. I want to see that country. I will help this man plainly. It was Joe Matlock. Ho gulfhe, liefiflgb_‘cllls laVU‘IImIVf >0Illli‘tItfi'tllls i
q'icnces in ill-will. Sr) the two contributed to I respectful grin. "C'iuldu‘t ax a better face you prospect.” was dressed "1 3 SW“ 9f 1‘11“ng PUCkfkm- A Lil]  1‘10”- 1} S ariw'h ,m‘Ifi’.,°‘I“;_‘I',5 19“ 
the fund for beer, although they coul 1 ill afford » than we 'ave, it” the wages be all right. ccn He readin agreed to this, and we walked black felt hat} was on his head. TNOtVilillSLaliCL 03 e 1:11 hlléllflilfi-h _ (:8 II“ S I” I I0Y1_“1I-
it. gettin’ twp sevent-yrfive, sir, apiece, me and ma slowly home. I notiCed tout the oldtime fire ing the velocity with when he was descending 031$. any t .011le   ~t0 Slings; {ItIiri-t In le-
But when the nail mm? in, and Birch bepk- mate.” and j)y were lacking in my comrade. He was the mountain, his long, black hilll‘ hung quires Veri l t L 811‘ 0 Him. it-u co“ 1L

. . . . . . . ‘ f. . . ' . _ l
oned to them to j iiu in drinking. Armstrong “No, you haven’t,” interruptedHandy, sliarp- nervous. He started slightlyat the sharp naise straight down his back. HIS guiding pure. 11033 “hence the." com“ and “mm” “193 30»

 

 

 

 shook his heni smiliuglv. ly, “I know riveter§’ wages, my man. That made as pine trees rubbed against one another. grasped in both bands. was held across his 1:; still a ninici‘3'I.  aftiII‘I 138 first {ii S‘iIIhIct
I “ No, thau‘; ve, gents. I ain‘t thirsty for ; try to fool me. (“3.11 you read and write!“ He seemed to be depressed in spirits. Viinly 1 breast. Joe was sliding down the steep moun- 0339.13 lg) be 02‘“ 1‘; teré‘; If) 1‘) l‘TI‘ “fill-i II" 3]
I naught but Cd] 1 tea: and me and my mI’e‘s got ‘ " Non, sir,” answered Steve, abashcd. tried to cheer him. layly I talked of the fa- tam flunk ntfull speed. I saw his body loan to “ {’10 1* “Udall '- % IQI‘ 1" U “Mitt?  mi :‘IlK
, enough in this piil. Besides, I never drink “ an you?” asked Handy, turning to John. mous times we had had together in northern the left. His pole struck the snow sharply. Wlld [Fese makethml al‘llf‘amm‘fifi f3}; limit-I?
5 NSF, “Null! 1 hiin'r no Objections to UIMI' “ 'es, sir.” Idaho and Montana. He smiled almost sadly The oil" edge-s05 the long. red shoes raised fll!;°a(l§'07'lne asflsort C‘ffldmm‘t‘gumh IThcsc
doin’it. Dink hearty, gents." “Very well, did you ever have charge of a in reply to some of my lighthearted remin- slightly. Aslle course changed I saw that he “‘1-1 50m9llm93Ib° dra‘XH LY (“0033‘ UL “393'

And at the S‘lliie moment he whispered to gang before?" iSCcllCGS, and said: was heading directly for the crest of a high 813‘ {1"1101‘8113' klni’d 8” 1112M UV 2‘0“Il"i‘1 0“ “Tm

Steve, who was inclined to rise: At this moment- John happened to look over " Ali, Frank, I am sixty years old. Life is Indgc of rocks. Commgto tlic crest be crouched “'L'h ‘1 lame Nflecml‘ 13ml) flttat'hefi t0 the “OW

“ Do‘i’t V9 do i“. ’Tis a darnation mean rule. Hundy‘s head at the window and saw the file: not as enjoyable as it once was. Tue comrades law on his shoes. andtheii. with mighty spring, 0f lb? boat The light Seems to confuse fillem
Let ‘em drink alone, and they’ll feel kinder of Birch, listening. He hesitated to answer, of my you-Lb are mostly dead. Some of them jumped high in the air. He alightcd far below and We." ‘10 "Gt attempt to fly mm."- ("9959

 

 

 

 

 

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l
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l
 ’sliamed on it.” anl finally ieplic'l: who are still living arc among the human in an alder thicket. I plainly heard the SWNI “0‘ bemg dwe"? and “Qt havmg the long “.991”
i lVliicli actually turned out to be the case, “ Once, sir. At Hai'if:.ml.” wrecks that every stormy mining cx'-itement of the Snowshoes as they Swiftly slid over the . 0f the SW3?» fl? “1170 the "991‘s [9 “9‘1 at mghty
i when the workmen found that they could not I Handy watched him keenly and smiled slight strands on the flanks of these rugged moun— froan snow far down the mountain, but I did ' alld sometlmm aflordfimd Showing "1 the “’9‘
l quarrel with the newcomers, but had to drink 'ly as he asked: tains. They are living in deserted villages and not hear the crash that should have follox'cfl I D1118 and early momlng. as they leave and 1‘9-
; their beer. “ W'cll, why did you len‘c?” in isolated cabins hidden in lonely gulches. the leap. Hastening along the trail I came to I turn to the baY- ‘
S3 the dinner hour pissed over; and just be- John turned crimson, but; looked his inter— They are patiently waiting for death to lay his the thicket. and, to my surprise. I could not ———~__
fore it closed Birch said, in a startled kind of rogator straight in the face, saying: kindly hand on them.” find the slightest trace of a track of a sncw-
way: “I were discharged, sir, for nigh killin’ a That night Clark sat bymyopen fire smoking silo-9. l Bufilo Bill. at Home.
“Hallo! here comes Gimlet Eyes. What in man the second day. I used to have a temper and gazing into the ruddy blaze. As he leaned “The Sim was Sinking behind the serrated
thunder’s u ?” ’ then, sir, though I’ve striv’ hard ag’in’ it sence forward, with one elbow on his knee, be con- crest of the Rabbit Ear Range when I arrived . A commsroxnnxr of the Philadelphia Times
They looked round and there was Mr. Abel that time. He were a—sbirkin’ work, and giv’ veyed to me the impression of a man listening at the Platte river. Wh '

. . . . . _“9 I was eating 1133‘ thus refers to Wm. F. Cody as lie 15 on his
undy, walking rapidly through among the me some back talk, andI hit him, sir. I hadn’t for an expected sound. Seeingthat he wasfully supper, I heard something seat itself at my great ranch, and to the standing which he has

idle machines, glancing to right and lift with orter done it, and the boss seen me drop him. I occupied with his thoughts, I picked up a book fire. Instinctivcly I knew that it was Jmf‘. as a citizm;
the eye of a hawk, and coming straight toward said I’d never hit a man ag’in arter that, unless of Irish tales, and was soon deep in a. story of Before I lay down I dragged a couple of logs to On the north side of the railroad, at North
the plan of me riveters. he made me do it, to keep from bein’ licked. the outrageous conduct of a. ghost that lived in the fire and threw them on. Lving in my Platte, Nebn armors: directly Opposite the

IVhen he arrived there be cast a sharp look But I don’t covet no foreman’s job, sir. It will the great bog of Allen. The story was well told. blankets I could feel the presence tit tlic fire. I lit-Jae. is a " little ” pasture COn‘le‘lsino 1,800
all round him, and spoke to Birch in a stern, be a trial. I’ll be thinkiu’, all the time, of poor I closed the book reluctantly.

 

 

 

 

I I I _ I fell asleep to awake With a start about ten ng'l'gs, all fenced in. Mr. Cody, in selecting his
quick way: Dave Jinkins, as I laid out. He didn’t work for “Jim,” I said, “ I have been reading a glfost o’clock. Seated on a log, with hands out— home, picked out a stretch of land in the heart
“How many men. have you got on .3" three weeks, sir, and it took all my savin’s to story.” ’ stretched, as though seeking to Warm them, of the buffalo grass country. This grass. which
“Nine, Sir,” replied Birch. Ill :1 Iiua. er as keep his fam’ly goin’.” Quickly, and with more interest than he had was the figure of Joe, dressed as in the worm grows hardly two inches above the ground. is
obscquious as it was possible to makcit. We’re J {)hn noticed, all the while he was talking, shown since the first flush of our meeting in the ing. He was looking earnestly at me. I spoke curlv and feels like a matting of down under
rather short-handed, Sll‘. that Birchfs face at the window grew more and early afternoon, he looked at me. Seeing that to him. He shook his head negatively. turned foot: In this region horses and cattle literally
he minag ‘r frowned. I more malignant, but the man seemed to be he was interested, Iasked, “Do you believe in his face army from me, and continued to warm live on this succulent. grass which is bardli‘
‘.‘I should say you were. 1 promised that waiting with intense aDXietvy for the reply of ghosts?” My friend looked me squarely in the his hands. Again I slept. In tho morning ever covered With snow. so mild. as a rule, arc
boder for the yacht to-morrow night, and it’s the superintendent. eyes. He took his pipe from his mouth and when I awoke he had disappeared ' '

