Q. (lAPT. WHITTAKER AGAIN! “Larry Locke, the Man of Iron,” STARTS NEXT WEEK! ‘- v ’iKsiEWE‘ffi‘: v ' A ‘| «(V we D. aBeaAddle' cs m a s David Adamau' u “m' A ROMANCE 01‘ CHAPTER III. om) KIT. TiiE moment that Baby Sam saw his enemies disappear in the grove with affright, he turned and began liobbling toward the renegade, Pig llorn, who also advanced until they met—his face convulscd with silent laughter. . \Vhipping out the knife he had flourished but a few minutes before in the face of the boy, the man severed the youth’s bonds, and then said: “ Now let‘s git to cover, lad,or them other fellers may take a hand in this shootin’ mati- m‘e.” Sam followed the renegade into the bushes, where the latter turned, and putting out his big bony hand said: “ l’ut her thar, Baby Samuel!” and the two alms came to ether with a sharp smack. “ Ha, ha, ha, boy! It’s a tie atweeu the two great pistol shots 0’ the North! Great horn of Joshual did you ever see a nicer job set up on the chil- dren of Satan? Did ye ever see a duel worked off in sich a bang-up style? You thought war jokin’ when I fust whispered to you thar, in the glade, didn’t ye! Lordyl don’t I make a savory, buxom In in, though! Can’t I put on the variations and curlainacues with frills in front and gorcs up the side! Dzdn t I split that Ingin’s gourd accidentally a-purpose in a real Mosaic stvle! Say, lad, know you’re a fine shot, a brhve boy, and all that, but if youd run with me awhile ou’d soon be a double- breasted roarer from oarerville." “ Well, who in the plague are you, anyhow?” demanded Sam, as soon as able to et in a word, for the man’s action, and talk, an the faithful iraniier in which he had carried out the whis- pered promise made in the grove, puzzled him most completely. ' . Looking carefully around him.as if to be as- sured that no one was near, he said: I I “I reckon them survivin’ fellows will pike ; out for a place less malarious, for this IS a sick- r—~ v ' ’ ; . ( NS l \‘ [I r I. t, \ .5 ’,".I;\‘{’/" \ , .r r. N (;\/_J ’1 \ a “'2 .45. if / ‘ / I F“ J 3 I r v‘ \ 41—! ’ I; ' .’, I ‘ — S" r \ A v ' - . r, ‘ T1- \_ \‘ ifhkl' ‘ l 7‘) ’ a i‘ _'.\\‘, [l 1"!" 1 ' > «. 4 v, - ». 1 ~ _ K“ it, a.“ 1, ».' r \ a. l.§\\\\“\ a ‘.i ,‘i. c‘ ’— C \ . ‘ \ \‘ \ r \l " ’— \ fl, \ H A V Ni. \i,_4\-.\,\;.o.g=,. ,, K .7 ., tut... ovum, .{+\‘..\_,\" i > . [’1- FR...’ l\. t \ /¥fi.{£b\ TW“!‘&W CJ;:~);wa§3to,\o. _c—— ENOCII. BY JONES VERY. I looked to find a man who walked with God, Like. the translat- d patriarch of old; Though gladdcned millions on his footstool trod. Yet none with him did sucn sweet converse hold; I heard the wind in low complaint go l y, That none its melodies like him could hear; Day unto day, s Joke Wisdom from on high, Yet none like avid turn» (I a Willing ear; God walked alone, unhonored through the earth; For Him no heart-built te..i lc open stood; The soul, forgetful of her nob er birth, Hail hewii Him lofty shrines of stone and wood, And left unfinished and in ruins still The only temple He delights lo fill —-Sp72'n1fi'cld Republican. 20! THE HUNTER’S MERRY MOON. BY ELAINE GCODALE. Brown October and nut-l)r0wn woods, And nobody sad or sober, .But the parlridges, proud of their whirring broods, And the sun-burnt sportsman with gleaming eye, And the farm-boy’s snare, secure and sly— October! Gay October and gilded woods— What folly now to be sober! When the foxglove‘s hanging her yellow hoods, And there's laughter and rustle of silken gowns, And the country’s full of the folks 0’ towns— October! Late October and frost-touched woods—- The children look wondrous sober; For the squirrel is hiding his stolen goods, Scoldiiig away in the chestnut tall, Where the brown burrs gape and the last nuts fall-— October I — What Im an. 202 THE TRUE KNIGHT. BY ELLA WHEELER. We sigh above historic pages, Brave with the deeds of gallant men, And wish those peers of earlier ages In our dull day could live again. And yet no kliizht of ancient days began In chivalry with the American. He does not frequent joust or tourney, And flaunt his lady’s 0310: 5 there, But in the tedium of a journey He shows that deferential care, That thou htful kindness to the sex at large, Which ma ‘es each woman feel herself his charge. He does not challenge foes to duel To win his lady‘s cast-off glove, But proves in ways less rash and cruel The truth and fervor of his love. Not by bold deeds. but by his reverent mien, He pays his public homage to his queen. He may not shine with courtly graces, But yet his kind, respectful air To woman, whatsoe‘er her ilace is It might be well if kings slionld share. So, for the cliivalric, true gentleman, Give me, I say, our own American. {OZ TIIE “'EI)DI.\'G-TRIP. A pretty sight: that wedded pair; The timid bride. the sturdy groom, She all in \\‘-:itc, iiitli golden hair, And checks that pale ihe roses” bloom, And a kindly feeling fills the car, For all who see ilieir happiness, And they, as all new couples are, Seem bound in one long, sweet caress. And the Summer landscape hurries by, led with flower, gold and wheat, And the Summer tints that fleck the sky Than her deep eyes are not more sweet. And hand in hand they conjure o'er The joys that floating down the tide Of life Shall have for them in store: He always groom, she always bride. A sudden shock, a stiflcd cry. A blaze i' f stais that drowns the light, A stieam of flame, a. blood-red sky, Then darkness, darker than the night. Bewildered there the bridegroom stands, ('alling on his bride in vain: Clasping the pale, cold, stiffening hands That never shall clasp his again. A solemn sight. a court-room scene, \‘i'itli wrangling lawyers strewn about, And that young bridegroom in between, Wondering how it may come out. A verdict for the full amount; Five thousand cold. That rught to pay The man whose lreinblii g fingers count The profits of his wedding-(lay. — T; avuler‘s Magazine. ——:(:~: .———.—_ ENGINEERS IVIAICING LOVE. BY ROBERT J. BUIIDE’ITE. [Nearly every engineer on the New York and New England Railroad has a sweetheart or wife in New Britain, Conn. Every train would whistle a. salute to some fair dome, and the din grew so feaifully ear-splitting that the authorities have had it stopped] It’s noon when Thirty-five is due An’ she comes on time, like a flash of light, An' you hear the whistle, “Too-tee—too!" Long ’fore the pilot swings in sight. Bill Maddon‘s di‘ivin‘ her in to-day An‘ he’s callin‘ his sweetheart. far away- Gertrude Hurd—lives down by the mill; You might see herblushin’; 5 ie knows it‘s Bill, "‘ Tu-die! Toot-eel Tu-die! Tu!” Six-five A. it. there's a local comes— Makes up at Bristol, runnin’ east; An’ the way her whistle sings ai.’ hums la a livin’ caution to man an’ beast. Every one knows who Jack White calls— Little Lou \Voodbury, down by the Falls; Summer or winter, always the same, She hears her lover callin‘ her name—— “ Lou-ie! Lou—iel Loo—ice!" At six fifty-eight you can hear Twentyone Go thunderin‘ west, and of all the screams That ever startled the rising sun, John Davis sends into your dreams. But I don‘t mind it; it makes me grin— For just down here where the creek lets in, His wife, Jcrusha, can hear him cull, Loud as a threat of biass can hand-— " Jeee-rooo sheel Jcshool” But at one fifty-one, old Sixty four— Boston express runs east, clear through—- Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar With the softest whistle that ever blew. An‘ away on the furthest edge of the town, Svi eet Sue Winthiop’s eyes of brown Shine like the starlight, bright an' clear, When she hears the whistle of Abel Gear, “ You-ou-ou, Su-u‘u-u-e!" Along at midnight a freight comes in, Leaves Berlin some time—I don't know wheth- Buf it rumbles alon with a fearful din, Till it reaches the switch there, and then The clearest notes of the softest bell That out of a brazen goblet fell, Wake Nellie Minton out of her dreams— To her like a wedding-bell it Seems—- “ Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!" An' somewhere late in the afternoon, You’ll see Thirty-seven go slreakin‘ west; It's local, from Hartford; same old tune New set for the girl that loves him best. Tom Wilson rides on the right-hand side, Givin‘ her steam at every stride; An” he touches the whistle. low aii' clear, For Lulu Gray. on the hill, to hear—— “ Lu—lul Loo-loo!" So it goes on all day an’ all night, Till the old folkslizive voted the thing a bore; Old maids an 1 bachelors says it ain’t right For folks to do courtin’ with such a. roar. But the engineers their kisses will blow From a \vhiSIIe-valvc to the girls. they know, An‘ the stokers the name of their sweethearts fell, With the Belle? Nell! Dcll! of the swaying bell. —Lifo. Jt~..,..‘..-..’~.I.. 4...“. .“uakmm... ». .. .._.... a a”: . L2? ‘khlex V 'Taaszf-“r — . .{. “zilfi.'~,;«.h - .;;-4.r¢.:' - .... .g r. ‘raai:! M- 12‘?" ...:.I;‘. fats f . 27-3. ~1-=.-"“ . Lear 3:35??? id’tf‘w‘ :34 d <._. “.1- . tjr “Xx ‘ . .:.- 4.- .v‘..~. W aft—.2 a, :v_.rx.pc.' A 0 ~ « . '- .1-.. ~ .A him-f fl . _ 4t: .1 “' Effie-iii}, .: :‘n . I'- ;:’ *"i’: saw 1*: y. (7 «1.x. - 1.6’As- -r- _ . I"; ' I .2 :'~<»<"v/ mum IIIIlluilnllllllllllllu]. Published every Monday morning at nine o’cloek. NEW YORK, OCTOBER 20, 1883. BEADLE’s WEEKLY is sold by all Newsdealers in the United States and iii the Canadian Dominion. Parties unable to Obtain it from a Newsdealer, or those preferring to have the paper sent direct, by mail, from the ublication office, are supphed at the following ra es: Terms to Subscribers, Postage Prepaid: One co four months . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 81.00. “ ‘Py‘ one year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3.00. Two copies, one year . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 5.00. 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 iiiclose the currency except in_a re- istered letter. A Post Ofllce Mone ‘ Order is the est form of a remittance. Losses y inail Wlll be almost surely avoided if these directions are fol— lowed. . . WA“ communications, subscriptions, and let- ters on business should be addressed to BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM S'r., NEw YORK. Take Notice. Serials appearing in this WEEKLY will not be republished in Library or book form. Back numbers can be supplied by all Newsdealers, or sent by mail, prepaid, from the publishers. STARTS IN NUMBER 50. Capt. Fred Whittaker’s Serial Story of the Sons of Tall Larry Locke, THE MAN OF IRON. “ From the lowest round of the ladder, From the lowliest station in life, The hero-heart dares the endeavor To conquer a Throne in the strife.” And this is what the poor-house boy does. Larry Locke is fettered with even more pov- erty and friendlessness than is the lot of the humblest toiler, and in this fine story Captain Whittaker, with most admirable spirit and feeling, unfolds the leaves of a life that is at once romantic, real and inspiriting. Don’t Fall to Read and be Delighted! SOON TO BE GIVEN! A New “Wild—lied” Romance. BY ALBERT W. AIKEN. In the happy vein that inspired his celebrated characters of Dick Talbot and Fresh of Frisco, and introducing an entirely original creation— a combination of sport, dare devil adventurer and good citizen—about equal parts of each; and whose performances are of a decidedly unique nature. The Wide who Papers. “ Katy Did.” “KATY did!” “Katy didn‘t!” pipe Katy’s friends and enemies up in the tree-tops, all through the August and September nights; and they keep up their shrill protests and assevera- tions as vigorously and belligerently this year as if they had not been quarreling about the same thing for the last ten or twenty centuries. “ Katy did I” shrieks one chorus. “ Katy didn’t I” declares the other. Neither side is ever con- vinced, and the squabble is carried on, year after 'ear, without any apparent change of groun or decrease of energy; though who Katy was and what it was she did or failed to do must have become a mystery long ago. A silly quar- rel, truly; but not more silly than the quarrels in which mortals are engaging themselves end- lessl . Dilly yesterda Tom Jones was your dearest friend. You con d not exist without Tom;—you ate with him, you slept with him; you walked with him, you talked with him; you used canes alike and adopted the same style of hair-dress- ing; you adored the same cigars and liked the same girls; you shared all each other’s confi~ dences and borrowed each other’s collars; but one day you found that Tom had sent a bou- quet to an acquaintance of yours without consulting you, and was regarded by her with slight partiality. She was not an ac- quaintance worth a minute’s earnest thought, certainl not a friend’s regard; but you called om all manner of ugly names, mut- tered something about revenge, and declared him your enemy forever. Both of you have long since forgotten the cause of the quarrel, but not the quarrel itself. You are growin old, are supposed to have wise heads, and kin hearts, and to understand the value of warm friendship; yet (you as persistently pass with averted eyes an denounce each the other as “villain” and “idiot.” as Katy’s friends cry “Katy did 1” and “Kat didn’t!” in vigorous uncharitableness throng out all the summer nights. Not long ago the Tumtown church needed some repairs, and its hand of Christian mem- bers raised a thousand dollars to be expended in renovating and beautifyin it. But the thousand dollars have not yet en spent, the church is growing shockingly leaky and dilapi- dated. halt the congregation will not speak to the other half, the clergyman is suffering for his salary, which part of is parishioners refuse to raise because he u holds the claims of the other part, Brother S. s family will not speak to Brother T.’s family, Elder G. has given up his pew because he will not sit next to Trustee D., Miss F. will not sing in the choir while Mrs. L. sings there, and all because one mem- ber of the Repairing Committee wanted the walls stained French gray and another wanted them tinted in pale blue. The other members of the committee began to take sides with the rival claimants for aesthetic effects, the congre- gation took up the partisanship. and in time the whole community was rent with dissensions. The original cause of discord was soon sunk in a vortex of scandal and backbiting engendered by the bitter rivalry, and a whole village was embrOiled in heartburnings, gossip, unneighbor— liness, and all manner of unkind and absurd differences, just because two eminently pious brothers could not agree as to whether pale blue or faint gray was the most desirable and effective color for painting their church wallsl Can the endless discussion about Katy be more ridiculous and tiresome than that!I And there is your quarrel with your wife, which has resulted in days of sullenness and has your quarrel with your mother—a mother to whom you are indebted for hours of tender care, for boundless patience, for fervent love, and to whom you owe no small guerdon of deference, respect, unselfishness, and forbearance; vour uarrel with your sister, who has always been 0nd of you and true to your interests, and has Often indulged your faults and your fanCies. to the verge of weakness, and with whom a kind word would set you right: are they not all un- wise? and is not your cherishing of the feuds un- profitable and foolish? _ The next time that you hear the Katydids quarreling up in the trees, and stubbornly per- sisting “Katy did!” and “Katy didn’t!” take time to think a moment upon your own quar- rels; to trace them back to their very first causes; to reflect whether by your own word or act they might well have been aVOided; to medi- tate as to how they can best be ended, forgiven, and forgotten: for, it seems to me, there is noth- ing so foolish in this fleeting life of ours as vari- ance with our friends. No doubt we can find ex- cuses for all our feuds, for all our unkindnesses, and uncharitablenesses, and squabbles; but are they honest ones? Were we—are we—always infallible? Are we perfect and on] our friends imperfect? Are we patient and on y‘ others im— patient? Are we sincere and all but us insm- cere? Are we alone gentle and those we once loved unkind? Are we never hasty while our relatives are always so? Are we the sweetest of martyrs while others are stubborn and hard? Are we less swift and determined to inmst that “Katy did l” than others are to retort that “ Katy didn’tl”? Answer honestly to your heart; and then re— member that “ to err is human, to forgive di- vine,” and resolve that before Katy’s friends and foes invade the silence of another night with the shrill clamor of their strife, you and those from whom you have allowed yourself to become estranged shall be at peace. BELLE BRIGHT. The Owl Papers. New England Relics. THE original bale or bunch of Shingles came over in the Mayflower, and landed at Pier NO. 1, Plymouth Rock. The production was large, and you will find the Shingle material well scattered through New England. Very few ever ventured out of it, for they preserve an old idea that beyond the New England line all is space. They cleave to the records of their fam- ily and to the early history of the Colonies. In fact, they take a commendable pride in every- thing pertaining to the past, and pay but little attention to the present. Being near Boston, lately, for the purpose of looking after a windfall of a few hundred thou- sand dollars (and which proved to be all wind), I called, after dinner, upon the highly-respected family of Roofieek Shingle, a distant connection, and while there, was Simon) 8. very fine collec- tion of relics of the early period, which forms in itself a very interesting museum of historic value. The objects are very rare. In 1630 Ahab Shingle resided in a log—house, a short distance from the town of Boston. One Sunday his family went into town to church, be staying at home, on account of his corns prob ably, when a party of Indians appeared and at- tacked his honse—because he didn t go to church —and burst in the door. The guns had been taken by the family, and he had nothing with which to defend himself. but he uickly caught hold of along wide crack in the oor and with it killed four Indians, and the balance retreated. Among the collection of relics is exhibited this crack, taken from the floor. They have there some of the bones of the first chicken ever born in Boston. There is no doubt about them. I presented them to the family four years ago and I should know. They were brought to me with the meat still on, while I was dining at a Boston hotel. ~' There is a promissory note for fifty pounds given by Ahab Shingle in 1635, just as good as it was the day it was given. There is not the least doubt about its being genuine; everything goes to show it; besides, it has never been receipted; had it been I should have pronounced it a fraud. I do not know why it is, but it always affects me in a singular manner to look upon the com- monest kind of a chair; it has such an influence on me that 1 always want to sit down in it. Now, when they showed me an old arm-chair belonging to one of the first Governors, I was profoundly moved to sit down in it and wished 1 could have absorbed at a single sitting all the rest which it has given in the last two hundred and fifty years. What a boon would it have been! They got me out of it with difiiculty. I saw that the old Governor disregarded modern rules, and enjoyed to have his feet on the rungs, for they were nearly worn in two. I wanted to buy it, but it was not for sale, as its present owner sits in it himself. I