I . I have I‘Ot he “"11 l g. ' 6 ar und is
hardly begun. WliatIdoes this mean? You Handy had listened to this story with 8. held it lightly between his fingerS, then an- seen him since.” Again Clark was silent f~r gut upl  gill]: igfiggfiygga 13:11:: afe now
put, on two new meiIi this morning. What have singular expressmn of watchfulness, as if men- swered in low tones, “ Yes, I believe in ghosts, an instant. Then, in explanation of his rc- fuming- uleir eyes to the réisjno of first horses.
they done? IVYIneres their work? tally appraismg John, and when the man fin— or something I suppose.” . ligious belief, he said: “I have been a firm be— Mr. Cody has probablv tried the endurance
‘I‘Hrre, Sir, responded BIll'C'll, nervously, ished, he tic-Swered: ‘ He ceased talking, hesitated an instant, then lievcr in annihilation at death, but I begin to of the horse as much  any man living and,
pointing to the new IIboder. ‘ They did pretty “Then you’re Just the man I want. I make looked at me intently. He passed his hand over doubt if I am, or was, right in that belief." havinrr recently disposed of his cattle ranz‘b 011
well for beginners— I I you foreman of the riveters. Begin to—morrow his face lightly, and then said: “Frank, I do Then, inquiringly, he added: “ll‘bat does iliis the lima] river sixtyfive miles north, of
Tne manager had been cIiniig the boder morning. Come to the office and get_ your not know What ails me. I have seen my old phantom that Iliavc seen three times s=igiiiv? North Plalto for {be 115315 sum of 31%I000 has
ke‘eInly, and interrupted hun wrtnout ceremony. day’s work mapped out. The old men Will try California mining comrade, Joe Matlock, who What does this apparition of a sound that  dorm-mined lb invest his surplus (zipital in, the
how Ime ItIhe work of your senior pair. shirk all they can, and need a tight hand was killed ina snowslide twenty-six years ago, almost constantly with me mean?" developumnt of the useful animal- and has
VVIl‘ioaretacy?1 _ II - over them. Sou can cInw them down. That’s three times during the past thirty monthS. I I knew Jami-s Clark to be an honest. trut':ful, associated with Lim in the enterprise his old
“John-on and IC‘reaIImer, szr. what they want. 103.111 get thirty dollars a have heard his voice several times, and his ste brave. clear-headed man. and I knew that friend and partner Major Frank North a well
Well, where is it: asked Handy, as sharp- week for the Job, and if you do well in it, I‘ll frequently. I sometimes think my mind is what he told me he believed to be true. I was 7 ' ‘

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. - - - . . . known ii drier and soldier. It is the intention
ly as before, andIBii‘Ich, nothcing ablcwfo col- have promotion for you. I like your face very giving way, or that my age is telling on me. unable lo (..‘i’cr an explanation of the manifes- to raise f:1(i]‘outhred horses (3 a iarg-e scale.
, lectrhis tliourhtsni time to lie,Ipomted In out: ch-l. "Good—evening now. I ve a few letters to But I have never drank hard; never indulged tations, and said >0. 11.. has no Brood marés Inat “in comm“
i rhere’ “1.1:”, TQIP‘ Ol'her 0nd: Wl‘ltc' . . . , In any 93093923-  health is IJL‘I'fCCf; In); \ favdl‘a  \‘ in build and sfvle ‘v‘ith the beg-t East‘
, M"- H‘lmli ml‘Nfi “V613 lOOM‘d at the work, And he wheeled round in his chair, turning: memory 13 brlght; 1 sleep sound1VI though ~“~‘>~-— 7—»~~~»— ~ ‘ ~ ~

~ and came back with liislips twitching nervous his back with a discourtesy of which he had

li' litlv I will tell you What I have 1 B " r) r’ em] yank, and also a large number CE prowl-S.
I I_ _ I g  l c . seen am EAI'TY or i;ILEN('E.—- 0 Von cvcrsit .own. in'ir vounrvstcrs. He also 1235 a lurc‘e herd H"
I II II I I II I‘ _ I_ w often _s’.u mad the effect, and plunged into writ- heard, and I want you to tell me frankly what Telemachm, and for an hour or two conteni— H ' a 3 b
I, “Is that all inc). illdnedIb morning. he asked. ingIWith an lllteilillers that awed Steve Barker ,you think of my case. I think it is a warningr plate the beautv of silence? You will appi‘cci- greed l:ull of their hand
:I Its not tho-uiiuds oi tiic Oilli‘lI‘IlllCll'S work. toxsdence, while Birch’s flee v.‘.iiIisned. I to prepare for the great clean up.” ate the beauty; and the blessings of silence Abide from Lcll this .M" Cod 'OWDS “evtl'fll
Ii .?l;);)‘.‘£;"me what the next pair (.id. 'Who are IiIot Llll thyey were outSIdedid Lie Englishman He drew his chair around, and. leaning his inv son, as you grow older. Soncie time, \Vl‘eti tliousvnd vcrcshcf land inuthe Agicinity and iq
. ey: WilBDCl‘ to 011): arms on i'ts back he rested his head on them cs r . t i l ' 7' ~ ’ A k A“ h ' ’ ’ 'h
I I I , , ,. I I, I, I I 7 . . _ I - , a. you wan .0 funk and the other Pan mans to also one of ihe heaVics i‘e‘l C"tate Oi‘v‘nOi‘Sln
I mglédiio tlIiszlferétfitblilpeiiIglIihtgse ‘13:;lit‘fifigfipfigtci ter‘l g,;saislllil)rp‘un,t"(,3 be. IRE; Mikey, 155 5157021;- tthougfi he IszisavearyI. In a low, 8.11.1]qu sad talk: some time. when your car: have been erih Pl"ttc ITe own: and reams seven neat
. , r ‘ 3 r ' y- i ricli 0 mm ea . ’u say, a , one e rcuc : " wo years 11°01’le JuneI dinnedintoa i'n'tial lvq' b vlh h V; 3 ' - A ' ‘ :3‘ Y
I named him the title of “Ginilet Eves;” the dang it all I’m glad o’ tliyluck 'llld l; r s , . ~ 3?. ‘ . - ‘ .l ‘ Dam 5‘15 5 9‘ t ouvht‘ d“ 011mg 13011595 and “‘“l ‘hortly bulld mum”
* .‘ ~ . y A .c V CllkeY, left Seattle, on Puaet Sound to Visn; a mmmrr less and ur icilcss man who lv "‘ll ll: P " ' '“ * ‘ ~ '
| men looking scared, as well they might, for thou’rt well desarvin’ o’t Owd woman ’11 be camp Ihelped to bdilil ’ ° 3 ~ ' -‘ ' ‘ ‘ ‘ a .‘355 “1 m \ to -'e h tile Huber cf tue town, so to :p-Jak, and

I . r . r . on the head-waters of the you in a r-i‘lwav car' sonic tin wh " c‘ h * f ' ‘ ' ‘
l they had all been skulkiuo' work for days and main well ileased wi’t.” '1 h j ' . a ' ,, ‘3 " ‘ ‘ " .1 e C” a “37m ’5 “"t. 0 had. Cr ('Verylmpcrtant Lu’mess cp' .
' days; the manager gettiiig baler at each new “Which pi'oved to be the case when tbev got  teheelfigedduarll‘l’igitemlgii: Oil; filizttgleasigggg ilgsfilllfnollelillgil: 'i‘lgiiliuygiiiiggll‘zimislem or try lizfi ilfirpnlspaand If the mosc popular mllm today 111”
i dl§covory, his lips tw1tching, his eyes §le?ming home, where John was acoummodated with a Mountains. 1 camped that night on the bank know what a beautv and what}; In“ you “I de‘g’ 01mm Bate Cf NebraSLa' Jan“ Of t e
I with anger, till at last he burst 01.10 into a bed—no greatluxury in a. tcncnicnt‘house. but ‘ I
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short-licrn cows and heifers. with a high-pedi-

. . . . blessin" is Si- Lusmcss ivcn came here at his solicitation His
. . . of the Snoquall ‘ l v N . . , . , , ° . ” “ . . r '
fngh m1] ImprecatIonI that one would never better than the Street—and where “my a“ had . ime llVeI‘ at 1: ie pomt w nere the lence. Nov. an 1 then. my boy, an hour of con- family loads in all socml matters.

. . , . . , , trail leads across the narrow stream, Iwas on cm 1 t' n f 6‘ ‘ -n ' r ‘ '
haw expected from 039;)??? Snifioth and gem a great reJoicing tuat night. Ithe west or south bank. I remember bathing i: \Vgglz'itllloa, ,geein2f‘ti‘é‘fin' Orifieléfi‘fnfc'fififf‘fii; 0,2150 ifl‘figghho £333.31 LI]:  $535;
“Pu th 3101118 U ou  b I Lext m01n1ng,on going to theIworks, ItliiIere 1n the clear, cold water after picketing my and by, that the friend whom you love is, all Ldoislaturc nil-1870 is one of the most enerous
thaws hownceEvei“ gfngglfiro byguéb ytal ,WaS MF- Handl’, W110 53"] t0 the livetel‘s In 1115 horse. I spread my blankets and after eating the dearer to you when vou sit and hold his and whole—souled {am that ever breatged He
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muons organ snoan‘

3' WILLIAM 1’. mill.

 

Alone the coausltlguard moves upon his beat,
Where the ocean leaps against the land,
With steady. sleepless eye and weary feet
Through the wild bitter mght along the
He pauses—«ah! a light-a vessel’s light
In rising. falling with the angry waves;
Oh! must the awful tem in its might
Hurl fellow creatures opeless totheir graves?

Bed gleams his reaching signal through the dark;
Beware! Beware the perils of the shore!
Too late! the helm is gone; the fated bark
Strikes on the shoals; the waters 0 er her pour.
Oh, sleepers, waken to the fearful cry
That now comes speeding landward through the
V

v e.
Haste! hoble coast ,  For succor fly;
All, all are doom to perish if you fail!