saw the rnflled shirt-front of Amos Shingle, an old colonial deacon, and could swear to its identity, for it had the old reliable family mark on it—it was very soiled with tobacco and con- siderably frayed. They still preserved the stockings worn by the original Shingle. They were out at the heels and the toes. But ours was a family of distinction—they distinctly made it a rule of honor that if the heels should have to be out the toes should be out also; they wanted all things upon a footin of perfect equality. I added to their co lection a piece of the first butter ever made in Massachusetts, and I can swear it is genuine because I took it from a plate in the oldest restaurant in Boston, where they kept nothing but old colonial viands—Old steak, 0 d cheese, old bread, old veal, and other bric-abrac of the early settlement of which they are so proud. In 1634 there was a. dense fog all over the land. Here you will see a very good—sized piece of that old fog dried; and the following wmter there came the deepest snow the colonists ever saw. They still keep a big ball of it which was pickled for preservation. In 1636 the most furious wind that ever was known swept over the colonies. It is not known how it got so loose, but it put all classes of the colonists on a common level—that is, it laid them on the ground. They have a bottle full of this wind securely sealed and duly labeled, to show just what that wind was. You will also be shown the first dried codfish which was used on State occasions by the orig- inators of our family as a coat of arms. They were the first ones to adopt it and claim the patent on it, and it mi ht be said to contain the ori tinal cuticle of our amily. They also keep carefully preserved a piece of Bunker Hill, that sacred place where several of our family fell—back. I gazed upon it with pa- triotic reverence, and not only Wished that I owned that piece of heroic soil, but wished I owned several acres of it. There is a large love of my country in my heart even at this late day when property is up. In this col ection there is a knot-hole that once was in the table upon which the first charter was signed. The table has long since gone to dust, but the knot~hole was preserved. There is also a piece of the Indian war-whoop which was given b the dis uised tea crusaders when they emptie the tea into the bay, which was said to be the largest brewing of tea that the world has beheld. They have also a small piece of the roar of the first shot at Lexington that was heard around the world. This is canned up. If you give the can a little shake-up you can still hear the roar very plainly. You will also see a small blaze of the fire of freedom, which was kindled on Bunker Hill, in a glass case. There is a pair of shoes said to have once been worn by Myles Standish, though they are of different breeds of shoes, one better than the other. We infer from this that the douglity old warrior had one particular best foot which he iit forward either in love or in war. which the Puritans wanted so badly during the memorable famine attending the first settle- ment; also several small bulbs of early Boston philosophy preserved in sand. That al these relics are bona fide I am will- ing to give oath—not a very loud—sized oath perhaps, but I can give my oath of office for county assessor. SOLOMON SHINGLE. Keely’s Motor Outdone. THE Virginia, Nevada, Enterprise announces: “ J rm Townsend of Bodice has six of his novel arastras running to their full capacity and will start up four more next week. These arastras are placed in a little sandy flat, where only suf- ficiBnt water for drinking purposes and to moisten the ore operated upon is to be obtained. The arastras are actually operated by sand, which drives a large overshot wheel. On thi wheel sand takes the lace of water. It was a first Mr. Townsend’s intention to run the arse- tras by means of a large wind mill, or wind- wbeel, but as this would run too slow at times, at other times so fast as to be liable to tear everything to pieces, and again would not run at a l, he hit upon a regulator. The re ulator is sand, 9. great ile of which has been re ed up to the wor s. he Wind-mill runs a belt con- taining a great number of buckets, and these carry the sand up to a big tank, just as rain- elevators carry wheat in a fiouring-mi l. stream of sand being let out upon the overshot wheel, it revolves just as it would under the weight of a stream of water, and the arastras move steadil on at their work. “Then there is much win , sand is stored up for use when calm prevails, so the arastras are never idle. After a sufficient quantity of sand has once been accumulated there is no more trouble on that spore, the same sand being used over and over. Two Classes of Cowboys. THE Denver Tribune a few days ago had an interesting interview with an intelligent “ cow- boy,” on the business of cattle-raising. Accord- ing to him there is an aristocratic and a plebeian element among the cattle—men on the plains. These two classes are these who own cow-herds and those who have nothing but steers. The former are the smaller investors and the latter the wealthy stockmen. The latter buy the yearlings from the cow-herders and graze them until they become beeves, when they sell them to the various buyers, topping out the finest for the Eastern and foreign markets, and sending the tailings in to us at the same price. This sys- tem of monopolizing the beef cattle in the hands of the heavy capitalists is what is now keeping up the price of beef, although some of the stock- men do not know it themselves and have only adopted the system to avoid being bothered with cows. The shipment of beef to England has become a large factor. In the last three years there has been such a heavy investment of Scotch and English capital that it is a fact that three-fourths of the cattle interest of Texas, Colorado and Wyoming is now owned and con- trolled by it. The ranges are being gradually encroached upon, as they were in Texas, and becoming more crowded every year, while the market for the product is extending every year. Cattle that sold in 1880 for $22 a head are now worth $30, with the prospect that the price will go up instead of down. Two Horrible Insects. THE following is an extract from a private letter dated Tucson, Arizona Territory: “ Dur- ing the past week I have seen two specimens of reptiles peculiar to this section of the country. A man came into the store early one morning and told of his last night’s experience with a centipede. He had spread his blanket in camp, and gone to sleep. About daylight he found something crawling over his bare breast, it be— ing so intensely hot that he had removed all his clothing. Raising his head he saw that it was a centipede, and so remained perfectly motion— less until the beast, brute, insect, or whatever it can be classified as, had walked across him and passed off. Undoubtedly his nerve saved his life; had he appeared to notice the crea~ ture, its hundred claws would have been pressed into the flesh and a horrible death resulted; even as it was, a double line of tin blood-red spots across his arms and breast s owed the creature’s pathway. “The second was a large specimen of the ‘ Gila’ (pronounced heel-ah) monster. It is of the lizard class but scaled like an alligator, the scales being a ternately black and of a nasty wash red. They spit like a cat and are from six inches to two feet long, this one I saw be- ing about eighteen inches and very repulsive, though rare. A Mexican had him tied with a strin around his neck, and walked along dang ing and swinging it as if it were only a boy’s return-ball.” A Hilarious Item. ' A TELEGRAPBIC dispatchto the Denver Rocky Mountain News, a few days since, chronicled this characteristic item of news: “ Five inebriated cowbo s rode into San Hilario on Friday. Don acedonis Arragon was standing in front of his store in the act of starting in search of a stray horse. The cow- boys requested him to go to the rear of his store and call his clerk. Arragon refused, and the cowboys began to abuse him. Fearing violence, Arragon procured a rifle and proceeded on his way in search of his horse. The cowboys rode toward him, and one of them, who was in ad- vance of his comrades, went up to Arragon and shook hands. When he had obtained posses- sion of Arragon’s hand he held on to it firmly, while the remaining cowboys began firing at the merchant with their revolvers. Arragon finally disengaged his hand and sent a bullet from his rifle through one of the cowboys, kill- ing him instantly. He then retreated to a house near by, the cowboys continuing to fire upon him as he ran. “ After reaching a shelter from the storm of bullets he sent another ball into the breast of one of the cowboys, killing him, and then fired again, wounding another of his assailants. Ar- ragon was so weak from loss of blood, he hav- ing received four wounds, that he could no longer fire. The remaining cowboys fled into Texas, and are still at large. Arragon lingered for twelve hours, when he died from his wounds.” Sea-Lions at Home. A VISITOR to the Faralline islands, of! the coast of California—the sea-lions’ chosen habitat -—writes thus of his cruise: “In among the ragged rocks, over which the waters lazily lashed themselves into froth and foam, Larco rowed us. We looked up in awe and wonder at the dark black rocks upon whose highest points could be distinctly seen the nests and the maternal portion of the eagle families who reside there. Through a narrow pass between these rocks and we are now in a rock-inclosed basin almost beneath the precipitous cliffs of the main island. A pile of smoothly-washed stones afiforded a landing-place, and we were at the mouth of a large cavern and near a tun- nel worn by the waters through a mass of rock. A railroad-train could pass through this tunnel at low tide: at high tide it is sacred to the wild waves and breakers. To the right there is a den, and such a den, too. Here were seen at least two hundred little sea-lion pups or cubs rolling and tumbling over the rocks, wholly unconscious of our presence. It was not until a. shot had been fired and rocks thrown at them that the large sea-lions became alarmed. They were not brave and made no attempt to pro- tect their young. On the contrary, as soon as they saw us looking in their nursery they gave loud barks, snorts or roars and dived deep into the water, which rose and fell in foamy break- ers at the mouth Of the cave. A hundred could h-ive been caught with ease, so stupid did they appear to be. obscured all the sunshine of the home circle; X on are also shown some of the ludiun-corn A second visit made to the den by other members of the party resulted in the capture of two of the young sea-lions or seals. A little boy, ten years of age, named Ernest White- head, ambitious to own a sea-lion cub, followed Mr. Seely, of Goleta, into the den. He at once threw himself upon a yonn cub almost as large as himself, wrestled wit it in an attempt to force it into a sack, and, as he rolled into the water with his finny antagonist, he cried lustily for he] and a larger sack. With the assistance of r. Seel the little fellow secured a captive cub and rou ht it to the sloop, where be shed his wet clot es and lay basking on the sunny deck until his clothes dried. He had got his sea-lion pup. Size of Sun-spots. A SINGLE spot has measured from 40,000 to 50,000 miles in diameter, in which, as will be readily seen, we could put our earth for a standing point of observation, and note how the vast facnlar waves roll and leap about the edge of the spot, and also how the metallic rain is formed from the warmer portions of the sun. In June, 1843, a solar spot remained a week visible to the naked eye, having a diameter of about 77,000 miles; and in 1837 a cluster of spots covered an area of nearly 4,000,000,000 square miles. “Then we call to mind that the smallest spot which can be seen with the most owerful telescope must have an area of about 50,000 miles, we can readily see how large a spot must be in order to be visible to the un— aided eye. Pasteroff, in 1828, measured a spot whose nmbra had an extent four times that of the earth’s surface. In August, 1858, a spot was measured by Newall, and it had a diameter of 58,000 miles—more, as you will see, than seven times the diameter of the earth. The largest spot that has ever been known to astronomy was no less in diameter than 153,500 miles, so that across this you could have placed side by side eighteen earths. __ A Veritable Sharpshooter. A SPORTSMAN, who has gone into the moun- tain region of IV est Virginia for deer-hunting, tells of a man named J ulins S. Waddle, whose exploits with 3. Winchester rifle threaten to rapidly reduce the number of deer in that re- gion. A “drive” was arranged (in the Capon range of the Blue Hills), and Waddle was sta~ tioned at one of the “ runs.” As the herd broke cover his rifle brought down four, in as many shots. The sportsman says: “This I believe to have been one of the great— est, if not the greatest, pieces of shooting ever done in the field of actual s rt. I have also known this gentleman to kil a doe that was standing behind a tree with only her head in sight at a distance of 200 yards. On another occasion I knew him to strike a buck in the head four times in as many shots. It was swimming the South Branch river, near Rom~ hey, at a distance of about 150 yards from where Mr. Waddle was standing. “ In practice shooting with this same weapon he has broken eighteen glass balls in snccessmn. sprung from a revolving trap at eighteen yards’ rise; from the same trap, with a shot-gun, sixty-six without a miss, at the usual rise. Ata pigeon-shooting match in Baltimore, I think in 1877, he killed twenty-three straight birds, and then stopped winner of thevmatch; they were single bir s, but thirty yards’ rise. “ Mr. I’Vuddle is also a prodigy with the pis- tol, having to my certain knowledge killed a buzzard that was sitting in a tree 400 yards off with a navy revolver, and also twu crows on the wing, one falling dead 125 yards from him. thile hunting on Chesapeake ay I knew him to kill two wild geese that were out of range Of shotguns and swan shot, probably two hundred yards. One was shot from the blind and the other from the shore, with this same remarka~ ble pistol. There may have been, and was in all probability, some luck in these last few shots; but I have seen him strike a large nail on the head repeatedly, in a friendly pistol prac- tice, at a measured distance of 100 feet.” For the benefit of non-sporting readers it may be explained that a “drive ” for deer is about the same as a “beat” for tigers. A mountain or a scope of country is selected and a large party Of men start in the same direc~ tion and for a given point, keeping quite a dis- tance a t, and by noise, etc., drive every animal fore them, the ground being always selected so that all the game to keep under cover will have to pass through a narrow body of woods or some such natural road. Here the best shots are invariably stationed to do the execution of the day. Focused Pacts. THE yield of the Pennsylvania coal mines last year reached the enormous amount of 30,000,000 tons. - THE cholera, says somebody, has appeared at exact intervals of seventeen years, viz., 1832, 1849, 1866, and 1883. ONE hundred and. seventy-five rattlesnakes have been killed this summer in a single tow n- ship in Clear-field county, Pa. EVERY Massachusetts citizen who sets out four trees by the highway is allowed one dollar abatement of his highway tax. FOREST fires in various parts of New En land caused damages estimated at $1,250,000. - ear- ly every town within fifty miles of Boston has suffered. IF the proposed tunnel should be made for the relief of about 180 mines in Gilpin county, Col- orado, it would be one of the largest of the kind in the world. IT is predicted that Washington will be gayer and more dissipated than ever the coming win— ter. The session of Congress is the long one, and a President is to be nominated in June. TEE number of immi ts who landed at New York during the eig 1: months endin Aug. 31, was 284966. This is 58,572 less than uring the same time last year. THE number of commercial travelers in the United States is, according to statistics, 200,000. The average cost to the employers is $3,000 for each salesman, or an aggregate of $600,000,000 per annum. THE increased cultivation and drainage of the land at the West has diminished the prevalence of malaria to such an extent that not more than a fifth as much quinine is sold as was disposed of a few years ago. THE public men of Canada take more interest in the United States than the do in their mother country. It is believed t at it is onlya %uestion of time when they will ask to have anada annexed to our country. THE richest discovery of iron ore in America has been made in Canada, and as usual with such things anywhere near, the mines are to be developed by mono and enterprise from this side of the border. he mines, being but thirty- six miles from Rochester and sixty from Os- wego, are assured of a good market. BETWEEN 1879 and 1883 the Southern States, Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisi- ana, Tennessee, Texas and Mississippi, have added $494,836,668 to their taxable property, and have built 9,287 miles ofrailroad. The value of the raw products has increased $169,- 000,000. Industrial progress has been much greater. QUINN GREGG, of Willowdale. Neb., related his experience with a drove of snakes a few days before. While scattering manure on a piece of breaking on his father’s farm he dis- covered a large red snake, and soon dispatched it, but there immediately issued from under the same sod the rest of the family of reptiles. The young man fell to the work of slaughter with a will, and when he was through counted up forty-five dead snakes. and it wasn’t a good day for snakes either. Her snakeship was over three feet long, while the rest were all the way fromleighteen inches down to eight inches in lengt i. Correspomlgits’ Column. [This column is open to all correspondents. In- quiries answered as fully and as promptly as cir- cumstances will permit. Contributions not entered as “declined” may be considered accepted. No MSS. returned unless stamps are inclosed.) Declined: “ Princess Louise,” etc. ; “ An Absolute Surrender;” “To E., Greetin '" “Breasting the Ford;" “The Adel hiArms:“ “The Agent’s Creed;” “Hold Tight the elnsl" “Ruling Out the White;” “F0 otten Too Soon," “Charla ’3 Lost Blessin ;” She Suffer?” ‘ A Wife‘s eserve;” “C 8 in the Worshipers." an. We have no means of ascertaining “the number of Israelites worth a million or more” in New York. Anson“ Foaon. General Crook is an Ohio man— was born in that State in 1828—graduated at West Point in 1852. FAXON (J. _E.) The velocipede is not an American nor an English invention; it was known and used in France in 1818, as the draisteune. Tmrox J can. What is now the State of New Jersey was given by r0 a] charter to Sir George Car- teret and Lord Berke ey. Carteret, in England’s great Civil war had bravely defended the Isle of Jer- sey, in the British Channel, and his new possessions ifn .tAmerlca were named in commemoration of this ac . En Moran. General Davies's “Ten Days on the Plains " is out of print, and your only chance to et it is in some second-hand bookstore.