Swift come the men, mused by the breathless call;
Out o’er the wreck their saving hue they send.
Ah! women, children! see, they rescue all!
Safe! safe on shore where kindly arms extend.
Honor the coast guard for true victories gained!
Raise the glad voice of joy, the song of praise!
Let gratitude and_justice unrestrained
Give to these aging men some sunny days.

strand.

 

 

The Dgljapers.

GETTING ALONG.

Tm: world goes round and we have got to
go with it some way, or some other way,
though it isall the same to the world. It is a
hard and arduous thing for some people to (get
along in life without doing something, an I
am very sorry to see it. I would hire to see the
time come when nobody had to work except
your neighbor; we would have a far hap ier
time of it. Why, itis gettingi difiicult of ate
foraclerkina store to spec more thanlwo
thousand dollars a year or so on a salary of
forty dollars a month, and he has to save in
every way even to do that; these clerks are re.
duced to the necessity of chaugi their board-
ing-houses to save on the boar bill. Still I
never believed such a measure was excessively
right and just according to Webster. No young
man should ever change his rs Without
squaring n his board-bill with good solid
money—or isnote. Otherwise it doesn’t look
ri lit—to the landlady.

t is rope: that everybody should look re-
tablh whether they are or not. This is the
emand of the world which also insists that
you dwell in fine houses and keep up an appear-
ance whether there is any reality about it all
or not. But the trouble is that property own-
ers are of late, many of them, at least, getting
so d tingly particular about their business

 

  

Hmurmmlu uni"

Sailors Are Not Swimmers.

Q

 

BY Tim “EX REPORTER.”

 

STANDING one day in early October, on an
East river pier, watching the naked boys diving
and swimming among the fish crates and smacks,
I greatly enjoyed their sport, but in the crowd
of spectators, and standing near me, was a grim
old sailor man, who eyed the boys with manifest
diséayor, and growled something about “ wharf
ra .

“ Can you swim l” a reporter asked.

“ A little,” he replied, gruflly.

“ Then you must understand how the boys
enjoy it.” He only grunted.

“ And, in addition to the pleasure of it, think
of how useful the knowledge of swimming may
be some day to them. Some of them may grow
up to be sailor men.”

“Swimmin’ ain’t no good toa sailor man,”
he retorted, in a tone of contempt, “ not three
sailor men out of ten knows how to swim. A
sailor man wants to be able to catch hold of a
rope’s end with his eyelids if need be for to stay
aboard his vessel. His business ain’t in the wa-
ter. And if he gets overboard in the middle of
the broad Atlantic, what good is his swimmin’
a-goin’ to do him? He might just as well go
down at once and be done with it.”

“But if he could keep-himself up awhile he
might be saved.”

“Well. they’d most likely chuck him some-
thing to float, if it was any use.”

Ca t. Charles Hutchinson of the ship C. H.
Mars all, late from Liverpool, said: " I herd
ly think the old sailor’s estimate of the pro-
portion of men of his calling who cannot swim
is quite correct. But I am convinced that more
than half of them cannot. Often they will pre-
tend to be able to swim, when in reality they
cannot, not at least to amount to anything. I
have losta good many men at sea, and never
saw but one saved yet by his swimming in rough
weather. It was in ’59 or ’60. I was bound
out eastward in the Isaac Webb. The wind
backed around contrary, the sea was heavy,
we were under low canvas, and the ship was
plunging a great deal. The mate sent a man
out on the bowsprit end to secure the tack
lashing of the fore t staysail, and while
he was there the ship made a lunge; and the
man was washed overboard. 0 could not get
a life buoy to him, but he was a Kanaka and
he knew how to swim, as all those Kanakas do,
like a fish. I rounded the ship to, lowered a
boat, and picked him up. He had been half an
hour in the water before he was rescued, but I
brought him into the cabin, gave him a drink,
and got him warm, and in three hours he was
as well as if nothing of the sort had ever bap-

 

that t ey desire money for the rent; and mil-
liners, dressmakers, and even tailors insist on
mone , and the less chance they have of get-
ting i the more they charge, which is the most
exas rating thing of all. A man who has a
then y income from his father in—law can afford
these elegaucies and not mind it, while we who
own nothing but savings‘banks have to kick
and growl. .

In ancient times one-half the people didn’t
know how the other half lived, and now one
half knows how the other half does. We know
exactly the things our neighbors don’t have on
their table, and that while they are waiting
for a turn of fortune they are surer of a turn
of dresses and a revision of coats.

The‘constant demands of the household, I will
admit, are very trying on a sensitive—hearted
man, and when he comes home from business,
or tired from a long excursion, it is certainly
straining on his patience to be asked for funds
enough to buy a paper of pins or needles, only,
for family use; but the household must be_kept
up or the whole hearthstoue will go to pieces,
and it takes money, though really I don’t see
the neceSSity of the money as long as credit can
be obtained.

Some people get along better and easier than
others, but of course not all men marry rich:
some have been mistaken though they found it
out after the ceremony. I Il’iold, sometimes,
that an honest man will often get alongalmost
as well as a man who is not honest, for i can’t
see the reason why he shouldn’t in many cases.
Some people are merely pushed along as the
crowds push them, because they won’t step aside
and let others pass. We have a large class of
these. It- is to be regretted that the number of
wealthy expected uncles in this country is wo-
fully deficient. As far as they have gone they
have been a great benefit to the community and
helped along siderably,‘ they should be cul-
tivated more, 1' we greatly need a bigger crop:
but as long as a man as his father or his wife’s
father to stand b be can usually get along
without much tron le—to himself.

that we greatly lack is economy. We spend
too much money when it is not necessary.
don’t like to see such waste, either about the
house or out. What earthly use is it for a wo-
man to buy a seal-skin cloak this winter and
pay the extravagant price of five hundred dol-
ars for it when she can get one almost as ood.
for four hundred and ninety-fiVe dollars? t is
a shame. Or, why should a man pay eight
hundred and ten dollars for a horse when he'
could get one that would answer as well for
ei, ht hundred?

don’t know what some people are coming to.

No wonder they often find it hard to get along.

Some want to be stylish and invest money In

lated were for the household; this is a. waste-

ul ex enditure when they could purchase the

solid si ver and wouldn’t have to buy a new set
ewry fifty or sixty years.

One reason, the world over, why some people
cannot get along is that other people cannot get
along With them. It is written somewhere that
we should help our neighbors, but we haven’t
noticed that our neighbors are doing much of
it. If you should see a man in reduced fortune
and in trouble, you should not hesitate to go to
him, if you have any benevolence about you,
and tell him how he could have avoided the
crash, or if he needs money to direct him to
the nearest bank and ive him their rates.

I believe people won (1 get along a great deal
better if it was not for money matters. It is
to be regretted that all men are not funny
writers whom poverty never depresses. Whe~
that they have only a few thousand in bank
they are. always in a laughing mood—over their
own jokes. here is hardlyvone of them who
cannot write anote for several thousand dollars
—they can write them with ease.

There are (plenty of chances for all to get
along well an have plenty of money with not
so awful much work. The interest on two hun-
dred and twent -five thousand dollars in bank
should be enoug tokcep any small family quite
comfortably or I’d like to know why. It would
be well for some poor people to try this, if only
for one year.

The avenues to wealth and comfort are open
to all; read the cheerful advertisements in any
newspaper which offer to make everybody rich,
inclose stamps; and lor‘k. do not the brokers’
advertisements show you 110w a few hundred
dollars invested in fancy stocks will make you
so rich that you won’t know yourself or your

oor dear relarions? Lottery tickets are good
investments if you are thoughtful enough to se-
lect the right ticket and not take one that
draws nothing. for that is foolishness. Or, you
might start a country pa— No, the editors I
guess would rather have the whole thing to
themselves. They are all well off and never
suffer from anything but shear necessity. They
have only to open their paper and almost any-
where see millions of dollars in big figures, and
the only debt they interest; themselves in is the
national debt.

It is truly a great comfort to those who can-
not sit down in the lap of luxury to know that
the state takes a national interest in their at-
fairs, and has devoted millions everywhere to
their welfare whith it would not do ror the
rich. You are peculiarlv dear to the lenevo-
lent bosom of the state'and you can always look
forward to a home when ‘you lose your present
one. Some poor-houses are exceedingly cle-
gant to suit fastidious tastes.