-—Buffalo B l’s North Platte ranch has in it 3 000 acres. His “ farm ” 18. part of the ranch—Mr. Cody is over six feet in hight. As to the amount of his wealth—that is purely his own personal affair. HENRY M. The sister, by marrying, ought not to be considered as “lost to you.” It may take her from home, but, if the husband is the right kind of a he will place no restraints on her association with her brother. You cannot do otherwise, however, than submit to the inevitable. Sisters will marry,. and brothers must give them up. PAUL. We should say the lady was extremely forward to ask (you to drive with her before she had been introduce to you: but since you promised to go, you must punctual] keep your engagement.— Of course you must getm the carriage u n the left side, if the lady drives. You must neit er offer-to drive, nor criticise her driving. It would be, as her guest, very rude. PRISCILLA. An “engaged” lady does not neces- sarily abjure societ because of her promise to marry; and while 5 e gives her lover his proper share of attention she ma very properly keep up her usual associations. If t e lover objects to this, and makes what are unreasonable demands, it is not for her friend to advise but for the lady herself to show that she is neither his property nor his submis- sive servant. GEORGE Jonas. General Sherman will be retired from active service on the 8th of February next, un- der the operation of an act approved June 30, 1882. The grade of general dies on t e retirement of Gen— eral Sherman, and General Sheridan will have com- mand of the army as lieutenant~general. Unless Congress should continue the grade of general, the highest grade in the army, after February 8, 1884 will be lieutenant-general. Aivri-LXQUOR. Absinthe is the French of worm- wood. 1t is prepared from alcohol. mixed with vol- atile oil of wormwood, oil of anise and other in dients. lts effects are peculiarly intoxicating. he results are trembl' ,vertigo, fearful dreams and epileptiform convulswns The drinking of absinthe is one of the most dangerous forms of stimulation. The water is mixed " drop by drop ” or slowly, so as to allow the liquor to absorb it and so to preserve a nice color or tint in the glass. FRED. Of course you have as much right to in- vite all your friends to your wedding as the lady has to invite hers. The usual plan is for the bride and bridegroom to each write out a list of all rela- tives, friends and acquaintances to whom they wish cards sent, these lists often including names of people to whom cards are to be sent merely as a matter of courtes to the parents or other near relatives of the “ igh contracting parties.” The lists are then joined. the names arranged alphabet- ically, and cards are mailed to all names on the list, regardless of whose particular friends they are. RAYMOND. You are utterly in the wrong. It is rude and vulgar for a man to sit in the resence of ladies in his shirt-sleeves. No man nee make the excuse that he has a right to be as comfortable as possible for on that ground all the women of the ousehold might leave ofi their dress waists and sit on the piazza, and appear at the table in their cor- set waists. It is easy enough for a man to slip ofl his coat and vest and put on in their place a linen or alpaca jacket, or a thzn dressing-coat. No well-bred man would ever think of eatin in his shirt-sleeves, or appearing in such garb out de the privacy of his own room. CASPAB. There was not the slightest impropriety in your asking the ladies to play ten-pins, and on owe them no apology. Ten-pins isas much alad‘ies’ game as a gentleman‘s, and is played b many wo- men with great skill. The ladies must very ig- norant to 'think the game is vulgar and wicked, ' and that you “ grossly insulted them b asking them to play it.” You had better take no urther notice of the matter, nor of their coldness' but leave them to learn wisdom and discover their injustice at their leisure. You owe them no explanation, nor with such ignorant and narrow-minded people would ex- planations be of much, if any, avail. “ YOUNG Exrnninm'rnn.” The fruit of wonderful size oftenexhibited at fairs is f uently obtained by selecting the 8 mens long forehand and thinning out the 0 er fruit upon the tree persist- ently and excessively—If the caves of your fruit trees are dull and brownish they are probably troubled by the red spider. ine the under sur- face of the leaves and see if they are covered witha very thin web, and if you can observe minute black- , ish or red 3 ks moving about. If so, make a solu— tion of wh e-oil soap, or of sofbsoap, and stira little kerosene with the soap before putting in the water. With a e or garden pump, wash the under sides of t e leaves. W. M. L. The fact that none of the ls u know ever have chaperons With them w on t ey out does not prove that it is not proper for young adieu to be attended by chaperons; it simply proves that the young ladies of your acquaintance are not fashionable ones. In high life, and in all our best American society, it is considered extreme- ly improper for a young lady to go to entertain- ments attended only b a you man. In other words, it is “fashionab e.” as it as always been with aristocratic people, for young ladies to appear in public only under the espionage of a matron. Of course plenty of nicegirls go out alone with gem tlemen, but we must say we prefer the "fashion " which guards a young woman most and makes her least forward and common—A lady is always at lib- ertyto invite a gentleman to escort her to a wed- ding, entertainment, etc., but she should extend the invitation in ample time forhim to feel at perfect liberty to refuse. She should furnish the can'iage find ligve it sent for her escort before it stops for erse . D. Riemann. The young lady is perfectly right, and you should acquiesce with every possiblegrace. For on to go away with her alone to a hotel where neit er of you h any lady acpai’iaintances, would be to lace her in a mom unenv hle position and probe 1y beyond the pale of any other society than your own. It is true that conventionalities are often shallow and deserve to be trampled upon; but there is no use in outraglng them when there is nothing to be gained and much to lose. You could not very well proclaim to entire s that the lady_was your qflanoée, and they could form what opinion they chose of a. young woman boarding at a hotel with ayoun man and unaccompanied by any friends; and as “ t e world ” is given to uncharitablo- hes the probabilities are that your-betrothed would be badly snubbed, and looked upgn with coldness if not actual disfavor. It would unkind and un- manly to expose her to insult—even une insult. If one of her married relatives, or yours. or some other proper chaperon, cannot accompany her, you must. as she says, give up the trip. Cannot you get up a party to go with you? 11' not why not take her upon a visit to someone of your friends? Time. It is difficult to give you all the advice you ask, but we will do the best we can. 1. Better have a home wedding, restricting your invitations to the very nearest relativeson each side. 2. You can send written invitations for such a wedding. 3. The day after your marriage send out “announcement (2f opium“ they muslt be addressed and pre or e very or mai ing pre one to your marriage. 4. These may be sent to all relatives, friends and naintances of your own and your parents, your e and your wife’s parents, whom you desire to recognize as acquaintances after our marri . 5. The cards maybe square or ob ong as you fancy, but they should be of nice quality, engraved by a first—class stationer, and in the most severely plain manner. Ornamentation of any kind is no longer considered in 0d taste. Use two en— velpipes. There are severa styles of announcement ca 5. Sonic bear the full names of both parties, the date and place of marriage, and the future re- ception days and address of the pair; others are two cards—one smaller than the other with the bride’s maiden name engraved upon it and the larger en- graved thus: ME. AND Mas. THEODORE S. GRAY. 175 Bowel Place. . u- - -, c n V", ' 4' magvaS; . “ t «:3 , 'j l ’ l. I I" - ’— «I\\\ — Ir ‘u'ai— - -.‘- - i: Fireside Ballads. ———-———~— snasra gogRTsmr. BY ARTHUR GLENN. Seldom war as hold a scout As ever l'arned to swear, Or ever cleaned a “city " out, When “ full ” and on a “tear. Never known to cut or shoot, But sure as p‘izen’s p’izen, With fists he licked the best galoot I ever sot my eyes on! Sights o‘ sufierin‘ made him grieve; The ready tears would rise, Though he said his buckskin sleeve Had brushe] away theflies. Grizzly Jake’s hut stood alone ’Neatli Shasta, outlined bold; There Wild Nell—his lass—had grown, To woman’s finest mold. Nellie war as good a lass As e‘er climbed Shasta’s side, Or ever tethered hoss to grass In Shasta’s valley wide. One morn they met about sunrise, Upon a lone y road; She sat u 11 her hoss sidewise, But he '5 boss bestrode. “ Hyar is logic’s flag unfurled," Vise Seldom Smith he said; “ They go sideways through the world, But men go straight ahead. “ Mornin’, Nell! Ye look as sweet As any poet’s dream; And beauty plays in this retreat Like sunbeanis on a stream.” Nell she looked down at the ground, And flushed up like a rose, And Smith fetched his han’k‘cher‘ 'round, I s’pose to blow his nose. “ No, no, Nell! ye cannot pass, For whispers haunt the woods. Cupid‘s moved in hyar, my lass, With all his household goods. “ See! m band‘s upon my heart, And t at‘s where true love grows, Fast as “ cities " ’round this part When fortune’s whirlwind blows.” “ Yes, I love you,” said the lass— “ Prefer you to a crown: But, true love, just like apple-sass, Must always settle down.” Then he took her in his arms, And kissed her crimson lips, Whis ‘ring low of pretty farms, An piles of poker—chips. An hour quickly winged its flight, Then Grizzly Jake, revealed. Dawned upon the. lover’s sight, The master of the field! “ Don’t stir. Seldom," Grizzly cried; “ My rifle’s on a line; Better men than you have died By this hyar hand 0’ mine! “ Ye needn‘t hold my gal so tight; And Nell, take 'way your arm, Till I see the patent right Of that thar leetle farm 1 “ Got it? Waal, we‘ll call a draw; An even one, my lad: I have gained a son-in-law. And you have gained a dad 1" Roland Yorke, The CITY THOROUGHBRED; on, IThe Night Hawks of New 'York, A Tale of the Lau'lena. BY ALBERT W. AIKEN, AUTHOR or “THE DEMON DETECTIVE,” “ ovm LAND KIT,” “BAT or THE BATTERY," “ TALBOT or CINNABAR,” ETC. CHAPTER XI. AN ODD HIDIXGPLACE. AND now that we have related .how com- pletely the pursuers were bafiled in their search for the fugitives we must return to them and describe how it was that they succeeded in so completely baffling the eager search of Bristol Bill and his wsociates. I ' As the girl explained to the detective while ascending the stairs she did not live in the house but only came there once in a while to see an old woman who dwelt in the garret. . _ “ You see, sir," she said, “ everything ain’t on the square ’bout me. I’m an orphan without any father or mother—that is, I suppose I am, but there’s no telling, for somebody pays eight dollars a month for my keeping. “ It is paid to the old woman up-stairs, who brought me up.” _ “ What a strange history!” “ Ain’t it! But I’ll spin the whole of the yarn for you some time when there’s an opportunity for you to listen to it, but we’re a little too pressed for time now.” . n “ Do you think they Will pursue us up here! “ Maybe! there’s no tellin ’bout it, you know. I guess they’ll try the yar for us.” “ But we can escape by means of the roof,” suggested Roland Yorke. It was strange how in this dangerous emer- gency the detective, who was a man of extra shrewdness, consulted the girl, who was but lit- tle more than a child, just as if she was an old, experienced man of the world. “We would be mighty atétmtznlzle hsiesexéagygr somebody, and then Bristol would soon be at our heels.” Just at this point the two doors below were broken in and the conflict ensued, the particu- lars of which we have already related. “Quick, quick! theyJ are after us already!” is e cried the girl, while dog gave utterance to a low, ominous grow], as much as to intimate t h vas all read for another scrimmage. thfi‘hezl‘d woman toiivhom the girl had referred h (1 been sittin in a low rocking—chair by a lit- tl: table, upon E'hich burnt the commonest kind of a tallow candle, when the row broke out in w r entr . thglli: hid bee; sewing, but being overcome by slumber allowed her work .to fall into her lap, and was enjoying a splendid nap when the up- roar below roused her to a consciousness that , ' was wron . . sogfiftgtlhlegr of Mosesg. phat’s that?” she cried, opening her cave: and glaring around her With ' amazemen . ornslg’lssitfiluii‘iaghtyaunty, don’t be alarmed l”_ the girl exclaimed, hastily. “ It is only a little trouble that this gentleman has tumbled into with Bristol Bill and his gang! ’q’ . “The murthering blaggards! cried the old woman, who thoroughlv hated the rufiians who, by their evil deeds, had made the neighborhood a terror to all decent men. “ Can vou hide us somewhere, aunty, in case they should take it into their heads to come up '9’” .k d the irl. he‘EQShuti'qefand I cgan do that same!” answered the old woman, promptly. “ d I ive on my word that you will not loscltiliyth‘izng li’y aiding us!” said lorke, im- ulsively. p “Sorra a thin _ the old woman, oftily. do I want, bedad!” replied d Bristol Bill.” . . wgllllll'lf’lg this brief conversation the girl had one to the head of the stairs, and was listening with all her ears to the tremendous racket which the contending parties in their free fight in the darkness of the entry below were making, “ I don’t understand it !” she exclaimed. first, thinking we have gone over the back fence, but when they don’t find any trace of us there the ’11 be apt to think we are in the house somew ere, and go “Shure, I’d do any- thing in me, power to worry that thafe of the .! ll ’l ’l”, minmn um. ‘l I l i “ They seem to be having a regular fight down- stairs, and there isn’t any signs that they think of following us up here.” The detective at once jumped to the right conclusion. “It would be a joke if the party from the outside had run against Brisrol Bill and his men in the dark and mistaken them for us i” be ex- claimed. “I’ll bet a hat that that is just what the have done, for they seem to be going at eaclvi other tooth and nail, hammer and tongs,” re— plied the girl. “It will not take them long to find out the mistake, though, and then we may expect them to attempt to follow us 11 with ten times more vigor than before,” sai Roland Yorke, in a tone of conviction. “ Oh, there isn’t the least doubt about that,” the girl assented. “ Don’t ye be afther minding the blaggards!” cried the old woman, who had evidently been indulging in more liquid stimulants than was good for her health. “ To the divil I’d pitch the whole pack, bad ’cess to ’em for a gang of dirthy scrubs!" “That’s all right, aunty, but they will mur- der us all the same, if they succeed in getting hold of our precious persons, and I don’t see where on earth you are going to hide us in this barracks! Why, there doesn’t seem to be room here to stow away a good sized rat, let alone such healthy-looking humans as we are,” the girl observed, looking around her with a critical air. ‘ The truth of the remark could not be dis- puted. In the open space between the two gar- rets there wasn’t anythin but the bare walls, the floor and the roof, w ile all the furniture the garrets could boast was a little cot-bed, a table and a rocking-chair in the old woman’s apartment, which was the front garret, while the back room could only hold a straw mat- tress, placed right upon the floor, and a solitary chair, decidedly the worse for wear. As the girl had said, an ordinary rat would have had trouble in concealing himself so as to avoid detection anywhere in the garret. Possibly such a small animal might have got under the straw mattress and so avoided detec- tion until the mattress was moved, but all of the three fugitives were entirely too big to hope for success in tr ing that game. “ Aha, wait till awhile ago!” cried the dame, shaking her head, while a look of extreme cuno ning appeared upon her features. “ Shure I’ll be afther putting yez in a place that all the blaggards in the woruld would never find yez!” “ Well, I give it up!” the girl exclaimed, in amazement. “ You’re too much for.me, aunty. I don’t see any place where you can hide us three big critters.” . n ‘ Oh! I’ve a beautiful place, me darlint! chuckled the old woman. “ I’d like to know where it is,” observed the girl, doubtfully. I And the detective too was equally dubious. He had carefully surveyed the scantily—fur- nished a artments and was not able to find a hiding-p ace. . True, one might try to hide under the straw mattress in the rear garret, or think to esca observation by crawling under the cot in t e front, but it would be the hight of folly to try to play either of these games, for detection was certain. _ “Ye don’t see any hidingplace?” cried the aged dame, with a cunning leer. _ . “Nary place!” responded the girl, dropping into the slang way that she sometimes as- sumed. I _ q “ My good woman, do not trifle With us,' the detective said, seriously. “ This is no laughing matter—no jest! These ruffians who- are fol- lowing us up so closely are determmed to shed our blood, and although I am armed and pre- ared to defend myself, yet I do not want to Become involved in a fight if I can help myself, particularly when the odds are all in favor of anta onists.” ml: Houlgd yer whist!” cried the old woman, with another knowing leer. “Ye mustn’t try to tache yer grandmother to suck eggs, you w. ‘ n‘(Rl’ll hide ye away where the divil himself and all his imps couldn’t find yez! ” “ I’ll be afther putting yez in my trunk._ . “ In your trunk!” cried both of the fugitives ' breath. . 