pened. That was the only case I remember
now where I was enabled to save the life of a
man overboard, and I certainly could not havo
saved him if he had not known how to swim.
“Coming back from California two or three
voya s a o I had a singular experience. I
had a a darky from some of those Pacific
isles that I had shipped in San Francisco. He
had a big straw hat, and, coming up through
the tropics one day, ‘ust as he was near me he
lost it overboard. said to him jokingly, ‘I
wouldn’t lose a. good but like that. Why don’t
you jum after it’!’ I hadn’t the faintest idea
of meaning such a thing; but no sooner said
than done; overboard the darky went like a
flash. He caught his hat, we hove to, threw
him a bowline, and hoisted him aboard grin-
ning. But the sea was very calm, and we were
hardly moving. It was nothing like the other
case I spoke of. Eight or nine years ago, on
one voyage, I lost three men overboard In one
gale of wind, and in the old times, when
we used to carry the single topsails. we
lost a man on nearly every voyage. Those
sails were so very heavy and big that they
were hard to handle, particularly when the
wind ballooned them out. If a man got up on
the ard to reef and the sail hit him a slap,
over rd he would go, stunned and helpless.
It doesn’t make any odds how good a swimmer
a man is if he gas into the water stunned in a
gale of wind. 9 is pretty certain to be drown—
ed. Since the double topsail yards were sub—
stituted for that old rig I have lost no more
men in that way, and, in fact,vhave not lost a
man for several years until about a year ago,
when I had the misfortune to lose my mate.
The jitrsheet knocked him eyerboard, and
probably stunned him. We rounded to and
owered a boat as quickly as possible. We
could see his son’wrester in the water, and sup-
posed his head was under it, but it wasn’t when
the boat got there, and though we saved the
sou’wester, we never saw the man a ain.
“Sailors never teem to think of t e fact that
ghey canuog gimTzvhen orderegjgéit the most
as u . ey never 0 to oin
alofg when they can get there. Sometimesgtheg
cannot go. On in last voyage from New Yor
to Liverpool, 01! t e Banks, we were caught in
flick a ggle that the trlnen wpre flatlteliiicd (int
i esprea eageson t e riggn ,an teral
could not climb aloft. Swimmging would no);
have been much use to a man OVerboard in that
sea. Still, I believe that not only every sailor,
but every man should be able to swim, as the
knowledge might enable him to save his life
when otherwise it would be inevitably lost.”
Capt. J. C. Morrion, of 8‘3 South street,
ships annually 3 great many men for the most
hazardous of sea service on board whaling ves-
sale and for exploring expeditions. It was he
who furnished the picked crews for the Jean-
nette and for the Sch watka expedition, and he
was for a number of yearsa Whaler. Yet he
said: “ I can’t swim, never could, and don’t see
that it is of any particular use to a sailor to
know how to swim. I have been overboard in
the ocean a hundred times I su pose. dozens of
times anyway, and never foun myself in any
dang? of drowning yet through lack of know-
mg
whalemen know how to swim, and I don’t see
why they should. It is true that in ursuit of
a whale their boat may be crunch up by a
sperm or mashed by the flipper of aright whale,
or upset; but even then there’s no danger.
There is always a bit of a board, or an oar, or
something else that will float, to lay hold of to
kee a man up until the other hosts can come
to is rescuc, and there are always plenty of
other boats near at hand in chasmg a whale.
Besides, there is a lookout kept on the vessel
while the boats are out. and if there’s any seri-
ous danger she comes ri. ht down to help. Wo
have everything in readiness all the time. and
you might almost say that a whaleman wouldn’t
get a chance to be dr0wned, even if he wanted
to, except it might be in a gale; and in weather
and sea that a boat could not be lowered in,
what show would a man have to save himself
by swimming? Swimming is an accomplish
ment, not a necessity. The Kanakas are the
best swimmers in the world. They all swim at
the Sandwich Islands, men, women, babies,
and all the livo stock, I dare say. A good many
German sailors can swim, especially those who
have served in the army or navy, where all the
men are required to learn to swim. Very few
of them, however, 0 on board Whalers. Not
many American sai 01's know h0w to swim, not
so many in proportion, I should say, as English
and French.”
An old sailor with whom the reporter got into
convrrsation at the fruit dock shook his head
very gravely when the gist of Capt. Morrison‘s
remarks was repeated to him, and said: “ May-
be it’s all 30. Perhaps a voyage whaling is safer
than cruising on dry land from Cherry street to
the Battery. I don’t sayit ain’t. But I don’t
seem to want any of that sort of safety in mine.
I can’t swim, never considered it would be any
we to me to know how, and don't think so yet.
If a man’s going to be drownded, why he‘s go~
ing to drown'd. even if he swims likea
dolphin, and that’s all there is about it. But I
prefer my Services on a vcssal whcre it’s on deck
or in the rigging, where you’ve got something
to hold on by. and not where most of it is in
small boats. It isn’t only the chances of dr0wn-
ing, for of courSe, as the gentleman said, you
can most always catch hold of something that
will kccp you r “not. I've had to do it mvzclf‘.

 

 

 

SOLOMON SHINGLE.

But there’s other chances. I never think of

 

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ow to swim. Only a small minority of,

 

going whaling but what I remember a yarn
that a shipmate of mine told me once. He had
been on a voyage after sperm whales in south-
ern seas. One fine day a whale knocked to
pieces the boat he was in, and her crew naturally
all went adrift. My shipmate and two others
caught on to an car, and kept themselves up by
it easily; for you know it don’t take much to
support a man 3 weight in the water, especially
if he has sense enough to ddle a little down-
ward, under water, with one hand. The water
was smooth, there were two other boats only a
little ways off coming to their help, and they
didn’t feel that they had any measion to be
scared of any danger. In fact, one of them was
a—laughing, when all of a sudden he gave a most
unearthly screech, threw up his hands, wild-like,
and darted down backward into the water. The
others knew in a second what was the matter.
A shark had taken him. In a minute or two
more the second man, just a-touching shoulders
with my shipmate, threw up his hands with a
screech, and went down. A shark had got him,
too; and the boat was so close that her crew saw
it all. understood it, and were able, by beating
the water with their oars, to scare away the
other sharks that were literally swarming all
about, until they could drag aboard my shi -
mate. Oh, yes; whaling may be an awful sa e
business, but I don’t want any of it, and it isn’t
a question of swimming either.”

 

Doan’s Find.

BY BERT. L. THOMPSON.

 

 

AN air of excitement pervaded the very
stage coach as it rattled into the town. The
old leather curtains were flapping like great
wings; every crazy joint was straining its ut-
most, and the loose bolts told the story in a lan-
guage of their own. Horses and driver had
their heads well up in the air, in contrast to the
half-dozen of male passengers who filed out of
the body of the coach, all looking more or less
crestfallen, until it came to the last, who was
too unpretentious to evoke a second glance.

‘f But that thar little chap is the hero of the
occasion, boys,” said Zack, the driver, in ad-
miring tones. “You see, we had a little tus-
sle with road-agents back thar at Hunter’s Gap.
First thing I knew a fellow riz up holdin’ the
drop on me over top the bushes, and another
chap rode round to the coach-door, p’intin’ a
revolver out of each fist. Jest two of ’em, and
we were seven men all told. If I ever cmsed
myself for a blockhead it wor then, to think
that I’d be caught nappin’ that-a-way. The
hull load had to git down and drop their wee-

ons first, their vallyables arterward. ‘You
gin load up ag‘in. We’re done with you,’ says
No. One, letting down his rifle. ‘ Don’t trouble
yourself to pull your pop—guns. We plugged
em for you afore you started.’ Jest then I
caught the eye of this here little man, and it
said as plain as talk—‘ You do for our man
and I’ll do for mine.’ I gavs a jer that set
all the bosses prancing, and next minute was
near enough to lay the whip across my fellow’s
eyes. This chap shied a bottle of ink which he
had in his pocket, only it wasn’t ink at all but
sulphuric acid, and took his’n fair in the face,
and if men ever rode as if the devil was after
’em, them two did. They didn’t wait for the
bullets which the others, w ho had dropped their
shootin’-irons, were awful anxious to send after
’em. Them fellows feel cheap, and the little
cha‘ ’s wit in bein’ ready was what saved us.”

Naturally “the little chap,” otherwise Alec
Doan, had his share of attention paid him after
that, but while he mingled freely with the men,
they were not altogether easy in his society.
He was too alert for them. ~

“If he was one of our sort,” said the man,
“he’d rope us all in.” But Donn had set him-
self up as a sort of moral missionary in the

lace. W'hen Jim Drew routed little Sandy

ates out of his own claim in the New Run dig-
ings, Doan went down to adjust the dif-
culty.

“ ates isn‘t big enough to fl ht with you,”
said Dorm, “ so I’ve offered in bi ace. I don’t
reckon anything but muscular ument will
convince you.”

-Drew measured his adversary and concluded
that he could wax him without half ti ying but
after a couple of rounds found that the little
man was like wire. He had the code of fisti-
cufls as pat as that of moral law, and the heat-
ing which he gave Drew then and there did
much to popularize him with the camp.

“Now then,” said be, when it was all over,
“if you're ready to listen to reason, I’ll show

on a claim that ought to turn out a great deal
hotter than Blake’s.” and after a lecture on
formations, and layers, and depressions, he gave
up a place where he had been prospecting a lit-
tle himself, and, sure enough, Drew came upon
a streak of pay-dirt, while Blake floundered in
a clay pit that had hardly a show of color in it.

Dean was a p tor if he was anything.
Everybody laugh when he went into the de-
serted Gu ch diggings,~but when he came back
to town regularly for his provisions, and had a
little pile of dust over and above his purchases
to leave in the bank each time, other men
caught the fever, and the Run camp transferred
itself to the Gulch one night without asking
leave of its solitary occupant.

There was a great deal of grumbling after-
ward. Tho place was just as it had been be-
fore-some gold to be found, but not enough to
satisfy the wealth seekers who had been making
fair wages on the Run. Doan’s claim appar-
ently turned out no better than the rest, and a
lurking suspibion found voice among the men.

“He‘s struck a new lead somewhere, and
made this gulch business a. blind,” was the con-
clusion they arrived at.

Doan denied. “ I get ahead because I work
hard, and save what I earn instead of throwing
it away on liquor and cards. You could every
one of you do as well if you had a mind to.”

Some believed, and some didn’t. Most of the
men went back to the Run to find their places
already taken up by new arrivals. Those who
remained kept an eye on Dosh, and it seemed
as if he were gettin restless under their
watchfulness. He wor ed in his claim just
enough to hold it, and began his old exploring
trips again. He was followed once or twice on
dark nights when he struck away among the
hills, but each time managed to escape the
watch. One man stuck to his heels for ten
miles. and then found him heading direct for
the Run camp. Whatever his secret was, he
was not going to be surprised out of it.

He walked in among the men next night,
looking grim and determined. They were hav-
ing a. little game, as usual. The dust was chang-
ing hands quite freely, and some spirit of mis—
chief prompted Drew to say:

fl “)Sit down here, Dean, and play us for your

Ill ,

“ I might do it," res Ionded Doan, “ with all
the odds against me, if thought you men would
be bound by such a bargain. But you wouldn’t.
You might all lie to trap me, but you wouldn’t
make that Offer if you thought that there was
the ghost ofa chance of my winning. Now, I’ll
tell you, if you want to throw all that dust to-
gether, and give it to me as an equivalent, I’ll
take you to the now diggings I’ve located. I
can’tnkeep the secret very much longer any-
VVil V.

Every man was eager. The bargain was
made, and Donn marched them over fifteen
miles of rock and humble to a sandy flat, with
here and there little hillocks where a few spades-
ful of earth had been turned up, and one awn-
inghole in the middle. Doan dropped nto it
and threw ashovelful of loose earth from the
bottom, dotted with yellow specks that at once
fired the blood of the beholders. He had staked
off a. liberal reserve which this party respected,
but the news had spread. and a steady flow of
fortune seekers came pouring in. Doan’s lines
were invaded, his stakes thrown down, and
trouble and laWSuits were evidenth brewing,
when be surprised the camp by selling out to
the highest bidder.

‘ l'-'.< to.) thick for mo." he declared. “My
luck never holds good when I get among men.”

   

 

u .mrlrlrlnhw
Q
@

l

r ‘H: ullllwllllllllluub

«,3.

9
(a)

mu

He went, and a week afterward, the men
would have torn him to pieces had be reap-
peared there. His own claim and one or two
other spots had been cleverly “ salted,” and the
“ moral man” had skipped, to return no more.

 

A Voracious Narrative.

BY SPOOPENDYKE.

 

 

“I USED to know a lot of stories about ani-
mals and things,” said the old man, dropping a
Nevada paper and regarding the exchange edi-
tor earnestly. “Some of ’cm was quite curi‘s
and interestin’,” and he. leaned back in his chair
and joined his finger-tips meditatively.

“ Animals do some Vt‘l‘y strange things,” as-
sented the exchange editor.

“Which reminds me of my roan mare," con-
tinued the old man. “ I think that roan mare
know’d more’n a hired girl. She hada tail that
reached the ground, and you ought to seen that
mare catch trout.”

“ How did she do it?” asked the exchange edi-
tor, brightening u(p. ,

“Well, sir, she’ back up to the stream and
flip her tail in the water. and out they’d come.
Sometimes the air would jest be full 0’ trout,
and the old mare a—flshin’ and that tail flyin’
around landin’ the biggest fish ye ever seen.
Oh, she was old Sagacity! Once a man stood
watchin’ her and dodgin’ the fish, and of a sud-
dint he referred to one as a speckled beauty.
That roan mare jest turned around and kicked
his brains out l”

“ Served him right!” commented the exchange
editor, energetically.

“ But she died,” sighed the old man. -

“ How did that happen?"

“The trout fixed it up on her. One day
about a ass of ’em got. hold of her tail to once
and ban ed her in. She made it pretty lively
for ’em, and when she went under a good many
fish came to the surface laughin’l”

" How does a fish look when he’s langhingi”
asked the exchange editor.

“ Didn’t you ever see a. fish laugh? He has to
turn on his back to do it, ’cause the corner of
his mouth is turned down. When he flops over,
they turn up, you see, and that makes him
laugh. Them fish what come to the surface was
mostly on their backs!”

“ Know any more animal stories?” murmured
the exchange editor.

“Ever hear about our Old Dominion hen?
Well, sir, she was on the set for keeps. Couldn’t'
keep her off. Old doorknobs, soda bottles, lamp
chimneys, match safes, anything was good en-
ough for her. Finally I put her on three mud-
turtles and I hope to die If she didn’t hatch out
alligators! Yes, sir, three of ’eml One of ’em
eat her up, and when we opened him, there
was the hen settin’ on his back teeth, and
they’d swelled up so they’d choked him to death l”

“ Got her yet?” inquired the exchange editor.

“No, sir,” replied the old man, dismally. “I
lost her in a curi’s way. She got to feedin’ on
broken glass and settiu’ on cartridges. We
humored her until one day the nest of cart-
ridges went ofl’ and that ended her. She’d got
so thin that the glass in her condensed the rays
of the sun and set fire to the powder. I lost a
good cow by that explosion.”

“ How was that?” asked the exchange editor,
resting his head on his arms.

“You see, that old cow had be’n into our
family nigh on to forty year, and her horns
was decorated with all the gates for miles
around. Sometimes we’d find her down in the
well, and sometimes we’d find her rootin’ round
the chimney. The only way we could get her
out of church Sunday mornin’ was by havin’
the fire-engine squirt on her, and when we
wanted to milk her, we used to h’ist her up in
a tree and milk her With corkscrews. She was
very fond of that hen l” and the old man wiped
his eves.

“ Go on!” moaned the exchange editor.

“She was very fond of the hen, and used to
bring her old stove-lids and clubs and bootjacks
that the neighbors flung at her when she got
into their melon-patches, for the hen to set on-
to. Well, when the hen was settin’ onto them
cartridges, the cow was nosin’ around, and jest
before the business blowed up, that cow came
for’ard with a couple of old hymnbooks and a

our door. I an pose she had some new re-
igion in her min that she wanted hatched out.
When the cartridges Went 011’, they drove them
hymn~books clear into her and stove her side
out. I didn’t know how powerful they was be-
fore 1”

“That is pretty strong!” conceded the ex‘
change editor.

“ Speakin’ of strength reminds me of how my
old brindle cat used to open clams. She’d sit
around and bowl until the clam opened his
shell to thrOW an old boot at her, and then
she’d stick in her claw, and tickle the soles of
his feet till he got to sleep and then she had
Hm. Clams is a very sagacious bird, too.
Ever watch one?”

“ Not until he was cooked,” sighed the ex-
change editor.

“ I had one that was right up on himself. The
flies and musketoes used to bother him when he
opened his shell, until he caught a spider and
made him weave a web across his mouth and
then he was happy Curi’s thing about that
clam. After that he used to open himself in the
back to feed. Opened on the hinged end so’s
not to disturb the spider.”

“Can you show the clam now i” groaned the
exchange editor.

“ No, sir,” replied the old man, solemnly.
“ He came to grief too. You see, that clam was
very fond of rats and he used to sit in front of
a rat-hole all day long and smell like cheese.
We never could get on to how he did it. but he
did. That was his sagacity. When the rats
came out he’d go for ’em, and I’ve seen him get
eighty to a hundred a day. One dav he nipped
a stager, and that was the last of him.”

“ Make it short,” muttered the exchange edi-
tor.

“Yes, sir; well, he got the rat by the tail,
and the rat just climbed over and tickled him
on the other end. He opened and caught the
rat’s foot, but of course he lost his grip on the
rat’s tail. The rat began to scratch him pretty
badly until the clam opened and took in another
foot. In that way the rat got all four feet in-
side the shell.”

“ Well, what then f”

“The rest wasn‘t very hard. The rat sprawled
around until he got his head and body in. Then
he had him.”

“ I don’t see how,” remonstrated the ex-
change editor.

“Just here; there wasn’t room for ’em both
in that shell and the clam had to get out, and
out he came.”

“I’Vhere did he go?” inquired the exchange
editor.

“I don’t know,” answered the old man, im-
pressively. “ We never saw him afterward,
but I learn that he was seen sittin’ around a
printin’ office pokiu’ fun at old men who drop-
ped in with items; but I never believed it."

And as the old gentleman pottered out, the
exchange editor rolled up a hard wad of coun-
try chklies and dropped them on the head of
the editor in chief who was passing under the
window.

 

 

DID you ever hen r two married women take
leave of each Otllt 1' at the gate on a. mild even-
ing? This is how they do it: “Good-by!”
“ Good-by! Come down and see us so’on.” “ I
will. Good-by.” “ Good—by! Don’t forget to
come soon.” “ No, I won’t. Don’t you forget
to come up.” “I won’t. 'Be sure and bring
Sarah Jane with you next time.” “I’d have
brought her this time, but she wasn‘t very well.
She Wanted to come awfully.” ” Did she now?
That was too bad! Be sure and bring her next
time.” “I will; and you be sure and brirvg
baby.” “I will. I for ot to tell you that he’s
out another tooth.” ” on don’t say so: How
many has be new?” “Five. It makes him awful

crass.” “I dare say it does this hot weather.”
“ Well. good—by! Don't forget to come down.”
“No. I won’t. Don’t you forget to rtome up.

Good-by!” And tho, Separate.

 

 

 

 

  

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"contouring

ave a positive remedy for the above disease;
use thousands of cases of the worst kind and of n
Itandln have been cured. Indeed, so stron ism fait
in its a cacy, that I will send TWO BOTTL 3 FR E, to-
gether with a VALUABIE TREATISE o i this disease, to
any sufl'erer. Give Expresfl and P. 0. ad recs.
DB. 1‘. A. SLOCUI, 181 Pearl St, New York

To   who wish to learn Steam En-

gineering. send your name
with 10c. in stamps to I“. KEPI’Y, Engineer, Bridge-
port, Conn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

  
 
 
  
  

 

 

 

' "hum!militia...“ -'

 

 

 

 

YOUNG GREEN CORN'S FAREWELL
TO THE SEA.
BY Fri-mu.