1n‘l‘iThat is phat I sed! Mebbe ye think the likes of an old woman like meself hasn’t got such a thing, had ’cess to yer impudencel” cried the Celtic lady, with a fine show of indigna- “91‘1But where is your trunk?” asked the girl, looking around with a bewildered expressmn, while Roland Yorke came to the conclusion that the old lady had taken too much liquor and didn’t really know what she was talking bout. “Oh, I have a trunk, and a fine wan, too ;” then the dame removed a small strip of carpet, which was spread on the floor in front of the cot-bed, to one side, and'pulled' up two loose boards in the floor, revealing quite a cav1ty be- n ath. e“There’s me trunk! there’s whereI put me valuables whin I go out, and diVil a blag. gal-d has been cute enough to smell thim at.” o It was a tight squeeze, but the three all man- , t et into the (‘riVity. ag’l’lierzgivas plenty of air. fo_r_the boards were filled with cracks, so the fugitives endured the confinement better than one would have ex- .pected. The old woman replaced the boards and the carpet, and so it happened that the eager search of Bristol Bill and his pals came to naught. CHAPTER XII. NAN. WHEN Bristol Bill and his pals retreated, the old woman followed them on tip-toe, with the stealthy caution of a cat, and kept watch until she was satisfied they had quitted the house for good. Then she returned to the garret, moved aside the carpet, lifted the boards and cried in tri- um - “ You kin come out of that, me darlints, the murthering blaggards have gone away, bad ’cess to thim l” The fugitives were not sorry to emerge from their narrow quarters, and even the dog seemed delighted to be released. I’Varmly they expressed their thanks to the old woman for the service she had dime them. “ Don’t be afther saying a wornd, me jewels!" she exclaimed loftily. “ Shure, it’s only right for all dacent people to join hands ag’in’ sich blaggards as Bristol Bill and his spalpeens. “ Faixl I would be a happy woman for to see that thafe of the woruld dance upon nothing wid a rope around his neck for to hold him up.” “ He will come to that in time; there isn’t the least doubt about it, unless some well-aimed bul- let or keen-ed ed knife cuts the thread of his life in twain,” oland Yorke remarked. “ True for yees!” Mrs. O’Neil exclaimed. “That do be the way the most of the hard b’yes come to an ind. “ But now, me jewels, jist make yerselves comfortablg here, while I do be afther seeing phat the blaggards are doing. “ Mebbe, ye know, they are lying low ’round the ,house somewhere, waiting for yez to come “ I hardly think so, granny,” the girl observed, “for after searching the house as thoroughly as they did, they will not be apt to be under the im- pression that we are still here. I guess they would all be willing to bet high that we got out while they were in the cellar. ’ “ Mebbe yez are right, darlint, but it won’t be afther doing any hurt for me to luck afther thim a bit. “ There’s no telling phat tricks sich blaggards will be up to. “ I’ll be back as soon as I kin find out the rights of the matter.” And then the old woman departed. The girl sat down upon the cot and motioned “ You kin come out of that, me darlints.” to the detective to take the rocking-chair by the table. “Make yourself comfortable,” she observed in the free and easy way peculiar to her. . “From what 1 know of granny I can just tell you that it will be an hour at the least be- fore we set eyes upon her face again. “ She’ll get down to the door, strike some of the other old women in the neighborhood, and then their tongues will go it in a way that Will be astonishing to behold. _ “ I know granny of old,” she declared, With a pert toss of her wise little head. . “ She’s generally good for an hour’s gosSip at the door on any ordinary night when there isn’t anything in particular to talk about, but with the neighborhood in a fever over this ruc- tion, as it is to-night, I guess I am a little too revious in thinking she will come to the scratch in an hour. “ I guess we had better say two hours, and so be on the safe side.” . Roland Yorke smiled at the assumption of the girl, but as he judged she was pretty near right, he sat down in the rocking—chair and pre- pared to make himself comfortable. _ For the first time he had now an opportunity to study at his leisure the appearance of the girl who had cdme so timely to his rescue. She was petite in form, yet extremely well- proportioned, and looked to be about fifteen ears 1d. y This outhful appearance was partly owing probab y to the fashion in which,she was at- tired, for the dark calico dress she wore was made in the plainest manner and only came to the top of her boots, thereby giving her a youth- ful appearance. She had an odd face; it could not be called pretty, yet after a few minutes’ inspection it was strangely attractive, as the young man soon discovered. ~ . She was a ronounced brunette, With sharp black 8 es, a ace more oval than round, a nose which ad a decided tendency to that shape which is popularly termed “pug,” a skm well browned, not only by nature but by exposure to the sun as well, and her chestnut-brown hair curled in great tangled masses all over her well- shaped head, which was disfigured by a hor— ribly battered~up hat, very much the worse for wear. , . Roland Yorke studied the face of the girl for at least five minutes in perfect silence, and the longer he looked the greater his interest grew. It was one of those rare faces which at the first glance the casual stranger would pro- nounCe to be decidedly ugly. “ A little dark thing, with a turn-up nose, squirrel eyes and a shock head tangled like a lion’s mane,” would have been the judgment of about ninety-nine people out of a hundred. But the hundredth—the careful judge who looks beyond the mere surface, and who does not allow himself to be biased by first impres— sions—would have decided that the girl, if not a beauty in the rough, could, like the diamond, be polished into one. Hi ‘lllflNiIllll‘lWl' The aid of proper costume, carefully-selected jewels, and an experienced hair—dresser, would havie worked wonders in the appearance of the 1r . Such thoughts as these ran rapidly through the mind of Roland Yorke as, with earnest eyes, he surveyed the person of the girl. She bore the scrutiny unfiinchingly for a while, gazing at him with her sharp eyes as if unconscious that she was the subject of so much attention. Then, with a quick movement of her head and just a shade of irritation perceptible in her tones, she exclaimed: “ ell, I guess you will know me again when you see me, won’t you, eh?” The detective started; he had not really been conscious that he was devoting so much atten- tion to the girl, so interested was he in this new and novel study, until her words recalled him to himself. " I beg your pardon!” he hastened to say. “ I did not mean to offend you.” “ Oh, no, of course not; I didn’t think you did; but I tell you it isn’t quite the cheese for a good-looking fellow like you to stare an ugly girl, such as I am, clean out of her counte- nance.” “ But you’re not ugly !” “Oh, no, not by a jugfull!” she cried, sar- castically. “There’s been a heap sight uglier girls in the world than I am, but they’re all dead, and you can bet high on it too.” Roland Yorke laughed; the girl was a char- acter if there ever was one. “Oh, you needn’t think to get out of it by laughing 1” she exclaimed, with a pout that was wonderfully becoming, “I’m real mad, so now, and I don’t care if you know it! “ The idea of sitting there and staring at me just as if I was a statue put here just to be stared at!” “ Again I must beg you to forgive me; I did not really know what I was about. “ Upon my word I assure you I was not con- scious that 1 was staring at you rudely. I be- came interested in your face, for it is an odd one, and before I knew I had fallen into a brown study over it, just as if you were a model sit‘ ting for a portrait and 1 was the artist who was to paint it.” “That’s real sweet, isn’t it?” And then she i burst into a peal of laughter. “ I guess the artist who attem ts to paint my ‘ picture will come to the conclus1on long before i he gets through that it is the toughest job he i ever tackled. ’ “ If he is after a girl to sit for an imp or a fe- male devil, perhaps I might be able to fill the bill!” she added. “ Oh, no, you wrong yourself!” “ No, I don’t! I know what I am as well as anybody. “ You can’t give me any points on myself. I’ve been there, every time, and I know how the cat jumps. “I’m much obliged to you for the tafly, all the same. “ Taffy is sweet, particularly to an ugly girl, such as I am, even when I know that it is talf .’ “If you were dressed in a becoming manner, with your hair properly arranged, you would look well enough,” he remarked, with the air of a critic. “ You think I would pass in a crowd?” “ Yes, undoubtedly." “A big crowd—a very big crowd, say about a million, so that I wouldn’t have any chanceto be seen,” and again this odd creature gave her- self u to merriment. “ O , not so bad as that!” “ Well, I am as I am,” she remarked, abrupt— ly sobering down, “ and 1 can’t help In self. I try to behave myself as near as I know ow and that is about the best I can do.” “ What is your name?” (I. Nan. n “ Yes, sir-ee, Nan; short and sweet, ain’t it!” “Yes, it’s not an unpleasant—sounding name, and although it used to be common, it’s getting to be rather odd nowadays.” “ Short for Nancy, of course. I got the name from granny here. She is Mrs. Nancy O’Neil.” CHAPTER XIII. THE GIRL’S STORY. “BUT the old lady isn’t your grandmother!” Roland Yorke asked, unable to believe that there could be any tie of relationship between this bright, intelligent girl and the dull, stupid old woman, who could onl boast of a sort of low cunning, peculiar to t 9 race from which she came. “Not much!” replied the irl. “She is no kith or kin of mine, as far as can find out, but as I told you on the stairs coming up, she’s the woman who has looked after me since I was a baby, and somebody pa s her eight dollars a month for takin care 0 me. That is, she used to take the eig t dollars, but ever since the time when I started on my own hook she has turned the money over to me. “ ,She’s a square old soul, you see, square as a die! “I am decidedly interested in your history, for there is evidently a mystery connected with your birth,” the detective observed, thought- fully. “ Oh, yes, you can bet high on that. There is a big mystery, and I’ve puzzled my head a good deal over it since I’ve got old enough to take care of myself, but I’ve only had my labor for my pains.” “I suppose the old woman is bound to se- crecy ?” “ b, no, she don’t know any more about it than I do. “She’s a good old soul, though she’s a leetle too fond of taking more benzine than is good for her once in awhile. “ She’s_ so fond of me that she would give the whole thing away if she could, but she can’t.” “This seems like a riddle,” the detective re- marked, “and I confess I no not understand it.” .“ Oh, I’ll spin the yarn right from the begin- ning, and then ou’ll be able to get at the rights of the matter,’ responded the girl. ‘f I’ll give it to you just as straight as a string, just the way granny give it to me, after I got big enough to be inquisitive, and used to pester the life out of her with my questions. “How old do on think I am?” “Well, you 00k to be about fifteen, but from your manner I should judge you were older.’ “I will be eighteen next fall, but no one takes me to be as old as that.” “ 1 should not from your appearance.” “ I .wear short dresses on purpose so as to look as childish as possible, for 1 don’t think it looks nice for a great big girl to be selling papers in the street. “ That is what I do for a living, you know. “ well, to come down to my story: one sum- mer-night about seventeen years ago, Mrs. O’Neil was sitting at the end of one of the iers for the sake of getting a breeze from the river, for the day had been a scorcher, and the night was about as bad. “There was a lot of people on the pier when she went down, but as the night wore on they gradually went home. “There was some barrels and boxes on the dock, and granny found a snug nook, curled herself up in it and went to sleep, expecting to be roused up by the party with whom she came to the pier when they got ready to go home. “ But these folks forgot all about granny, and went away without waking her. “ The first thing she knew was being roused from her sleep by the sound of a woman sob— bing, and when she looked around on the string- piece, right at the end of the pier sat a well- dressed young woman holding a baby in her arms and talking to it in such a way that granny came to the conclusion that the woman had Igone crazy. “ cannot do it—I cannot do it!” the woman exclaimed, and then she would cry and hug the baby. “ There wasn’t a soul on the pier but army and the stran e woman, all the rest aving gone home, an from the hight that the moon had risen granny judged that it must be near midnight. “Now granny was always a good—natured soul, so she up and said: “ ‘ Can I do anything for ye, ma’am ?’ “The strange lady grabbed her baby to her breast, jumped to her feet, and granny for a moment thought she was going to spring over- board, so she made haste to grab her. “ ‘Don’t do it, ma’am, don’t leap into the river, for I’ll give the alarm and you’ll only be fished out again!’ “ ‘ What is the use of living?’ said the stran lady. ‘ I am an unfortunate wretcli and won (1 be far better off beneath the dark waters than anywhere else.’ “ ‘ Oh, don’t say that, ma’am !’ cried granny. ‘A bright, handsome lady like yourself, sure, there’s a great store of good luck for you some- where in this world if you only take the trouble to hunt it up.’ “ ‘ I haven’t a friend in the world!‘ the lady exclaimed, looking as if her heart would break. “ ‘ There’s plenty of friends for you if you’ll only give them a chance to show themselves,’ granny replied. “ Granny always had the gift of the gab, as she calls it, and that is because when she was a girl in Ireland she kissed the blarney stone. “The lady seemed to be struck by the force of this remark and looked earnestly at granny as much as to ask if she was really in earnest. “ ‘ Oh, I mean it, ever word of it !’ granny exclaimed. ‘ Sure, a la y like yourself could easily do well if you only tried.’ “ ‘ Perhaps, perhaps,’ the other replied. ‘If I only had myself to look after, but ham- pered as I am with this child, this living evi- dence of my folly and another’s sin,this innocent babe that I both love and hate—’ “ ‘ Give it to me, ma’am!’ cried granny, in that blundering, good~natured way of hers. ‘I’ll take care of it for on until you get a chance to turn ’round. Myy husband is a fisher— man, and away most of the time, and as we never had an children of our own he won’t mind. “ ‘ hen you get able you can pay a trifle if you like or take the baby just as you please.’ “ The lady accepted the offer, gave the child to granny, and arranged to meet her there on the ier on the first of the next month. “ he kept the appointment, said she had found friends, but wanted granny to keep the child and agreed to pay her eight dollars a month.” “And you were that child,” Roland Yorke said. guessing at the fact. “Yes, sir, I was that blessed baby! “ Years passed on and I grew up. My mother ——that is, if the woman who gave me to granny was my mother—never cared to see me. She came regularly and paid the money, but never set eyes on me. “ hen I was eight years old the personal payment stopped. “The lady told granny that she was going to leave the country and did not expect to ever re- turn to it again. “ The money would be paid through an agent, and if the payments were ever stopped granny might make up her mind that the lady was dead an everything was ended.” “ And the money has been regularly paid ?” the detective inquired, deeply interested. “ Yes, regularly every quarter, until this last quarter, then, when granny went for the money to the old pawnbroker, Moses Cohenson—per— ha s you know where his place is on the Bowery i” he detective nodded. Cohenson was one of those pawnbrokers who was regarded by the detectives as being but lit- tle better than a thieves’ “ fence,” as the place where stolen goods are disposed of is called in the tbieves’ ai‘got. “ He’s the agent. He said the mone had not come, but be supposed it would be a ong in a day or two.” “ Do you think he knows the party?” “He swears he doesn’t; says that all he knows is that he gets a dollar for paying over the check. It is always sent in the form of a check and granny has to go to the bank to have it cashed.” “ That trail ought to be easily followed, and if you like I’ll undertake the job of finding out who and what this mysterious lady is.” A wistful look came into the girl’s dark eyes. “If she is my mother, I feel sometimes as if I would like to see her, and then again I get bit- ter and revengeful‘when I think how she cast me off when an infant. “ I ain’t much of a daughter, I know, for any kind of a decent mother to be proud of, but then just think, sir, how much worse I might be granny hadn’t taken such good care of me “You’re a good girl, Nan, and I believe that there’s the makin of a noble woman. in you 1” the detective crieg, warmly. “ Taffy again, and sweeter than before,” she said, with a laugh, but there were tears in her dark eyes. The old woman returned at this moment with the intelligence that the coast was clear. Roland Yorke took his departure, first mak- ing an appointment with the irl, for he as- sured her he would lose no time in following up the clew he had secured. Through Cherry street the detective safely passed Without hindrance, but just as he turned the corner of Catharine street he came face to face with Bristol Bill and his two pals, Sheeny Lew and Red Barry. There was a shout of recognition. (To be continued—commenced in No. 40.) A - .7 -MM. . .A..- \m =3} . / “wilt” ’ r. . A V ‘ ~22.“ J W. .x A n f . an a'M‘v a: gas}; ov-mvw- i m ‘- .».o~ -.. ewe-.139]. ., t.:.::_.‘ - < ., JR WA 7'5; 14411:; are“. rear-six n ea..- "fi'v 1 1-D quay _' yew-77. ‘ ..,~ g...’ . ‘ V. “‘2' hug-gig; 14' ega- aevagway ‘ .:,,7..:;. .. Mb»... wwu~.WM-—w~_—. m”... nun-n.-. -\ .’-.A x. . 5 _ 5. é a s s s MONTANA RELIGION, UN RHYMED. BY J. M. HOFFMAN. Ruligion.’ Well, I don‘t know, sir— aecing as how you‘re u. purs‘oir Perhaps you might give me it pointer ‘l'liut 'tivould be Well to remember. Ari for myself, well, I reckon _ l practice as well as_l preach it— Tlliit graVc over thar in the Valley ls what I allude to at present. It was this way—Sandy Jim was my partner, .\ fair sort 0’ chap out quite decent—— Sonictliin‘ like you in appearance, Only not so sneakin’ an’ ugly. Well one day he got up and dusted—~ Skipped on a boss that he‘d stolcn From Billy, the Kid: and, moreover. _ Three hundred dollars of mine in his boot-leg. I followed him close, and that evening Found him asleep in a canyon;— I otter hev killcd him, perhaps . 0. But feelings religious restrained me. Hi- awoke with a start in themorning— ‘ " You‘re my meat, sir,“ I quietly iniittcreu; Then I told him to run for his life, 511‘, Which he did, and struck for the bushes. Tli;i.’s w-iat I call kind, and kindness ls love. and love is religion; _ ‘lIo~t men would boy killed the cuss slr'eping; As fer nie—I couldn’t have done it. A chance fer his life, s-‘r, I gave him— A (‘lirr-ti inlike spirit controlled inc; "Did I kill him? \\ cll, I should say so— ‘l‘witlve holes in his hide, sir, I counted! What! ain‘t that your style of religiontb To kill on the w.n;?