I stand to-night, oh sea, to take
M last farewell of thee!

M rain reels, and I see two moous—
lmean, ends in the sea.

And I must hie me hence away
For I am Fortune’s slave, .

And wish to take another drink—-
Of moonshine on the wuvc.

Between the sea-shore and the sea
1 stand with fond regret,

And I am much too full, too full—
Of grief, my eyes are wet.

For many moons will wax and wane
Before my feet retui [1,.

Or I be so intoxicant—wnth
The sight I now discern.

M soul within me is quite filled
ith the great awe feel;
I’ve taken entirely too much——
Sea-sights to deem them real.

Oh, seal Were I a favored bard
A tuneful hymn I‘d raise,

And with a stronger breath than now
I'd waft afar thy praise.

And I could ever haunt thy shore
And aze upon th tide:

I feel I lave not h enough—
Of leisure by thy Side.

And thou dost sing farewell to me.
I deem thy voice sincere,

Unless I am a little of!—
In my fond guessings, dear.

The shi sailing o'er the verge°
I watglsi hem to the last, '
For I am now upon a high~
Old promontory vast.

How can I turn m face away
And bid adieu, o , sea?

And I, to-night, can hardly stand-
The pain of leaving thee.

M eyes are weak; the sails are dim:
lfomli watch them long;

I wish I ad another glass—
F'or this one is not strong.

And seal The love I feel is one
That time nor distance cures,
Because to—night I‘m awful tight-

ly bound unto thy shores.

Roll on through ages, thou blue main!
Thou shalt my life illume

Until the very damhen [lio—
Jacot is on my b.

we were chasing stray individuals, and so got
the advantage of us. But, as we had all a good
day’s sport Elwards and I could pay our lost
wager less regretfully; and perha 8 never was
supper eaten on the banks of the uri'ampooter
with greater zest, or by men in merrier
mood.

Yet was there a drawback, and a damper
from an individual of our number not being
altogether himself. It was one of the indigo
planters, Mr. James, who was suffering from a
sore foot—~11 wounded one. Nor wus_the wound
of a common kind, or got in an ordinary way;
instead in a singular manner, and from the bite
of a bear! _ «

Thus came it about. 0.: their return to
camp, he had lagged behind the rest of .his‘
party, and was riding slowly along—1n all like-
lihood speculating upon how his next crop of
indigo would turn out—when he descricd some-
thing, a dark form, directly in front of him,
and close to his llOI‘Se’S head. Looming large in
the twilight, he at first took it for crher an elo-

hant or rhinoceros; but, scanning it more close-

y, he saw it was a bear, the long—lipped, rough-
coated sort of the jugglers. Tins spec1es, some—
times called “Sloth Bear” (Um-us Labiatus)
is of a rather harmless and pacific nature; and
the one in question was moving quietly about,
doubtless foraging after its supper of fruit for
it is an animal exclusively frugivorous. ad
the planter been contented to let it go its
own gait, no harm would have been done, nor
any mischance happened him. But he had
read accounts of bears having been occasional-
ly killed with the boar spear, of! horseback;
and curious to try his hand at this sort of
thing, he laid his mount on after Master Bruin,
who had taken the scare and was making
away.

Mr. James's horse was a fleet Arab, well up
to pig—sticking, and had the game been a wild-
boar, would have charged straight at it. But
the long-haired. shaggy quadruped he was now
called upon to pursue was a creature quite new
to him; and, although fast enough to soon
overtake him, when nearly up, he came to a
dead stop, snorting and frightened.

As the bear still crept on, it had to be chased
again; and was again readily overtaken. But
with like result: the horse woni i not go near it.
Provokineg he stopped just short of the spear’s
point, and the spur failed to force him an inch
nearer! ~
For the third time this maneuver was re-
peated; when it occurred to the planter to

 

 

The Chase in Assam.

Being Real Experiences of a British Officer.

 

EDITED BY CAPT. MAYNE REID.

IL—Pig-stioking.

HAVING in our first day’s hunt become aware
that wild hogs were numerous on the chur, we
resolved to devote our seczmd to “ pig-sticking.”

Of all the field sports followed in India—or
for that matter anywhere else—there is none
comparable to this. During thirty odd years
of service in the East, I have hunted ever
species of game found there, great and smal ,
but none With such zest as the wild boar; and
I believ: most Indian sportsmen will agree with

me.

A formidable animal the male of the Sus Indi
cus is, and no contemptible antagonist‘ insnead, a
foe to be feared when it comes to close quar-
ters. Which it always does in pig-sticking; the
sport being so called because the spear is used
instead of the rifle. It is in fact a “hand-to
tusk "encounter, and as a consequence most ex«
citing. Besides, the wild boar is a swift run-
ner, and the chose from starting-point to kill
often leads to a distance of many miles. For
this, and other obvious reasons, the horse, not
the elephant, is employed in it.

We were u betimes, had early breakfast;
into our sadd es, and off, before the sun had
shown over the summits of the Garrow hills, to
eastward of our camp.

It had been arranged over night that our
part should be divided into two; each to beat
in (fifierent directions, with a wager as to
which should make the best bag. As we were
in the odd numbcr of five, the parties were
necessarily of unequal numbers—t ree against
two. But Mr. Edwards being a noted Nimrod,
and I also having some hunter repute, we two
were matched against the remaining trim

Separating from the others, my compagnon-
de-rhasse and I were not long before coming
on the spoor of a pig, and following it up, we
soon after sighted him. boar be was and
one of the largest size: in the dim light of dawn
looking large as a buffalo.

It is a pomt of honor and emulation among
pig stickers who shall have “ first spear”; so,
soon as the boar was descried, my comrade and
I dug our spurs deep, and made toward him as
if ridinga race. My mount being a powerful
Arab of great speed, I was soon far ahead of
my competitor, who bestrode a slow, heavy
Cape horse. But, unfortunately for me, the
boar did not run “ fair,” or in a straight line;
instead, he coursed about in circles, so that each
time I came near him, my Arab going in full
career, tangent-fashion, over-shot the mark,
and I could not get a prod at the pig. Yet the
horse was no novice to pig-sticking, only that
for days having had nothing to do, he was too
fresh and full of spirit for the steadiness required
by the sport.

Meanwhile Edwards, on his slower but surer
Cape mount, had worked up, and, being inside
the circle of the chase, bad the advantage of
me. Before he could draw blood, however, my
fiery steed cooling down, became more man-
ageable, and we were now both close to the
cvlased pig, one on each side jabbing away at it.
But, ere either of us had wetted spear, the boar,
making a sudden turn, shot between our horses,
fudgushed ofi.’ backward, leaving us both in the

urc i

It took us some time to get on his track again;
but as he now ran in a straight line, my swifter
horse gave me precedence, and at length along-
side the pursued boar, I drove the blade of my
spear into his back. That brought the chase to
an end; but not the conflict, which only now
began. At the prick of my spear the brute spun
round, and with a furious “ whoof—whoof l”
charged straight at me. My horse, used to pig-
sticking, as I have said, steadily and gallantly
withstood the onslaught; while the spear being
of the long-shafted sort employed on the Bom-
bay and Madras sides, enabled me to thrust the
boar before he was within tusking distance. Its
point met him fair and square in the counter,
till the shaft sna ped in tWain by the concus-
sion and I mysel shot out of the saddle clear
backtothe croupl When I scrambled into it
again, it was to see the boar stretched out dead
upon the grass, with my broken spear sticking
in his breast.

Little cared I for the spoilt weapon, but much
for the triumph achieved over the indigo planter,
so famed a follower of St. Hubert. I fancy he
felt some little chagrined at the way the chase
had terminated, for I could hear anathemas, not
loud but deep, addressed to his Cape horse; mut-
terings about the brute’s slowness, and vows he
would be better mounted the next time he went
pig-sticking. But, as he said nothing to me, I
forbore boasting of‘ my victory; and, leaving
the quart to our native shikaries, who had now
got upon be grounds, we started forward for a
new beat.

It ended in our killing five more pigs, two of
them boars, the other three svlws. This making
the even half-dozen, and night being nigh, we
set fzces cam ward, joyf iy thinking, or at
least hoping, t at we had won the day.

On reaching the camp our joy was changed
to something like sadness at seeing the othcrs
there before us with no less than eleven dead
swine—their carcasses laid out in line side by
side, as if triumphantly challenging Count. By
their better luck our competitors had chant-ed

 

 
  
 

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Jill
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other occasions of his horse showing shy.
Springing down out of his saddle and pulling
the pugaree from oil? his hat, be tied it over the
horse’s eyes, effectually blinding the animal.
Then remounting, he drove his spurs deep, and
once more laid on after the bear.

At this trial he was successful; succeeding too
well, as he soon had reason to know. The
horse, balking no more, carried him close up to
Bruin, into whose body went his spear with a
plunge. But unexpectedly, and to his surprise,
the wounded animal swung rapidly round, and
with a stroke of his paw knocked the weapon
clean out of his hand; at the same time seizing
his foot in its mouth, and dragging it out of the
stirrup.

The horse, now afl’righted beyond measure,
reared and pitched: but still the bear held on;
and, between it and the hunter, for a time it
was “pull devil, pull baker.” With the dan-
gerous strain on his ankle the planter dared not
move from the spot, and thought only of kecp-
ing his horse steady. But the latter could not
be controlled, and at length broke away, leav-
ing his rider behind, prostrate along the earth,
with the infuriated bear still tugging away at
his foot.