—l'n'. surprised. sir; Britter go back to the States, for Montana Is better Without you than with you. _—___—_—-——-——— Dl. Harissn’s Investment. BY MARY REED CROWELL. SHE made a Very handsome, very aristocratic- looking pic ure, dI‘--ssetl in white nun’s vailing trimmed in Spanish lac—i, with a cascade of laci- around her slend~r thront, where a clu~ter of vivid jav'qneminot roses made the only touch of" color about her toilet, and that reflected faintly in the white satin lining of her lace-covered sunshade. Her name was Mabel Saxon, and she leaned from the door of the dai'li~i-rinis.vn-eined haroiiche it s-‘ood before the door of Dr. Harrison's office, while Dr. Harrison himself. handsome. elegant. a “rising young physician.” stood hat in hand. talking to her and thinking what a beautiful creature she was. “It is really too Litternlls of vou, doctor!" she said. ShOwlng all her little white lee‘tb in a fiastinglsmlle. “I did not mean to tax you so LeavilV. Yo ll‘ contribution is princely.” " It ~is of no conscqieuce whatever. only too glad to be able to do my share.” " And 1 am so very much ooliged, Dr. Har- rison! Good-nior: ing.” And he h nvm 10 v as the aristocratic rqni. page carrying the beauty and llrll‘CSS rolled away —and in re, Dr. Harrison watched it out of sight before he returned to bisofiire where Frank D iter, another young medical fledgling. sat c 'mt'ortably smoking a cigar. _ “ l‘iii blessel glad Miss Saxon didn’t see m0," he exelaimed. " What did she get out of you, Harrison 3” Dr. Harrison sat down to a fresh cigar, with a complacent, s'nile. ' “ I put- iny naui~ down for thirty dollars.” Frmk lookel at him in inelcdulous amazes motif. “ Thirty dollars! Are you crazy, man?" Dr. Harrison smiled. “ Navel- was S’llll—‘I‘, my young friend Francis. Thirty dollars, and l consider it as good an in- Vt~i§illellt as I ever made." Dziter lo:.ked surprised. ‘ ” All lnvestm- iii .3” And from Dr. Hirrisrn’s nod and smile, Dater jumped at the « onderful conclusion. “ You don‘t mean it! You don’t mean to say that you intend to marry Miss Saxon, the heir- ess‘l” “ Whv not? If I can, of courSe.” And then Dati-r laid his cigardosvn, and looked intentlv at Harris -n"s handsome face. “\Vell, Well! I‘ve heard of brass, and I’ve read about check, but neVer, in all my experi ence, have I come across as cool a game as thisl Marry Miss Saxon. daughter of the pro dest old aristocrat in the place, and worth half a dozen millions! Harrison, you are non compos mantis !” " Wait and sce before you appoint a commit- tee to inquire into my lunacy, my excitable young friend! Give me six months, and then teil me what you think of myinvestment. Just at present—hand over the cigars, will you?" And, while the two young fellows discussed the situation. Miss Mate] Saxon was on her way home, very plvasantly disappointed in the re- sults of her efforts to raise. money hr the “In- fantile Sumn or S a- di Horn "—ngreeul-ly disappointed, for her list was large and reliable. She had almost .xpected to meet with little success, not knowing the Way of the world—m t dreaming that the beau iE‘ul, rich belle, drixen from house to home, from office to office by liveried servants, in a superb equipage, would secure a twenty-dollar sub-cription where a plainly-dressed woman, were her heart never so truly in her great, charitable work, would be snubbed. refused, or put off with a begrudged tWeDty—fivecent piece. “ And w..sn‘t Dr. Harrison splendid? Just splendid. and so handsome! I do adore bloude gentleman, and eSpecially physiolansl” For Miss Saxon was dark and brilliant as a tropical bird. " Nonsense!" Miss Geranium answered~Miss Geranium. the plain, elderly companion on the back seat of th» carriage, in black silk and soli- taires. and gray hair. “Butit isn’t nonsense: he is handsome, and I shall invite him to my next German.” And, by long experience having learned that Mabel always had her ovvn way, Miss Geranium said neve anocher Word. lam “ Of course it’s some one crying. and a child. tool Go see, won't you, Miss Geranium! I cannot endure to hear a little child cry from suffering.” “She’s been whimpering and going on like that all dav. Bridget says. It's her little sister, come to spend a few days with her. Toothache, she savs.” “ Then why don’t she have it out!” MISS Geranium smiled winrrily. “There are sewral reasons, my dear Mabel. Extraction costs money. in the that place, and hurts, in the Second place. Besides, there’s no one to go With the child—the servants are all too :cary to take her." “ Selfish creatui es! 1’ “ Me! Why. Mabell With this horrid rheu- matism in my neck that I‘ve been nursing for ten days! By no means.” "‘ Then I‘ll gol And it shall neither hurt the poor little thing nor cost, anything either. I’ll take her round to Dr. Harrison, and he’ll ad- minister the gas for nothing, I know. He is so charitable.” And so. in waterproof and hat, carefully vailed against. the inclemency of the September night, Mabel Sixon went out, leading little Johanna MacFinnignn by the hand—utterly re- gardless of Miss Geranium’s remonstrances. “ It will not hurt me, an l—if it. did. I’d take the poor little thing all the same, before she cries herself sick. Come, little girl. we’ll be back in low than no time. and won’t you feel good. sitting in Bri ‘ge ’s light, warm kitchen with not a bit of toothache!" It was aft-er rfli-e hours, and Dr. Harrison had extinguished the gas, and retired to his sanctum .«anrtorum at the rear, for an hour‘s smoking ann general loafing before he departed for his boarding-houw—when the Voice or Sum, his colored factotum, broke the delicious quiet: You are not afraid—you “Dar‘s a little Irish gal, sah, w-wh-at’s got de toofnke, dot-tor, au’ wants it distracted.” “ Then let her go where she can get it done— I‘m not going to bother this time of night. Look up, Sum." “ But she’s cryin’ orful, sah——‘penrs like she‘d oughter hav’ i-umfio’ dnnc—” "Clear out, 1 tell you, and lock the ofilce iipl Blame the charity patients! I’ve been bled about all I can stand. Tell her to go to the deuce 1” And Miss Saxon, standing just behind the sobbing child, heard every syllable—her warm, impulsive blood boiling in her veins. “ Come, child,” she said, quietly enough, “ we‘ll go somewhere else.” And then Sam, the dunderhead, suddenly catching sight of her, bobbed a curious little bow at her. “Doctor Ha’r’so'i!” he called, “dar’s a lady yere too—dat ’ar one what come in de kerridge a few—” “Aladyl Eli? W’hat?" and the gentleman sprung excitedly to his feet. “Why didn’t you ~ay so, you demented idiot you! I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Saxon! It has ban a innst unfortunate misunderstanding, but—” “ We will not trespass on your time, sir, nor bleed you ior charity’s sake,” Miss Saxon said, in icv, stinging tonm, with a bow of complete annihilation. “ Come, Johanna, we’ll go to Dr. Palell‘. ’ And so after all, the thirty-dollar investment turned out a loss, and nobody was to blame but the gentleman himself! Texas lack, THE PRAIRIE RATTLER: on, The Queen of the Wild Riders. A Romance in the life of a real hero—John B. Omohundro—Texas Jack—and a tale of the Southwest Border. TOLD BY HON. W. F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL‘, AUTHOR or “ DEATH TRAILER,” “ GOLD BULLET SPORT," “ KANSAS KING," “ THE PHANTOM SPY," “DEADLY EYE," “ BORDER ROBIN noon,” “ FANCY FRANK or COLORADO,” “WILD BILL, THE WHIRL- WIND or THE WEST,“ ETC., ETC. CHAPTER XLVI. SEEKING LIFE IN A DEATH TRAP. “ I TELL you, Touk, they have got us headed off.” The remark came coolly from the lips of Tents J-ick, us he glanCcd over his shoulder at a long line of horsemen spread out upon the prairie behind him, and more than a score in nunber. Tue Tonkaway was riding by his side, and both were urging their horses hard, but the ut- terlv worn Ont brutcs could only go at a slow canter, for their c) es were sunken, their flanks hollow, and they panted like hounds under the hard pace at which they had been driven. “ Yes, but prairie heap bad when got no good horse,” answered the Tonkaway, glancing to ward the green rolling prairie behind them. “ And the Stakpd Plain is b lfore us. Tonk.” “ Heap bad, too,” said the Indian, calmly. “Right there you are, Took; it. is a death- trap Seemingly to all who enter it, except the Wild Riders; but we must invade its sterile wastes. and see how far yonder Tigers dare fol low us.” " Maybe follow far.” “ Not on horseback, that is certain, for their horses are as badly used up as are ours, and when these two brave animals drop, yonder line of horStflesh will go under, too.” “ Maybe we drop, Tiger drop, too.” “ Well, if we lead them to their‘ death, even if we die on the Staked Plain, we Will have ac- complished some good in the world, Tonk.” “Heap had good us die, too,” was the phi- losophical respoase of the thoughtful Tonk- awn . “Iyagree with you, TOnk: but we must risk the Plain. or stand and fight it out, with the chances all against us." “ White brother have heap sense; go on.” “Then on it is; come, my noble horses, we must invade the death-rm ahead of us that we may hope to live, though very much fear me that you will drop dead upon its boa sands ere you have gone many miles.” The pesition of the two men was certainly critical, for the Staked Plain loomed up before them, with all its horrors to warn them 03, while behind them came their bitter foes, the Tigers of the Chaparral, who were pressing them hard. With their horses laboring under the disad- vantage of having been hard ridden before their capture, good as were the animals, Jack and the Tonkawny had only been able to hold their own atead of their foes in the long and tedious fligh t. , Several times had the Texan thought of changing his course. and flying toward the hacienda of Don Rivera; but he had come out upon the trail of the Strange girl, Camila, and hated to return without being able to give some account of her, so he held on to the northward, hoping that his enemies would give up the chase, or he have some opportunity of eluding them. Now, with the Staked Plain upon one hand and the Tigers upon the other, he had but one course to pursua, either to fight against fearful odds, or to face the terrors and dangers of the desert whose borders were strewn with the bones of human beings and animals that had perished Upon it. Straight for the barren waste then they turned their horses’ heads, and soon were once more penetrating the dreary scene where they had so nearly lost their lives upon a former oc- casion. “ We are in for it now, Tonk.” (( Yes.” “ Hark! the Tigers are cheering, for they think we are going to certain death, if we do escape their fury.” “ Maybe 50,” was the response of Red Snake. “ And maybe not. Tonkaway. for we still live, and I shall look upon the bright side until my eyes are shut by death.” “Heap sense,” muttered the Tonkaway, re- covering his tired horse as be nearly fell. And on they rode, at the same Weary canter, right toward the heart of the Plain, while be- hind them came the Tigers. Reaching the border of the desert, the Tigers came to a halt. Then Texas Jack saw them water their horses at the last pool, and where he had no time to stop. Men and horses seemed greatly refreshed by the cooling draughts, and the latter especially by a few mouthfuls of grass. Then the Tigers stretched forth in a long line, and continuod the pursuit into the desert. The temporary rest and water gave them a great advantage over the. horses of the Texan and the Tonkaway. and Jack muttered: “ They got a twelve hours’ longer lease on life by that drink, T0nk.” “ Yes, heap bad for us,” was the complacent rep y. As though determined to press the fugitives to the utmost. the Tigers rode on at all the speed they could get out of their jaded animals, and began to gain in the chase. Seeing this, the Texan and the Tonkaway dismounted and run by the side of their horses, and once more held their own. Taking example from the fugitives, the Tigers also dismounted, and thus relieved of weight, their horses once more began to gain, for the rest, if but. for a few moments, and the water, had indeed greatly refreshed them and given them a longer lease on life. Pitilcssly the sun beat- down upon the beads of all, though it was drawing near the western horizon. and the burning heat from the parched ffll‘l’ll was almost intolerable to man and beast alike. At last the trot slowed down to a. walk, and when Jack and Red Snake again mounted, they could not urge their horses forward at a faster all. g But the Tigers were unable to push on any faster, or at least so very little faster, that they saw that it would take miles yet before they could come up with the fugitives, and the darkness of night would be upon them before then. At last one of the Man Tigers halted and dis- mounted. and the line wavered. Then another stopped still. and one by one they came to a halt, until the'r leader was alone in his desire to press on. But he too was forced to yield while yet light and strength remained for them to find their way back. “They have given it up, Tonk,” said Jack. (A Yes.” “ There, they have turned back: but we will move on umil we find a sand-hill to hide us from them.” (‘ Yes-3, And on the tw0 fugitives pressed, while their foes had turned back, and at last the sand bill was reached, and horses and riders sunk down in utter prostration upon the hot enrtb. CHAPTER XLVII. IN THE NICK or TIME. IT was a relief to Texas Jack and the Tonka— way to see their foes turn back. not daring to face the death desert further; but they certain- ly were in no condition themselves tobe joyous, for their horses were used up, and they Were little better, with no hope, that they could see then, of relief. I They felt that the Tigers could return to the pool and refresh themselves and horses, and grass was near for the latter, while game could be killed for the riders, who Could then stretch out a line of miles along the border of the desert to watch for the return of their foes. After a. night on the hot plain. Without water and without food, the Tigers knew that the hu- man nature of even the Prairie Rattler and his red companion would be used up; but if not, the following day must certainly finish them, so they would wait awhile on sentinel duty along the border. In the mean time Texas Jack and the Tonka- way were resting themselves and their horses, but it was simply a rest, and not refreshing to man or beast. “We‘ll wait until the sun sets, Tonk, then get a few hours’ sleep if we can, and then strike for a point some miles from where the Tigers followed us into the desert. for I am confident that they will watch for us until they are cer- tain we are dead," said the Texan. “Think pony stand it all righté” “ Yes. Tonk; they will have rest, if not food and water, and can hold out until we get back to the prairie, I hape.” “ May be; but mighty hot here.” “ Your words are Wisdom, Mister Tonkawny, as regards the heat, for I feel in blisters from head to foot, and were I to bore bore for an artesian well, am confident that I would soon strike his satanic majesty’s dominions.” “ Maybe,” rej lined the Tonkaway, not under- standing a word that Texas Jack had said. With their saddles upon the ground, and their scrapes to keep the heated ground from fairly scorching them, they made the best of their unfortunate situation, and watched the sun go d0wn with real pleasure. After its heat was no longer felt falling directly upon them, they tried to gain some rest, as were also the horses that lac upon the ground panting as though they had just halted from a hard race. , In uneasy snatches sleep came to men and beasts, until at last Texas Jack thought that it must be nearly midnight, and roused the Indian. To his surprise the Tonkaway seemed to feel the heat more than he did, and no lor ger sprung up with his usually elastic step. J "Some, T0nk, are you awake?” called out no “Maybe; feel heap bad here,” and he placed his hand upon his head. " Come, old fellow, we must be OE, and find water as soon as possible, for I am giddy as a fandango belle, myself,” and Jack aided the red skin to mount his horse. Then he clambered up into his own saddle, and taking his bearings as well as he could by the stars, they set out upon their way. The ’I‘onkaway as they rode along was silent, and with bowed head clung to his saddle as though he feared he would fall. Several times Jack spoke to him but received only a guttural sound for an answer. “Come, old chief, you must not give up, but keep a stiff upper lip. “ It isn’t like you to break down,” cried Jack, really greatly alarmed for his red friend. I “ Me want stop,” at last said the red skin. “No, no, it is not far now, so push on,” and Ja'k was fearful lest a halt might be their de- struction. “ Red Snake go no further—trail end here,” said the Tonknwny, and he slipped quietly from his saddle. Instantly Jack sprun to his side. “ My dear Tonk, don t give up, for we must find watt-r soon, and timber where you can lav in'the shade and rest, while I take care of you.” “ No, Red Snake have to die—go to happy bunting-grounds— much heap water there— plenty trees, heap game—have good time.” “ By Heaven! but. I believe that he is dying.” cried Jack, in a tone of deep distress, and again he tried to arouse the Tonkaway to once more struggle on. But it was of no use, for the Indian seemed to feel that the grip of death was upon him, and that it was useless to go any furth¢ r. “ White brother go—leave Red Snake.” “By Heaven! have we been together all this time. Tonkaway, for you not to know me bet- ter than to think I would desert a dying friend?” and Jack’s voice quivered. “Don’t white brother feel heap bad. Red Snake have to die, want save friend while can.” “When you die, Tonk, I’ll be here to bury yfilfl ;’ but you must make an effort to save your- se . “No, strong all gone; arms, legs, like pap use. “Poor, poor fellow.” and Jack grasped the band of his red friend and sat in silence by his side. Presently the Tonkaway began to talk at ran- dom, and spoke of green prairies, cool waters, plenty of game, and the happy Villages of his people. Then he ceased his chatter and for along time remained Silent. Suddenly he broke forth in his death-song, and sung it loud and clear. He recited his battle-scenes and deeds of valor, and seemed to feel that he was dying of if: wound received in a fierce combat with his 093. Then he suddenly sprung to his feet, and with a fierce, ringing war-cry fell backward in the arms of Texas Jack. “ Great God! he is dead! My poor, poor friend, those accursed Tigers drove you into this desert to die; but you shall be avenged.” 'Laying the body down gently, Texas Jack sat gazing down in the darkness, upon the stern, upturned face of the noble Tonkaway. His own brain throbbed wildly, his throat was parched, and his eyes fairly burned him, and he knew not how long before he too might be taken as had been the poor Tonkaway. But he set to work with his knife to dig a grave. The earth yielded readil , and in an hour’s time he had hollowed out t 9 last sepulcher of his dead friend. Wrapping the Tonkuway in his sera , he placed him in the grave, and then put his belt of arms and string of scalp: by his side, after which be filled in the rave. Rising to his feet a tottered, for his brain was dizzy, and turning to his horse he quickly mounted, while he said: “ Farewdl, brave, noble Tonkawny, and may your body rest in peaCe, and your drew in of joy in the happy hunting—grounds he realiZo-d ” Then he rode slowly on, the horse of Red Snake walking by his side. For miles he held on his way, and it seemed to him that the plain of desolation would never merge into the prairie of life and beauty. But he was bewildered, took no heed of whither he was going, and when at last the dawn broke, he uttered a groan, wrung from his brave heart by despair. for nowhere “as there visible a sign of Vegetation; only the seemingly boundless desolate ueSert. "I'can go no further,” be muttered, and he reeled in his saddle. But; as he did so, his quick ear detected a sound of hoof- falls, and over a sand hill dashed a party of home-men. nstantly he threw himself upon the defensive. determined to sell his life dearly, f-~r they must be the Tigers of the Chaparral. he thought. But as they drew nearer his half-blinded eyes told him that they were a party of the Wild Riders of the Staked Plain. These also he had I okrd upon as foes. and he {as ready to die in his tracks if they attacked 1m. But suddenly there dashed a horse and rider to the front. and a clear voice shouted: “Ah, senor. once more we meet, and thank Heaven Iain jli t in the nick of time to save you” for you have the Plain foyer upon you, 1 see. - CHAPTER XLVIII. CAMILA. I WILL now return to the strange girl, the double of Sei'iOi ita Rena Rivera, who called her- self by the simpie name of Camila. After her saving Texas Jack and the Tonk- away as she did, she departed alone on her way, as the reader will remember, and with the air of one who had acert in destination in view and knew how to reach it. Her white horse se—me.. fully as equal to the task of carrying her as she was of riding, al- though both had had such a fearful experience together when chased bv Iron Arm, the rene- gade chief, whom the reader now knows in all the wickedness of his Career. At last, as she rode along. the prairies began to wear a changed lock, being no longer green and full of beauty. The land had a barren aspect, and before her it seemed to grow more and more into a deso late waste. But she did not hesitate, holding her course toward a small growth of sickly—looking trees. lnto these she rodc aud halted for rest and water at a small pool. A stay of half an hour in the dreary place, and then she boldly beaded her horse directly into the depletion of the Szaked Plain. The noble white showpd no tardiness about gomg, and did not hang back as did many horses who knew by instinct what was before them. Riding without any apparent guiding marks, yet the maiden seemed to change her coon-e from time to time with strange regularity, turn ing here and there atrigh: angles, until had her trail been mapped out, it would have presented the. appearance of the line of a pair of stairs. For several hours she rodeinto the desprt, fol- lowing this zigzag course. and then before her loomed up a pile of what appeared to be stones. But upon approaching nearer to it, all its ghastline-s stOod out in bold relief, for it was but a. monument of bone , human and brute alike. There were human skulls here and there, and one, with all its grinning white teeth, sur- mounted the t0p of the bone monument, which was about ten le-st in flight. ' Then there were the beads and bones of cat- tle, of deer. of horses, wolves and coyotes, until a dozen different specie of then animal kind aided humanity in the weird monument. Reaching this ghastly pile. and with only a. cursory glance at it, the maiden held on her way in a straight line directly into the desert. As the bone monument was almost out of sight behind her, there came before her vision a wrecked wagon, which had evidently been there for years, and. as this also disappeared from her view, as she looked over her shoulder, a scrub tree, with no life in it, was visible stand- ing straight in her coursa. By this also the maiden rode, going deeper and deeper into the (1va t, though she began to feel the heat, as did also the panting horse. Without apparent dread she held on, and if she had any objects to guide her further, they certainly would not have been visible to the eye of any companion that might have been with her. Now she no longer went on a zigzag course, but kept on a bee—line deeper into the Staked Plain, wholly unmindful, it seemed, that she had left many miles behind her, and passed a monument of the bones of men and animals that it had proven fatal to. At last. as the sun neared its setting, there appeared befOre her a lot of sand-hills, higher than those that had before met her view. As she drew nearer to them their appearance seemed to pres'ent a strange regularity, and there seemed to be a ridge of them extending for half a mile. Suddenly over the summit of one of the sand- bills dashed a horseman, then another, and an- other. until a dozen men were riding toward her at lightning speed. But she did not bring her horse to a halt, nor show the slightest sign of fear, but rode direct- ly on t0ward the coming horsemen who were waving their broad sombreros and shouting like Indians. As they drew nearer it could be seen that their faces were darkly bronzed, their dress was of buckskin, and they wore white sombreros, while they were splendidly mounted, their horses being equipped with superb saddles and bridles, and one and all of the riders were armed to the teeth. In advance, upon a horse as black as ebony, rode a young man with a dark face that was womanly! in the beauty of its features, and yet full of stem resolve and reckless courage. He was attired in a better costume than the others, wearing his leggings in handsome top- b00ts, gold spurs, and a white plush Mexican jacket over a silk shirt. Upon his head was a white sombrero, om- broidercd in gold thread, about his sash was a red silk scarf, half hiding a belt of arms, and his saddle, bridle and weapons were all gold- mounted and of exquisite workmanship. Like the very wind his noble black carried him over the desert, while he sat in the saddle as though hardly conscious of any motion. Before reaching the maiden he took off his broad white sombrero, and waving it around hisulaisead, shouted in tones that rung like bugle no : “ Bravo! Camila, back to our Desert Islmd I Welcome you!" The next instant he wheeled his horse along- side of her, and drawing her toward him kissed her affectionately, while he said: f‘Thank Between you are home again, Cn- mila, forI was just about to start out to find you or to wreak a. fearful revenge upon those who had harmed you. ‘;]’3,ut come, you look palo'and ill, and need res -. The next instant the flying horsemen circled around her with welcoming cries, and the whole party rode on together toward the éand— bills, upon which other forms were now visible, waving their hats in welcome and joy at the return of the wanderer. (To be continued—commenced in No. 40.) “ It was pitched without,” said a clergyman, having Noah‘s Ark for his theme, and an old baseball player, who had been calml slum- bering, awoke with a start and yelled ‘ Foul!” The first base from the choir came down and put him out. Saved By a Dream. A Telegraph Operator’s Story. BY JEss‘ c. (‘OWDRICIL I “(As sitting in a Certain railroad office one evosnlng not very long ago, when a telegraph operator related the following incident, which I Will try to repeat in his own words: " Speaking about dreams.” he said, “reminds me of a dream that I had once while I was working at Bricksburg, on the O. C. & B. It was ti e most remarkable dream I ever had. and [have no doubt it was the means of saving a great many lives. But I will relate the inci- dalvflt, and you may then judge of that for your- se . “ I dreamed I was in my ofiice. ‘B’g—B‘g— l3‘g,’ I heard the sounder cli:k. and hastily tak~ ing up my pen I opened the key, answered the call. and received this order: “ ‘ OPERATOR:— .“ 'Fla and bold trnln seventeen (17) until train Sixty—ch t (68) arrives. “ ‘ 31 ALLISON.’ “ When I had repeated it back to the sender and received the signal that my undeistanding of it was correct, I placed the order-book before me on the table in such a position that the order could not escape my eye. thus making it almost impossible for me to forget it, even for a second. ‘ Having recorded my understanding of the order and pronounced it correct, or ‘0. K.,’ the tram-dispatcher then sent an order to the con- ductor and engineer of train No. 252 to run to Bricksburg regardless of train N0. 17. This will shew the responsibility that. rested upon me. If I allowed train No. 17 to pass my station a collision would be the almoat inevnta- ble result. But 3 on may be sure I did not in- tend to let such a misth occur. “But h0w sleepy I was! Before I washai‘dly aware of itI was nodding in my chair. Seein the order bk fore me all the time, however, an knowing its awful importanca, I tried hard to banish sleep from my eyes. I got up and paced the floor, bathed my face with water, opened the door and stoic in the ecol night air, and then at length I sat down again and took up a book to read. I read for some time, but at last the words commenced to dance before my eyes. I roused up several times with a sudden start to find that I had lost my : lace. and had been almmt asleep: my head fell slowly forward, my eyes cluscd. the book dropped from my hands, and Soon I was asleep. “ ' Tout—toot I' “ It was the train! I sprung up with a start, grasped the safety signals and allowed it to pro- ceed, and then— ‘00! my God! the order.” “I was wide awake then. and grant drops of perspiration rolled down my face as I watched the lights of the swiftly-receding train. The engineer of that train, Tom \Vatson, was one of my best friends. and to know that he was rush- ing on to sin 0st certain death, was terrible. His home was in Bricksbnrg. and as the train passed his house I heard him sound his whistle- signal to his wife to let her know that he was ‘on time ’ and all ri ht. “ It is impossible or me to explain the awful horror that I felt, knowing that. [ was the cause of what must soon prove a terrible disaster. I could only wait and watch, almost breathless, hr ping U at the engineers might see each other’s bend-light in tine to stop their trains. “ A short distance fl om the station there was a sharp curve in the truck. and as I looked I saw the bead-lig't of train 68 dash into view; heard the short. sharp whistles for brakes, and the next instant came an awtul crash. " Hutless, ceatleSs, l l-ft m office and ran to the wreck, which was soon 81 ablaze. and when I reached the spot I alumst fainted at the hor- rir 1e sight that met my view. The ergines were both piled together in a heap, bright tongues of flame were darting up toward the sky, while {the Screams and groans of the unfortunate pas- 'sengers were awful to hear. "Hesitatlng only for a moment I sprung to the rescue of those whom I could reach and as- sisted them out of danger, but I could not stand it long. To see men, worren, and even little children all crushed and bleeding. and to hear their cries for help to save them from the cruel flames.wore more than 1 could bear, knowing that my carelessness was the cause of it all. The riwr was near at hand. and with a wild scream I ran to the bridge and jumped off, fall- ing down. down, down, with ‘muidererl’ ring- ing in my ears. “ ‘Frcd! Fred! come, Fred, get upl‘ It was my wife calling me, and how glad I was to know that the awful disaster was only a dream. “I told my wife about it, and she said: “ ‘ Be careful, Fred; for my sake be very careful.’ “ The next day our child was very sick, and I had but little sleep, and consequently was hard- ly fit for my duties that night. I asked to be excused from duty, but there happened to be no one to put in my place, so I had to work. “About nine o’clock [began to feel sleepy, and found it hard to keep ' wake. A few min- utes later, however, when I received an order to hold train 17 until train 68 arrived. I thought of my dream, and was wide awake in an in- stunt. “ I placed the book where the order could not nssibly escape my eye, and sat down to wait. at l was soon nodding again. This would not do, decidedly! so I got up, bathed my face. and took a turn around the platform in the cold air, and for a short time I felt better. But Na- ture was bound to have her way, and I found I could not keep awake. Tue awful dream was constantly before my mind, and I exerted my will to the uttermost to keep to eyes open, but they would close. [took anot er turn around the platform. and then a thought struck me. I entered the nfilce again, found a piece of strong wire, and with it I secured the safety signals so that it was impossible for me to move them. Thus pr- tected, I sat down and gave up the fight. soon falling asleep. “ The first I knew a shrill whistle sounded in my ears, causing me to jump up in excitement and alarm and grasp the signals. The next in- stant the train dashed past, and then, too late, I thoaght of the order. "_‘Oh. God,’ I groaned, as I watched the rc- ceding train. Then came the head-light around the curvo, the sharp calls for brakes, followed by the awful crash. :: ‘IToot—TOOT!’ awoke with a start, grass the signals and tried to work them, but sod:in remembered whv they were fastened. “ ‘ What‘s the matter, Fred 3’ cried Tom Wat- son, from his engine. ‘ What‘s the danger sig- nals set for? “ ‘I have got orders to hold you here until train 68 arrives.’ I answered. “ Train No. 17 took the side-track; the head- light of No. 68 was Soon seen dashing around the curve, and, a moment later, the danger was over. Then I took my wire-fastening: from the safety signals and allowed No. 17 to go on. “That. is all, unless I add that I nevar again neeived an order of that kind without fasten- ing my signals so that the could not be moved. For although it happen once, I might never again be sated by a dream.” Sinfulness of Man. A CERTAIN colored preacher near Austin, not long since, undertook to describe the utter and unapproachablo sinfulness of the best of men in the world. and in data this he had recourse to the following vigorous anguage: " Bredderin and sisters, ef all do waters what am under do furmamept and on top of de furmament was changed in do twmkliug ob a eye-inter de brack- est 0 ink, an’ do skies Was ter be changed inter letter paper. an' ebcrv blade ob grass war a pen, an’_ef all do folks who has cberlibbcd Was tex- write day an’ night until de was a million times older dun Metbusalcm, ey wouldn’t. hub time, nor ink, nor 1 ens, nor paper cunt! her write up de sinfulness ob de best man in do hull world, ah.” (T "A s— ‘mfi \ I ‘ a, /- i- youn mei‘s I the breath of her own dear isle. stood a young Irishman. her was one of adoration. riwr. ‘ . h A iiig there, each man With a bougli in his cap! ’ battered bridac." thinkin' about. at all. ’ cross on the lt‘afcr itself, I tell you. They ll not stop for any bridge. “ N 0 CREDIT !” BY KAY LESTER. Pleasant smiles, while the money lasts, And words of friendly greeiing: The bar-keeper treat-, a~ a bi of her might, The man who pays for treating His mates. during the wild carouse; His friendship shows no turning As ion as money comes w ilh call For ' k, by throats hot hurl ing. But when both health and wealth are gone, And the poor tippler, standing Before the bar, no pay can give, He’ll find ’Iis vain demanding. No more for him are sniirks and smiles, And rasp of jolly cheering, But on y scoruful looks, and words Of ridicule and sneering. He who has nothing more to gain, Will plainly show his scorning Of viclim of the deadly cup. Then, vainly for the warning To bring him good, He's hidden, stop! “ No credit we are givingz”~ No matter that he here has lost Both character and living. Oh. men and brown-s .' scorn the cup Where lurks so much degrading! Know ye that he who sells the stuff Is on your manly 0/ trading Y For sake of mother, sister. wife, IVhose peace, on you depending. You’re bartering for but pvwon rank ,— Stop ere the fatal ending— Ere you of every hope bereft Have no more strength for turning! R ain your honor. bring swr et bliss 0 hearts for you still yearning. Oylyn, the Maid of Alhlune. BY ANTHONY P. MORRIS. IT was in the time of the waning cause of James II. The Irish troops were garrisoned in Athlone; on the Leinster bank of the Shannon, amid the earthworks of the English, were fifteen hundred grenadiers, all picked men, awaiting a signal for the action that was to decide a victory or retreat. For ten days the English cannon had boomed upon the town; there was wreck and ruin bee ond the destroyed bridge: the castle itself was eft but a monumental heap. Still there was hope in the Coltic ranks. The bare idea that Mackay could enter Connaught was booted. Succor was daily expected in even more substantial shape than the detachments sent forward to aid the garrison by St. Ruth. If Athlone could hold out till autumn, the rains and the proverbial pestilenCe accompanying them on the marshes of the Shannon, would drive back the English with heavier loss than could be sustained by steel and ball. Upon this day of June in which we write. it was believed that the besiegers were preparing to retire. But there was one in Athlone whose percep~ tion was greater than that of St. Ruth or D‘Us- son, who belieVed the stronghold impregnable. Among the mills of Shannon bridge was one that stood higher than the rest, and which, like the lesser buildings around it, had suffered in the fierce cannonade. and at a high window was the figure of a fe male. But its walls still reared; No ordinary woman was she._ Indeed, a girl yet, for no more than eighteen sum ad passed over her life since first she drew Beautiful of feature, with bright, blue eyes, and hair that flowed in auburn opulence over bare, hardy shoulders; rich lips, and teeth like rows of vigorous tery of mingled dignity and tenderness—these were enough to arri st the beholder. than these; her shoulders and arms were not of that Vain plumpness which distracts the minds of poets; there was a wondrous muscle beneath the smoothly-rounded skin, and .her limbs,hart— lessly exposed beneath a short _skirt, were limbs of sinewy contour, whose motion was firm as a soldier's tread. iolished pearls; full, rosy cheeks of ealth, and a voice that was a mys- But more Tall, muscular, extraordinary in her beauty, was Oylyn, the mill—maid of Azhloue. From the high window she gazed steadfast— not with blue eyes unaided, for a closer glance would hth‘ discovered that she held a spy glass elevated in her hands. The glass was turned on the English foe, and rigid as a statue she leaned over the sill, watch- in". Presently a footstep aroused her. By her side The gaz ,- be bent upon “ Ah, my Ted, it’s you here?" . ‘ "Oylyn, darlin‘, it’s a bit of a minute Ive snatched to come an’ look into your bright e 'es.’ 3 “Then go back again, Ted, for I’ve a message to send to D’L'sson.” “A message?" “ Look,"-——pointing out beyond the turbulent “ Look. Ted. Ye see the troops muster- " It’s well I do,” he answered, taking the spy- glass from her hand and leveling it for a mo— ment upon the distant army. goin’ to retreat. I make out.” “ An’ they‘re “ No—uo, Ted, it‘s not for retreat the soldiers are massin’ there.” “ What do ye mean. Oylyn?" Y “ Ah, Ted, before many hours them troops ll be liowliii’ thro' Atlilone. an‘ sorrow’s the tim J aii’ rivers the blood that‘ll flow from the hearts of me cl unti'y men. , . ‘ an~ tell him for me that they’re comin‘-—’ Go. Ted—g0 t0 D‘U:son “ But a liaii‘t‘ul O’ brave men can hold the "The bridge: It's not the bridge they’r‘e Man. they‘re gom to "7 9g." “ What are ye talkiii’ about, Oylyn, darlin “AM the dav is ’most gone, Ted. 'lliey’re comiii‘, I say. They’ll be here before the night is down. Will ye haste with a message of that , “T. sawFllitl), I will that!" he exclaimed, alarmed by such a prospect and placing implicit laitli iii whatever she might say, so abiding was his love for her and his rcspect for her su )Prior mind: But at the tent of l)‘U~son l‘ed met With rather a rebuff when he had communicated his ' id. ex {ATV hat !" half-sneered the French commander. “ They will walk over on the waters, on say?—” “ sure, sir, an angel has said it, an It must be thrue.” “ What fool's tale have you here? My master should hang St. Ruth and me _if the English cVer enter Athlone. we are invinCIble! Be off ' ’OUI‘ scar news!