But- now fortune favored the hapless hunter
—-a rare bit of good luck—or the upshot would
have no doubt been very different, perha end~
ing in his death. His boot yielding to t e tug
of the bear’s teeth came off; and Bruin instead
of seeking a fresh hold, went on to tear and
munch it, in a leisurely manner, giving its
owner time to scramble off out of the way.

As the odd adventure occurred only a few
hundred yards from the camp, the horse, rider-
less, found his way thither; causing every one
keen n prehcnsion, at seeing the saddle empty
and rents trailing. It lasted till the rider him-
self at. eared upon the scene; which he did soon
iifter, imping a little, and with one foot boot-

ess.

There was much laughing when the planter
told his tale; though to him it was no laughing
matter in the end. For the bear had bitten
more than his boot; its teeth having entered his
ankle, inflicting a wound which became in-
flamed; aid was long afterward before get-
ting thoroughly healed.

 

 

A IJMDVILLE preacher is visiting in Phila-
delphia, and some brother clergyman, noticing
that he did not carry a. watch, asked him how
he managed to time himself during his ser-
mons. “Oh, that is sim is enough,” replied
the Leadville apostle. “ keep right on until
the revolvers begin to click, and then I know it

 

upon several “ sounders” of the wild pig, while

is time to stop.”

’ laking _c__ Scalp.

BY C. DUNNING CLARK.

JED Corrm burst into a jolly laugh when
Handsome Joe finished his yarn [we'last week’s
paper], as if from sudden recollection, and we
knew that it was his turn.

“Joe has told you how he came to be mar-
ried, and I'm sure no one is more deservmg of a
good wife than he is, and I don’t mind it I tell
you how I lost a wife, and why Ive been a
bachelor, and terribly afraid of vionien,_trom
that day to this. I steer clear of the critters
the best I know, for they are awful tickllsh
craft in a sea way, and are apt to fall off the
course and come up in the wind in a way that
is astonishing to an old sailor. I never under-
took to splice but once, and that was when I
was encugh sight younger than I_ am now,
and. didn‘t know the ropes. Once .111 a while
a chap will get a prize, as Joe did, but too
often he draws the worst kind of a card from
the deck." .

“I’d got the name at Martha’s Vineyard of
being a likely sailor-mun and a good one for a
girl to tie to, and that‘s the reason I was
sort 0’ popular among the Wimmm folks, and
the seemed to bang round me a good deal
andy give me plenty of chances to speak
up, if I was anyways inclined to tackle one
of them. 1 was a little hard to suit, for I
knew my value, and wasn’t going to give my-
seli. away cheap, and I hadn’t spoke marry to
none of them, when a gal come down from
Nantucket that took my fancy to a dot. She
had a beautiful complexion and the nicest head
of hair any woman ever had— it was so rich
and brown and wavy. I tell you I cottoned to
her right or ay, especially as her father was
captain of a sealer, and likely to get a better
lay before long. \Vhat surprised me was that
this young lady would look at a common tarry
jacket like me, when she might have had her
pick among the first dickies and even skippers
if she wanted to. But she did take to me, and
I was dreadful anxious to hurry up matters and
get bitched before I sailed, but I didn’t- dare to
propose that, seeing I’d only known her three or
four days. But before i went I spoke plain
enough to have her understand that when I
came back I should have something rather im-
portant to so. to her, and if you will believe it,

 

she acted as if she was a little anxious to have

 

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At length alongside the pursu

adopt an expedient which had served him on

class mother-in-law. I sidled up to her and

said:

“ ‘ Miss Mehitfliel Judson at home, madam?’

“ ‘ She is somewhere about.’says the old lady,
with a queer look at me. ‘ If you will step into
the parlor I’ll call her. She may have gone to
the neighbors.’

“ i noticed that queer look in her face as she
sailed out after I’d settled comfortably in the

arior, and then I waited maybe an hour before
Blehitabei come rushing in, and greeted me like
a long-lost brother, or a lover, rather.
kissed hcr, right on the spot.

“ ' I was just getting ready to get the anchors
off the ground and make another harbor,’ I said.
‘ Your mother said you were near by and I
didn‘t know why you stood off so long before
hailing.’

“ 'Mother was mistaken,’ she said, sweetly.
‘ I was at a neighbor‘s over on the other side of
the town, and she stepped Over tocall me. I
am delighted to see you, Mr. Ccflln. I hope you
have had a pleasant voyage. My; what a cun-
ning monkey!’ _

“ ‘ Brought him owr from Africa for you, if
you’ll accept him,’ I said. ‘ Shake hands with
the lady, Jinks.’

“He obeyed orders and seemed to take to
her mightily, and climbed up on the arm of her
chair, and sat there looking at her with his
head on one side.

“ ‘Jinks is admiring your love] hair,’ I said,

I up and

gallant] y. ‘ I should be asham of his train-
ing if he didn’t.’
“ ‘ Mr. Cofiin l’ she declared, ‘ I am astonished

at you.’

‘ But she looked pleased, just the same.

“ I‘d come there to court and not to fool
away In time, and began to talk business right
away. got hold of her hand and was drawing
close up to her, and was just about to give her
all the language of my heart, when Jinks, who
had perched himself on the back of her chair,
all at once give a sort of chatter he always
made when he was tickled, and I saw him scoot
out of the window, dragging the whole of that
beautiful head of hair with him, and Mehitabel
give a yell that might have waked the dead:
and there she sat, the same woman that met me
at the gate, and that I took to be her mother!
And under where the hair had been I could see
where the paint had been sted on, thick en-
ough, 1 tell you. Then s e keeled over in a
beautiful faint, and I went away from there be-

 

me say it then. Something saved me—my good

  
   
  

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luck, I s’pose—and I sailed without speaking to
her about marrying me, though I was mighty
near it, several times.

“ ‘ You're a nice duck to be making up to old
man J udson’s darter, ain‘t you?’ says our old
skipper. looking at me as I waved my hat to
Mehitabel when we sailed, and she flapped her
handkercher to me. ‘If it was twenty year
ago old Judson would have had your hide on
the fence.’

“Twenty years ago! TVhat did the lunatic
mean? Twenty years ago the lovely Mehitabel
was not on earth, I judged, but he didn’t care
to explain, and the first dicky bounced me
aloft to shake out a topsail, and my love-making
was over for that trip, anyhow. We was in
the ivory trade on the coast of Africa, and I
forgot all about my inamora ta. for the time be-
ing, and just got down to my work. Perhaps I
wouldn’t have been so busy, but the Old Man
rather insisted on it, and it wasn’t for a com-
mon sailor to object. Before we sailed on the
return voyage I bought a monkey of a native
and calculated to train him as a present for
Mehitabel. He was a cunning gray fellow and
the most mischievous cuss I ever tackled. He
kept my mates busy, and the man who run any
rlgfeon that citizen was apt to get the worst of
it fore he got through. ‘Jinks’never failed
to pay him off, and in a way that be remem-
bered. He came near losing the number of his
mess twice, once for drop inga slush lump from
the maintop on the Old an’s head, and once
for pOuring the first dicky’s sea—boots half full
of treacle, overnight. But I managed to get
him through alive, and taught him all manner
of tricks, especially how to bow to the ladies
and be manner] in their presence. I was
mid to get away rom the ship before we dis-
charged our cargo, but the captain was an old
bird, and he wouldn’t pay oil' until everything
was taken care of, and then he paid me in gold,
over two hundred dollars. and I put out for
Nantucket as fast as I could o, towing Jinks
after me, and he made things Iively all around
that country, I tell you. The fast thing I asked
when I got to Nantucket was whether Captain
Judson was in port, and the landlord told me he
sailed two weeks before and wouldn’t be back
for Six months. That just suited me, for I could
marry, get through the bone moon and be
read to take the position of u-t dick under
him y the time he came back. en found
the bearings of the captain’s house I steered a
course for it, and before I got to the gate I saw
a woman standing in the door and made out it
must be my darling’s mother. 1 never saw two
critters look more alike, only this woman was
kinder faded out, and didn’t. have Mehitabel’s

 

 

 

lovely complexion, and scarcely a hair on her
head. But for her age she was rather an agree-

fore the wind, everything set that would draw

 

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ed boar, I drove the blade of my spear into his back.

alow and aloft, and didn’t feel happy until I
was safe back on board the schooner. And I
hadn’t got fairly over the rail when Jinks came
bounding after, with Mehitabel’s hair wrapped
round him like a blanket.

“ ‘That looks darned like old Het J udson’s
wig,’ says the captain. ‘I’ll bet Jinks has
scalped her.’

“The story leaked out after awhile and my
mates made it lively for me, but I’d escaped so
well I didn’t mind it. I found out afterward

, that she was forty years old, and hadn‘t a tooth

of her own in her head. And since that time
wimmen have been no bait for me. She mar-
ried an old whaling captain with four grown—
up children, and hates me to this day, They
fight like cats and dogs, I’ve heard.”

—————

Ethicpian Ethics.

BY REV. JULIUS J OHNSING.

 

 

 

" Work Out Your Own Salvation.”

“ IF I’ve hearn dat tex’ proach on, an’ twisti-
fied past all reco’nition, onc’t, I reckon I has
mo’ nor twenty times. For all dat if dar am
one passage in de Word what stuns out cl’ar
an’ unclouded, dar is whar ye has it. Dat man
Paul, as a gin’ral rule, knowed what be war
about, an’ didn’t use no onnecessary circumlo-
cution ’bout gittin’ out what he meant. He war
squar’, an’ plain'spoken, an’ honest; an’ what
he said, an’ what he writ, don’t need no help
from. de highferlutin new ligh-s of dis day to
put it in understandable shape. Leastways,
dat’s aliers bin my ’ inion ob do matter.