‘ _ wlggtger for himy had he listened to the warning from the mill-maid! For the doom of Athlone v s at hand! . ‘ llflingling with the peal of the bell In the church-steeple, at six o clock, a strange, an omi- nous muttering was heard: soon the murmur resolved itself into a general cry from startled lips, and the words of the cry were: “ They’re com'n‘! They re here! naught!” t And it was rue. Into the surging stream liad plunged the Eu— niskilleners, led by an intrepid chief. After these followed the grim grenniliers. ‘4 On to C )nnaughtl” rung over the waters and into the ears of the surprised garrison. Memorable day l—a day when dukes served as privates in the ranks of the StOI'llll’lg' host. Oil, under heavy lire—on, wading neck-deep -—-on pressed the unduuntcd array The volleys thundered and rattled the bullets round the heads of the strangely advaiicmg lines in scores abreast, and the defiant battle- cries of opposing soldiery roused an echo in the Save Con- Vault of the skies. Then a singular spectacle iraiispired on the shattered bi'eastwoiks of the II isli. male, with long, flowing, auburn tresses, whose biue eyes flashed a Stern, enthusiastic fire, whose right hand gripped and waved a gleam- ing broadSWOI'd. and whose voice rose high in the din around her. “ Stand, lrishmen! Die where you stand!” And from the throats of all who could see or hear her, there went up a yell that nearly drowned the dissonant roar of fire-arms. “ Oylyn! Oylyn, the Maid o’ the Mill! Oylyn, the Star of Athlone 1” Even Stern Maxwell was moved to emotion by the brave girl’s example. - The English were now on dry soil. Abreast, in unflinching lines, they advanced. Hand to hand came the terrific collision. 1n the deadliest whirl of the strife c6uld be seen the gleaming blade wielded by brave Oylyn,_and its brightness was fast fading in the red stains upon it. But even Oylyn was human. There in the shock of battle she went down, shrieking, while she still desperately held fast to her reeking weapon: “ Stand, Irishmenl iear Athlone!” Vain the dying heroine’s call—vain the strug- gle now. The mat had already begun when ~)vlyn fell. The defenders, nic~stricken at her fate and the capture of axwell, fled without order or hope. The English were in Connaught! In one of the embrasures a man, with scarred nd bleeding visage. was kneeling beside the form of the dying girl. “ Oylyn! Oylyn, darlin’!” he wailed. “ Look at me wanCe—speak to me! It’s dyin’ we both are, sure. Haven’t ye a word for the heart that’s been tbrue this many a year to ye? Hear to me, darlin’!” and tears were streaming down the poor fellow’s face, salting the blood that disfi ured him. “ ood by, Ted, dear! Yes, I’ve loved ye, Ted. An‘ maybe we’ll meet again where there’s no foightin’ like this. Good-by, for I’m goin’ fast now. Tell them I died like a true Irish girl, will ye, Ted? I’m not afraid—” Her voice failed. There was but strength enough left in the agonized lips to utter a whis- pered prayer for her own soul’s rest, and in a minute more fair 0 lyn had passed from earth. “’ith a shriek o woe the young Irishman leaped to his feet and bounded away. A terri— ble gantlet he ran; but his life seemed charmed above the harm of bullet or steel, and he joined gie {lugilives pouring toward the camp of St. at . In the heart of the Irish lad there now lived but one buring hope—vengeance on the Slayers of his dear, dead Oylyn! No fieICer soldier than he in all the retreating army on the road to Galway. No more terrible fighter than he when, on the treacherous bog of Aghrim, the English were beaten back, and back again, time after time. But over the quagmire hurdles were laid de~ spite the galling fire from the partially reor- ganized Irish, and then began the famous slaughter that was to pile the plain with in dexes to a never-to be forgotten carnage. Through the thickest and hottest, like a mad man looaed, fought Ted; and 'every time he struck at a foe he cried: “ Oylyn! That for me Oylyn an’ Ireland!” Again the red signal of victory perched on the banner of William. . Among the dying on that horrible field of Agbrim lay poor Ted. Many a blow had he Stand and strike! Die here on the soil of .struck for his Oylyn: now he had struck his last. His glazing eyes were fixed on the sky as the spark of life went out, and the name of “ Oylyn ” was the last word from his quivering lips. Poor Ted may have lain, like others in those ghastly heaps, to feed the hungry bounds and curs of dogs that attacked the dead after the fearful ravage of death. But Providence willed a less sad fate for the young girl who fought so valiantly side by side with her countrymen, for, during years after- ward, a humble grave in the churchyard was held in prayerful reverence by the peasantry, who preserved in tales for their grandchildren the beauty and heroism of Oylyn, the Maid of Athlone! Cast Away in Mid-Dcean. BY ROGER STARBL' CK. COLONEL LEFFERTS and his daughter, Clara, Americans, having visited some relations in England, were now bound home to New York, aboard the ship Manton—a beautiful clipper of the “ Star” line. Among the passengers the colonel had recog— niz-ad and introduced to his daughter two ac- quaintances: one a handsome, pompous, self- suflicient young man, named Harry Maxon, the other a pl.iin, quiet, sun‘embrowned naval officer of twenty fiVc, whom the colonel called Lieutenant Lyon. Both men were anxious to improve their ac- quaintance With Clara, one of the most attract- ive of her sex. About the average higlit of woman, her form was lithe and Willowy ; her step as light as an antelope’s, her voice like rippling music.“ The t-XDIESelOll of her face wi1 h its clear complex- ion, regular features and soft, dark-brown eyes, was truly beautiful. Her manner was a mixture of ntlll‘Ph; and gentle dignity; she was zit all times full of life, without being citliernoisy or silly. Henry Mnxon, accu~=tonicd to female society, in which he had the reputation of being a fa— vorite. made up his mind to win He giri. She Was just the woman he wanted; would show Off to advantage with her queenly hearing, her ac- complishments, and liv.ly manner—would make other men s.are, admin e and envy. Yes, he would at once go at w ork, and before the vessel arrived at New York, would be an ac» copied lover. _ Accordingly he dashed ahead, made himself agreeable, and was listened to by Clara With much apparent interest. He had a capial way of relating the many :uivrntures and hair—breadth escapes through which he said he had posed during his travels. As to Lieutenant Lyon, modest to a fault, he would only stand and admire the young lady at a distance, SLpreiiiely happy when, at odd m0- inents, he caught the flash of her brown eyes upon him, sometimes even when Maxon was In the very thick of his during adventures. Clara had noticed that Maxon never failed to make himself the hero of these adventures, and always the victor of his battle. “ In savme things he is agreeable,” thought she. “ But it is plain he is an egotist. Still, I have seen men, and papa says he has seen such also, who, while great bmsters, could strike as bravely as they talk d. Maxon is probably one of that kind.” Although Lieutenant Lyon had exchanged but a few words with Clara, she had, from the first. felt inteiested in him. man, it struI'k her that he was a little too difli dent. stantl ,iii reference to himself. the tbiughtpthat perhaps Lyon did not find her attractive enough to take the trouble. _ This piqued her, while it exmted still more interest in the young officer. . The latter, one morning, while Mnqu was relating an adventure, had been scrutinizmg the sky to windward with a keen glance. ‘, “ We are going to ll'lVe a storm; is it not so? remarked Henry. turning to Lyon. ' The OIIICeI', who was only a few paces distant, swered in the affirniativni. 1 an“ I thought so," said Maxon to Clara. "I know something of the sea myself, havmg done much boating and yachting. Once I saved a ship and passengers, while captain and crew were drunk, by taking the wheel myself. 1 al Into the ranks. and foremost, sprung a fe—‘ Nevertheless, although liking modesty in 3 There must be a lack of energy; otherwise he would not let Maxrm gain her ear so con— Then came ways was pretty cool in danger, you know. On another occasion, by expert swimming—I am an excellent swimmer, as your father, who has seen me at bathing-places, can vouch for—I saved a lady passenger, who had fallen over- board. Here comes the storm!” he suddenly added. pointing away toward white water to Windward, tossed up beneath a mass of dark, advancmg clouds. “ I do not think it will be very heavy.” he continued turning to Lyon. “You are mistaken, sir; we are to have a beam gale.” “ hat would you do, in case I should fall overboard?" remarked Clara, half layfully, to Maxon. “You would not, probab y, deem me worth saving.” I“Could 1 risk my life for you a thousand times,” answered Maxon, “I should do so. Nothing would deter me from jumping over- board after you!” “And what would you do, if my daughter should fall overboard?” came the hearty voice of Colonel Leflerts, as he laid a hand upon Lyon’s shoulder. “Would you jump after her!” Clara looked up eagerly and inquisitively, awaiting Lyon’s reply. “ It would depend on circumstances,” he said, quietly. “ Pray, what circumsumces?” “If there was no chance of Miss- Leiferts’ iieing saved by my jumping after her, I would not do so. For instance, if she fell to leeward, and was carried off, while it was too rough to lower a boat, I would not jump, as it would do no gond. We should only both be drowned.” To Clara this seemed indeed very ungallant, if not cowardly. “ There cannot be much chivalry in this man’s nature,” she thought. “I should not wonder even if he is a coward.” As to Maxon, nothing could have been more fierce than the indignant flash of his eye, while to Clara it seemed that his whole soul burst florid; in these words, leveled at Lyon’s devoted ea : “What, sir, would you for a moment hesi— tate? Could you hesitate? Why, sir, I am astonished—I cannot conceive of Inch—such— behavior! If 1 could not save her I would die with her—I would, really. I must say. sir,” he added, bringing his cane fiercely to the deck, “that, with your sentiments, you must be a—— “ What i” inquired Lyon, turning his quiet eye upon the speaker. “ A—a very singular person.” A minute later the good ship, shrouded in the spray of a fierce tempest, was booming along with her lee rail under, and the seas washing almost constantly over her weather bulwarks. Every timber groaned as if it were being wrenched asunder, while the tall masts, sway- ing and cracking, seemed about going by the board. The shrieking of the gale, the thunder of the rolling ocean, the slatting of the sails, many of which, torn from their gaskets, were whipping about with the din of musketry, somewhat con- fused Clara, as she was helped toward the cabin by her father -—the colonel on one side, and Maxon on the other. The ale kept increasing. Toward night it blew a most a hurricane, so that at times the ship was neathburied in the flying waters. At eight bells (eight o’clock), it had somewhat abated. About this time the voice of the lookout man pierced all ears: “ Light, ’OZ—right ahead 1” “ l'ort helm!” shouted the captain. The next moment a fearful cry went through the ship. The rudder was damaged so that it would not work as required. “God help us! we shall be run down!“ ex- claimed the captain. “ “'orsc than all, we have but one boat, the others having been Carried away.” “This is dreadful!” excl imed Maxon, run- ning hither and thither in a rather suspicious flurry. “ Save the vessel! save the vessel!” Unfortunately the other craft was hearing straight for the ship, which evidently was not seen by those aboard the approaching vessel, owing to the storm-rack, which must conceal her light. The catastrophe, which was inevitable, soon came. \Vith a long, grinding crash, the stranger struck the Manton diagonally on her quarter, almost cutting a hole clean through her timbers, so that the doomed ship began to go down as the water poured into her hold. White and trembling, Clara clung to her fa~ ther, while Maxon was seen still running hither and thither, begging—supplicating everybody to save the vessel. Tue craft, now almost upon her beam-ends, with the water pouring over her, was lurching fearfully—settling more every moment. The solitary boat was lowered. Into it, the first man, sprung Maxon, and sat cowering and shivering in the bow. The boat was soon full. “ The rest must perish,” said the captain. " What else can we do?” “ CUT AWAY YOUR FORE AND iiIzzsx-Masrs!" in clear, steady voice, answered Lyon, who, from the first, had remained cool and collected. “ That will give us all something to cling to.” \Vith his own hand he cut away the mizzen, while the captain and several of the men out the fore. The mainmast was left s.anding for fear of swamping the boat. Meanwhile, the colonel had been endeavor- ing to get Clara into the boat. She was about stepping off the gnngway, when a sea struck the sinking ship, whirling the girl like a shot from her father's grasp down the companion, into the half-submerged cabin. “My child! my child!" shrieked the colonel, who had slipped and fallen into the boat, as the ship again rolled to leeward. ‘ Save my child! .o‘he is aboard the siiikiii r ship!” He spoke to Maxon, w 0, however, cowering, until his head seemed to go down between his shoulders, only answered with a pitiful whine, not attempting to move. Before the colonel could leave the boat, the little vessel was clear of the wreck, which was now half under water. All the men who were not in the boat were now clinging to the masts, which had been cut away, but w. re still attached to the wreck by a stay or two. _ _ LyO'i was among those clinging to the mizzen. He had supposed that. Clara had been safely put into the boat until he heard the wild voice of her father, shrieking out as mentioned. \Vith the leap of a .iger he was aboard the wreck in an instant. “Come back!” screamed the captain, “ it is too late! You can do nothing now. The ship will go down before you can save the lady.” Heedless of that warning voice, the young man plunged into the cabin. Just then, with a fearful lurch, down went the wreck, the captain now severing the mast from it with one blow of the ax he carried. “ Gone! lost!" he exclaimed, alluding to Clara and Lyon, as the waters closed over the wreck. A minute later, however, the young man rose alongside the mast with Clara in one arm. Emerging from the cabin with her, as the wreck sunk, he had, while under water, clutched one of the iron sheets, by which he had drawn his fair burden and himself to the surface. There is little to add. The ship which had run into them having tacked, all were safely picked up in a few hours. . They were treated kindly aboard this vessel, which roved to be the Baron, bound to Liver- pool. he reached her destined port in safety. whence the castaway passengers finally sailed for New York. There, with the hearty sanction of Colonel Lcfl'erts, Lyon eventually married the beautiful girl he had so callantly rescued, and who i had said she could never forgive herself for having made such an error as to mistake mod- ’ esty and temperate language for a lack of en— ergy and bravery. ' _ l As to Maxon, he is still at large edifying 5 those who do not know him with accounts of his coma I genus adt'cnlu res. l Snakes. NOW that the rattlesnakes are soon to go into winter-quarters it is in season to relate some in- c1denis of their summer‘s performances. The three or four stories here given show how widely disseminated is the true Crotalus—a particu larly American institution:— IN MICHIGAN. The. Eaton Rapids Journal relates: .“ Rifle Range Lake is a celebrated resort for pickerel fishermen in this county. A party from this place was fishing there a few days ago Toward evening a splashing and_ commotion was seen in the water about 100 yards from the shore. A boat was rowed out to the spot. The cause of the disturbance was a struggle between a large pickerel and a rattlesnake. The pickerel had the snake between its jaws, h .ving seized it midway between its head and rattles. The snake was at a great disadvantage, because the fish was at home under the water, and the mo- ment the snake was pulled under the water its power was gone. There seemed to be an effort on the part of the snake to keep its head out of the water, and a determination on the part of the pickere] to draw its would-be victim under the water and drown it. The snake was of un- usual size, and was more than the fish could carry off bodily. The combatants seemed to pay no attention to the spectators in the boat, which had been rowed to within three feet of them. The water was covered with blood, all of which seemed to have been shed by the snake. When the fishermen saw that the pickerel would conquer the snake in a short time one of them drew his revolver and shot it, the ball passing through the snake’s body at the same time. The rattler had evidently intended to swim across the lake, and the pickerel, notwithstanding the great size of the serpent—five feet long, as big around in the middle as a man’s wrist, and had thirteen rattles—had seized it for his supper. The pickerel weighed five pounds. IN MISSOURI. THE Cape Girardeau Democrat says: “A Mr. Barker, living down in the swamp, killed a rattlesnake last week and rendered from the carcass nearly a quart of oil, said to be very efficacious in rheumatic cases. A party of gen- tlemen from this city were down in the swamp in Scott county, bordering on the Rock Levee, one day this week hunting squirrels, when one of them came upon two rattlers side by side. The gentleman had been standing by a large gum tree, waiting to get a shot at a squirrel on an adjoining hickory. The opportunity soon ar rived and he fired, killing the squirrel. Simul- taneously with the report of the gun his ears were greeted with the warning notes of the cro- talus liorividus. Looking around he saw two immense rattlesnakes lying side by side at full length, but in the act of coiling, preparatory to the deadly thrust, not over six or eight inches from his feet. In an instant the hunter made a spring, and, turning, shot one of the two, blow- ing its head to pieces. The remaining one crawled into the hollow butt of the gum by' which they were lying. The gentleman called to a companion hard by, who came up and de- spatched the remaining one. The snake first killed was nearly five feet in length, and on its tail were eleven rattles and a button. The one shot coiled up in the hollow cavity of the tree was a monster. He was fully six feet in length, minus his head and rattles, which were blown away by the shot. It was a close call for the squirrel-hunter, and when he realized the dan- gerous position he was in it made him shudder. Had he made one step backward he would have stepped on the reptile and undoubtedly would have been bitten, not a very pleasant thing to contemplate when so far away from an anti- dote.” IN GEORGIA. “A LITTLE daughter of Mr. J. C. Williams, who lives seven miles north of Dublin,” says the Post of that town. “ was playing near her father’s house last Saturday, and finally, be- coming tired, clambered on top of a big stump to rest. A little dog that accompanied her commenced barking furiously at something at the base of the stump, shortly afterward, and finally attracted the attention of a male mem— ber of the household, who, on his approach to the spot, found a huge rattlesnake contesting quarters with the dog. The gentleman pro- cured a stick and soon dispatched the reptile, which measured 7 3 4 inches in circumference and sported ten rattles. \Vhen first discovered the snake lay in a coil, with her head erected and a brood of young ones huddling near her, but when she espied the man she opened her mouth, gave a peculiar rattle, and the young snakes darted down her throat, one b one, as quick as thought. Subsequent Cleve opments proved that the brood numbered sixteen, all of which were killed. When the huge rattler and her young lay side by side, beyond the power to harm, the little girl was lifted from her perch on the stump. little thinking what a nar— row escape she had from the fangs of the m0. t venomous and dangei ons of reptiles.” But it is reserved