“ Now, dat tex’, w at ’ are to rack de brains
ob so many ob dese high ’arned smarties, hain’t
got itsmatch for unadulterated simple—icity no-
whar in de sacred writin’s. Dat is, if a man
am only corntent to read it. widout any ’sis‘
tance from de red, white, an’ blue glasses, what
different ’nomernations tits on ’spectivelv.
Dar am prezactly whar a de trouble springs
from. De’Postle hadn’t no idee ob mysterfvin’
his felier hearers. He warn’t dat kine ob a
lightnin’-rod. You jest notice, if ye foliers him
up putty clos’t, how right out up an’ down per-
pendicklar do man war in all dat he tried ter
permulgafe. _If he‘d labored an’ toiled over
ebery Single indiwidawal line in his ’Pistles,
from fast to last, do way so many ob his so-
called disciples does in dose days, he mouflit
:a’ glut tthrougli wid lags preach}? to do Gentiles

yisime— sa emout'bt ’
much believe dat boy would. 9 ' u I dont

“ De words am a command. Dey all admits

able woman, and I judged would make a first- I

find in putty plain English. If dar am anv-
t’in what has got to he did, it am reasonable
to spose dnt dem what has to glb de order
would put it so dcre wouldn’t be no misunder-
standin’ ob it. When we is told (lat we mustn’t
steal, or kill, dcre ain’t no cornfusion ’hout de
sense 0b de tex’. Dere ain’t no chance for wio-
iators ob de law to sneak out ch dc dilficklety
on dat head. An’ jest so wid ebery oder com~
mand in bofe de Ole an’ new statute-books.
thy dey wants to make dis pcrtkkler one a.
’Ception to de univarsal rule, am cl‘ar beyant
me. But de meanin’ Oh it don’t git me wo’lh a
cent; an’ dat’s whar I has dc ‘ve ntage ob all do
i’arned rev’rinds, an’ right rev’rmds, nn’ wrong
rev’rinds, what am makin’ de word ob none ef-
fect. It’s a 5110’ fac’.

“ To git at de plain meanin’ ob de statute, it
am needful only dat ye b’ars in nnnd. one great
trufe. 'When ye has a sho’ grip on def, ye sees
de p’int, cl’ar as de moon froo a teller-scoop.
An’ dis am, dat dar am two kines ob salwation,
jest like dar was two ob ebery kine ob created
crittur what went into de ark. Ail dem succum- .
stances, what ye read about, had a meanin’.
Dar ain‘t nufiin what stands alone. Now, dese
two saiwations, is fustiy, yer own snlwation,
un’ nex‘iy, de Lord‘s saiwation. De ignorantest
human, black, white. or saddle colored, knows
which ob dcse am likely to be de effectooai one.
I don’t reckon dar um anybody, outside ob Bos-
ting, what am willin' to put up much on his
own salwatiou. ’Tnin’t wufl takin’ into do
cornsideration ob de ucstion; an’ if ye comes
to put it in de eternal lance: obcr a ainst do
inawine artickle, it‘s boun’ to kick e beam,
’ll bet ye twenty five cents.

“ It can’t save ye, sho’. Burnt brandy can’t
save ye, if ye’s pinnin’ yer faith, an’ hope, an’ fu-
ture prospicks in etarnity on dat kine ob do-
mestic manafactur’. De oder kine, de sort dat’s
oflered widout money an’ widout price—‘cept-
in’ what 6 orter pay de preacher—am what
ye’s to strive a’ter. .

“But ye Can’t have ’em bofe. No, sir! Dey
don’t sort. Dar ain’t no fellowship ’tween dem.
Whar one comes, do oder has to git up an’ git.
An’ (lat ain’t de cornclusion ob dc marter—not
b no manner ob means. De Lord’s snlwntion
ain’t a gwine tcr drive out dnt no ‘count truck
ob yer own bodaciously. Not much it ain’t.
Dat’s de work you has to do. An’ jest here am
whar de full fo’ce ob de rassnge am brung to
b’ar on de bearer. ‘lVork out your own sal-
wation.’
“Git cl’ar ob it, do fust thing ye know. If
ye don’t, ye’ll find in de long run it am wuss
dan de evil spirits what ye roustcd out only to
make room for dis high‘toned, plauserble one,
what ye inwented yerseif. Yo may find it a
putty ard tussle. If de ’fore—mentioned par—
ties don’t light out till ye has tried pra’er an’
fastin’ on ’em, don’t ye be disapp’inted if dis
salwation ob de home-made kind needs similar
kind ob treatment.
“But ye has to work it out, do ’Postle says.
I reckon ye has seen beer workin’ out de bung-
hole oh 3. cask? Well, dat may gib you an idea
ob de meanin’ ob do injunction. Ye sees do
hull process. It am slow an’ tejus, but it’s got
to he did ’i'ore do atented artic e kin take pos-
session. It must ave suitable ’commodations,
an’ de hull house to itself. None 0’ yer tene-
ment hangin’s-out, no French fiat make believes
will fill de bill. Work out (is useless, deceivin’
prize package, dat has nuflin but de cheapest
ind ob tafly in high art wrappin’s, an’ den ye
kin set about cleanm’ house, an preparin’ for a
life—long tenant. Dar ain’t nquiu in de worl’,
mo’ to be sought a’ter, dan a cl’ar insight inter
Scriptur’.”

 

 

Focused Facts.

MB. MULHALL, the English statistician, esti-
mates that the wealth of the United States
amounts to $50,000,000,000. This is at the rate
of $1,000 for every human being in the country.

IT is possible that tricycles will be introduced
in Washington as a regular part of the local
postal system. From experiments already
made by letter-carriers it is believed that their
use would effect a saving of fifty per cent. in
the time required for collection and delivery.

THE abolition of recess in the Albany public
schools and the change of school hours to ses-
sions of from nine to half-past eleven in the
morning and from a quarter past one to half-
past three in the afternoon have proved to be
so successful an experiment that the board have
made them permanent. ysica], moral and
social results have all been excellent.

THE New York Financial Chronicle notes
the fact that the United State; 5: nment has
paid of the national debt- more th one thou
sand million dollars in seventeen years. The
government debt was at its highest point
August Slst, 1865. It then amounted to $2,756,-
000,000. On October 1st. 1882. the debt of every
description was only “014,120,223.

MAINE makes a good showing in the care be-
stowed upon the education of her children du-
ring the past decade. Nearly 400 new school
houses were built in that period, the condition
of 625 others was bettered, and good High
Schools increased in number, while the vain-
ation of school property went u $506,000.
Considering the splarse population 0 the State,
Maine more than olds er own in educational
facilities.

A Wm man has been telling some Phila—
delphians how Western citi‘es grow. He says
he went off into the mountains hunting, and,
night coming on, he went to sleep in a tree to
be out of reach of the wolves. He was
awakened early the next morning by some
workmen, who told him to get down and finish
his nap on the courthouse steps, as they wanted
to turn that tree into a flag-pole for the hotel
across the way. He got down, and, while rub-
hing his eyes, was nearly run over by a street.
car and got his feet tangled in an electric—light
WIN.

THE Cincinnati Price Current has published
a peanut number, and 'ves some interesting
statistics as to the cultivation of this docile
fruit. Few people, says the Pn‘c» Current,
have any idea of the extent of the peanut busi-
ness or its increaSe in the United States. The
consumption in 1877-78 was 1.066000 bushels,
in 1878 9 it was 1,380,000 bushels, in 187980 it
was 1,927,000 bushels, and last year 2 108,000
bushels. The available supply for the coming
“inter, according to Mr. Murray, editor of the
_Per Current, who is a geod judge of peanut
1s 2,%,000, out of which there are 130,
bushels from Virginia, 500,000 bushels from
Tennessee, and 150,000 bushels from North
Carolina.

Tim death of the lion~tamer, who was re-
cently devoured durin a performance at San-
ger’s Circus, Orange, rance, was attended by
peculiarly horrible circumstances. On entering
the cage, as usu l, the lion-tamer (who, it up-

8, was intoxicath at the time) slipped and
ell. In an instant five ferocious beasts s rung
upon him and tore him almost literal y to
pieces before the eyes of the {ionic-stricken and
shrieking crow d. All the e orts of the circus
asSistants to drive the brutes away from their
prey With pitchforks were uSclcss. When the
unhappy wretch was at last dragged out of the
cage he was a mere mass of mangled, but still

livmg, flzsh. He expired almost immediately
after. ‘

THE following is a pen picture of the English
military commaider in Egy pt: “VVolseley is
an undergrown and spare mun. lantern—jawed,
Wizh short gray hair and blonde mustache. He
wears a yell0w sun helmet. wound about vi ith a
handkerchief of white and violet check: his red
coat IS open at the chest and spotted v it‘h many
stems of grease; he has a variegated necktie. a
woolen shirt of a “ loud ” pattern, gray checked
mwsel‘s. Fellow riding boots and spurs, an
opera glass With a. yellow case and strap. a V“-
10w revolvor .helf, Wit-b cartridge case. yd 0W
gauntlets, a moot. pocket handkerchief stuck in
his red coat, a gnntic pair of black spectacles,
and in 1):? ban he flourishes . fan to keep 03

 

 

dat. Now, dot sort ob talk one would ’spect to

the flies.