for the Franklin News to “take the jug ” with this u-hopper: “Last week, while Peter “’hitaker, colored, was driving along in a two-mule wagon on the Rock Mills and Bowdon road near the old Tory place in Heard county, 8. large rattlesnake struck at one of the mules, and, by some means, got upon the wagon. Pete was not yearning for his company, so he jumped out, seized a stick, and killed the rattler. It was found to be nine feet long and to measure 28 1 2 inches in circumference. and had thirty nine rattles and one button. Mr. Whit Herren, who vouches for the ab ive statement, has seen the snake’s track several times where it had crowd the road near that place. The skin and rattles have been preserved.” Science and Industry. THE British are rapidly extending a network of railways over India. About $30,000,000 will be spent this year in the construction of new roa . THE curious discovery has been made that the microscope may fail to show lines or errors in ruled lines which may be detected with the unaided eye. ARTIFICIAL ice, which is produced by vapor- ized ammonia, is turned out in slabs 8 inches thick by 273 inches wide and 6 feet long. weigh- ing 350 pounds. It is made at a cost of less than one dollar a ton. THE perpetual clock, which has been running in ‘Brussels a year without stopping or being touched by human hands, is wound up by a draught of air through a tube which operates ona fan connected with the machinery. The draught is made to pass upward through the tube by exposing it to the heat of the atmos- phere. THE lovers of tall old clocks, which make such an imposing appearance in halls and din- ing-rooms, will be interested in knowing that; there is a manufactory in Pennsylvania which makes a specialty of producing these antique articles. They are sold through the agency of auctions and second-hand furniture shops. Any- body can have “My Grandfather‘s Clock" by paying the price. PROF. FISCHER. of Munich, has succeeded in obtaining from distilled coal :1 white crystalline substance, which, as far as regards its action on the system, is exactly the same as quinine, though it assimilates with the stomach more easily than quinine does. It will be observed that the sweetest scents. the most brilliant dyes, the mast powtrful disinfectants, and one of the most useful medicines in the world are obtained from coal tar. ARTIFICIAL eyes, in which article there is a larger trade than most people would imagine, are made at Stuzebach. iii the Thuringian For est, Germany, and the industry employs a large, force of skilled workmen, who imitate the 5 ll- man organ of sight with wonderful accuracy. It is a singular fact that while no human being’s eyes are exactly like those of another, there is scarcely an eye that cannot be almost perfectly matched from some stocks. Almond the curious things exhibited at the Louisvule Southern Exposition are thirteen castings of iron, representing Christ and the twelve Apostles. These Were cast from native ores nearly one hundred years ago at the old Bellewood furnace, upon the Cumberland River, in Eastern Tennessee, in molds made of green sandstone. Considering the rudeness of the methods and the infancy of art in that section and time, they have a finish, smoothness and polish that is remarkable. THE Natural History Society of Cincinnati has lately received a curious donation. It is a Japanese cloak, and is designed to be used as a protection from the rain. 11: is made of the leave: of a species of grass, so plated and twisted on the under or inner ~ide that the leaves form on the other side a shelter like a thatched roof. l‘wo places for the arms to be inserted, and to thus carry it on the shoulders, cause the upper part of the cloak, when drawn together around the neck, to stand out in a most porcupine-like manner, and give the wearer a verita' le hedge- hog appearance. The rain falling on this upper part is shed as from the steep of a house, and dripping down as from the eaves runs off from the thick grassy covering into the boots of the wearer. [g‘ A few Advertisements will be inserted on this page at the rate of fifty cents per line nonparei'l measurement. 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Rccd & Co. Nassau, N. A BOON T0 MEN who from Indiscretions, Excesges or other (‘fll’.<"< are we:ik.iniiieiwcvl and powerless. The Malia-uh Bolus effects a rapid and permanent Clll'f‘ in mz-i” form of Nervous chilil’y. without Slnllll‘l‘ii llmli- cilics. Scinl fcr ii'l‘:lllf~'l‘. MANSION Illi‘ii li'i' (1)., all; V’Vest I‘llll .‘SI., Nev: York. .7» jigsaw o . L. i. , \ - _ 2...". - o ;:‘x§1~s% I H i" ll ; uHumiumuu Inn,” lliliIIiniulilulmliuuum at x = s § 3 nillulmwuiwilu. LOVE. .4 1211.4 PS on Y. BY J0 KING. Love is the ruling power in hearts, Whether in war or peace; It is the pearl of royal price—— And pearls are a dismse. Love builds its fires along life‘s way, And many a cile hath tlll'lletl To warm him in the warming ray— Or get his fingers burned. If Love hath come to thee a guest Guard well the winsome elf;— How easy to be proud of him—- And make a fool Of yourself. Given from Oil hi h was gentle Love, And of a birth ivine, . It guides 'our thoughts by day and night— To rivalys iii your line. Love in the heart must rule supreme: As long as there he dwells He makes his votary his own— And good for nothing else. We bow before his sacred shrine And strive to keep his crecds; It sometimes leads to peace—and ohl To iliariiage sometimes leads. We feel the. tender influence That follows through his reign;— It is a sweetness iii the heart— Disordcr in the brain. LOVe rules the camp, the court, the grove, It hath been said lil song, But when it in the kitchen gets Then everything goes wrong. Sweet love possesses gilded wings; To him earth‘s but a span; You watch him as he turns to fly— Olf with some other man. We own his erfect mastery In self or ‘apulet; It draweth all the thoughts we have— And money we can get. But if you clip his wings at once, As quickly as you may, And bind him with a golden cord I rather think he‘ll stay! Around thigamp-Fire. BY CAPTAIN RINGWOOD. Jim Dayton’s “Dead-fall.” SOME half a dozen miles distant from the lit- tle village of Bardstorvn, Kentucky, there lies an extensive tract of wild, rugged country known as Dayton‘s Bottoms. Even at the resent day it remains in an al- most primeval) condition, and the ax of the woodman is only heard along the outskirts of the vast, unbroken solitude. Within are mountains, deep and rugged val- leys, extensive tracts of level beech and oak woods, heavy canebrakes and multitudinous caverns that penetrate, in every direction, the face of tall cliffs and steep hillsides. Here game is yet plenty—bear deer and tur- key, While at night the shrill, childlike cry of the panther can be heard, with the hoarse yelp of the mountain-wolf answering as an echo. I need hardly say that, in earlier times, this section was a favorite hunting-ground for both white and redvmen. And there are those yet living in the adjacent village who can recall to memory some of the deadly conflicts that there took place between the hunter and Indian. In the year 1797, one James Dayton came out into the interior from the settlement at the Falls of the Ohio, now Louisville, and after prospecting for an eligible site on which to open up and clear a small farm, he finally se- lected a spot in the very heart of the wild re- gion I have just described. Probably, w ith the exception of Boone, Ken- ton, or some other of the first pioneers, Dayton was the first white man who ever trod that soil. Of course the Indians soon discovered the smoke of his camp fire, and having ascertained that one of the hated whites had there settled permanently, they began a system of persecu- tion. with the intent to take his scalp, or fail- ing in that, drive him off, and thus end the matter. But they had not only a brave, but a cunning man to deal with, and the warriors were never able to lay hands upon their intended victim. Dayton had built himself a little cabin of light boards, limbs, etc., which he thatched over with bark, making a comfortable dwell- ing, even though it were unprotected. Above the hut towered a huge poplar; while, nearer to it, and slightly on one side, grew two large beech trees. These were the only trees within thirty or forty feet Of the dwelling. At last the Indians began pressing the ven- turesome hunter so closely that he was fre- quent] forced to remain abroad in the forest at nig t, and more than once, while lying in the thickets near by, he had seen his enemies enter the hut in search of himself, and finding it empty, steal silently away, leaving every- thing undisturbed in hopes of catching him an- other time. One night while thus forced to remain out, a fearful storm arose and blew with terrific force until morning. All night long the hunter had heard the thun- der of falling timber and the crash of great trees that were rent from the parent trunk, and when, at length day broke,-and he ventured home, he found that the great poplar had fallen before the strength of the blast. The immense tree had been caught in its fall by one of the beeches, and was now held sus— pended directly Over the frail but, how securely the pioneer could not guess. But half an hour’s inspection seemed not only to have removed all fears from Dayton’s mind, but to have actually afforded him much intense gratification. As he descended from the tree, Where he had been examining the manner of the support, a grim smile illumined his weather-beaten face, and he turned and glanced upward with a look of extreme satisfaction. Entering the but he returned with an ax and auger, and with these he once more ascended the slanting trunk and went to work. Nearly the entire day did he labor, and when at length he came down for the last time, he had the look of one who had done a good day’s work, and was satisfied therewith. ' A casual observer would have seen no evi- dences of that whole day’s work, save, perhaps, a few chips upon the ground beneath where he had stood; but had he looked closer, he would have diSCOVered that something had been done, though he might not have understood its object. First, there had been added an additional sup- port to the tree, a heavy beam extending from the fork to an adjacent limb. Then there was an upri ht beneath this cross piece, the lower end of w ich rested upon another crotch below. To the center of this upright a long, thin, but strong grape vine had been made fast, the other end of which, being carried throu h the foliage and over the branches in a natura way, finally dropped to the ground upon the further Si e. Between the cross timbers and the end of the uprighta large wedge had been driven. This wedge could be loosened by shaking the upright; by means of the rape vine. These things aving been completed, the hunter then cut the limb that supported the poplar nearly half across, and the work was one. ' For more than a week Dayton remained un- molested, but one day, while hunting, he dis- covered a fresh trail near his cabin, and knew that the Indians were after him again. .That night he laid in the bushes, and by the light of a full moon watched the hut and little clearing by which it was surrounded. Several hours assed quietly away, and then, from out the ine of timber that encircled the lace, he saw six shadowy figures steal and rapidly cross the open toward the cabin. For an instant they paused at the door, and then, with a wild yell, they dashed themselves against it, and went through me body. Then was the moment for action, and Dayton seized it. . ' At three bounds he was beside the swmgin vine, which he grasped in both hands, an stepping backward, threw his whole weight n on it. pA sharp crack, another and louder, a sudden rending of timber, of broken lin bs that flew in all directions, and then, with a crash that could have been heard a mile away, the great tree descended like an avalanche upon the doomed cabin and those within. . One long, wild yell arose upon the still night, and then all was still. The “ dead-fall” had served its purpose com- pletely. Three years later the Indians caught Da ton and put him to the torture on the spot w ere the hut had stood. And thus it was that that wild tract of land in the heart of civilization came to be known as Dayton‘s Bottoms. City life Sketches. BY AGILE PENNE. Leda, the Ballet-Girl. “ WHO is she?” Such was the question that I put to myself as from the window of my little room I gazed upon the house opposite. My unrters were new to me; but three days before ad I taken possession of the little fur- nished room, situated in the upper story of the house in Mulberry street, numbered— But hold; the number I’ll keep to myself. I’ll not reveal to the world the exact spot where the poor writer, who signs himself Agile Penne, shelters his head. Suffice it that it is in an humble and obscure locality. Now to explain the meaning of the above 'ven question. After taking possession of my fittle apartment, I drew my table to the u in- dow and sat down to put the finishing touches to a serial that I fondly hoped would prove the “ open sesame" to fame and fortune. Busily I drove my pen across the paper; the end was approaching fast. One thing bothered me. I couldn’t decide how to dispose of the “villain” of my story—whether to make him take poison and die melodramatically or to have him fly the country and leave his fate to the imagination of the reader. Debating in my mind this “knotty ” point, carelessly I looked out of the window upon the red brick house opposite. My gaze fell upon an open window in that house, and leaning out of it, looking down into the street was a young girl. A girl with glorious, flowing hair of that rare tint that the waving wheat shows when it ripples to and fro in the sun’s sheen. Eyes of a pure, deep blue tint lit up the face. The cream ~white of her fair skin was relieved by a slig t peach-like blush upon the cheeks. Smal in stature, with dainty shoulders, and a bird-like throat, she came as near perfection as any one of womankind that my eyes had ever looked upon. She was dressed plainly in dark .calico, with a little white collar and cufls—the lperfect ion of neatness. Mechanically I laid down my pen, rested my arms upon the table and gazed upon the blonde beauty. “Villain "—serial—all were forgotten toloo upon that fresh young face. For, per- haps, five minutes I looked upon the young irl, discovering new beauties the longer I 100 ed. But at last the spell was broken. She, ha pen- ing to look across the street, perceive my ardent glance. Coloring to her temples, she quickly withdrew from the window and disap- are . Cast down thus from heaven to earth, seized my 11 again and plunged into my story. But t ough apparently intent upon my writing, I kept a shy watch upon the window op Site. 1: length my watch was rewarded, for the girl—“ with golden locks”—sat herself down by the casement and commenced sew'nlg. Warned by my previous experience, did not frighten her away again by rudely staring at her: but contented myself with a shy glance now and then. But—oh! the errors I did com- mit in tiny Ms., twenty to the page at the least. The ternoon passed rapidly away. Night came. I went out, ot my supper, then re- turned. A bright li t was shining in the win— dow opposite. I cou d plainly see the interior of the room. About seven o’clock the young. girl put on her hat and cloak, then extinguished the light. A few moments afterward she came out of the house with a large bundle under her arm and went down the street. About eleven o’clock she returned, but with- out the bundle. The second day was but a repetition of the first. I wrote and watched her all the after- noon, and at night she went out about seven and returned about eleven. My curiosity was excited. What occupation could this girl follow that demanded her at- tendance from seven to eleven in the evening? I determined to find out. In fact I had got in- to such a state that to write with this girl sit- ting in the window opposite, sewing away as if no such person as myself existed in the world, was perfectly impossible. Mentally with the English playwright Ipried: “Take that girl away!’ But, as no one obeyed my command, there was but one other course left for me, and that was to find out who and what she was, and, if possible, make her acquaintance. Acting on this resolve, the third evening when she extinguished her light and descended to the street, I followed her. Up Mulberry street she went, turned into Houston, then into Crosby street and entered a small door in a large gloomy-looking brick building. I recognized the place in an instant. the back door of the Olympic Theater. Instantly I proceeded to the front of the theater, bought a ticket, and entered the.audi- torium. And when the curtain rose, amid a group of other girls I discovered my fair- naired beauty. She was a ballet-girl! After the curtain descended upon the perfor- mance I made my way to the backdoor of the theater again. I had no clearly—defined motive for so doing, except a wish to again see my golden-haired neighbor. In some twenty minutes she came out of the little door, passed through the knot of idlers collected around it and proceeded on her way homeward. I followed, discreetly, some twenty aces in the rear. Lucky it was for her that had waited, for on turning into Houston street she was surrounded by a half dozen or so of well-dressed loa’ers, that seem to spring out of the pavements of New York after nightfall, something like the armed men came from Cad- mus’s dragon-teeth. The irl shrunk to one side and endeavored to avoid them; but the attempt was useless, for, with coarse words and ribald jests they sur- rounded her. “Hallo, my pretty dear!” cried one, appa- rently the leader of the party. “Ain’t you afraid to be out so late? Sha’n't I see you home?” A loud laugh from his companions proved that they enjoyed the covert insult. It was As luck would have it, I had my cane with me-a good, stout hickory stick, as arge round asahman’s thumb—no bad weapon in a skir- mls . “ Hold on, gentlemen,” I said, quite politely, advancing to the side of the shrinking girl, and twirling my stick carelessly in my fingers, “ you have made a slight mistake in re ard to this lady. Take my arm, miss,”I ad ed, ad- dressing the trembling girl. She instantly accepted the proffered arm. I saw by her eyes that she had recognized me. “ Look-a-here; what right have you got forto interfere i” asked the discomfited “ blood,” still]; however, keeping out of the reach of my stic . “ I am a friend of the lady, and if you wish any further information I refer you to you: der liceman,” I said. “ me along, Dick!” cried another Of the fast young men, and speedin they departed. The policeman hint was quite sufficient. “ m very much obliged, sir,” said the girl, earnestly, as we proceeded along the street, arm in arm. “Don’t mention it, I beg,” I replied. “I suppose you know that I am a neighbor of yours?” “ Yes ” she said, and even in the darkness of the night I could see that there was a half- smile, half-blush upon her face. It was very evident that she had detected me watching her. “I suppose that I ought to a logize for look- ing at you so intentl ,” I sai , “but then you must consider that w en I look out of my win- dow, naturally I look at yours. Besides, of course, seeing you at the window I had a natu- ral curiosity to know who you were.” “ Yes, that is natural,” she replied, smiling. “I confess, on my part, that I looked at you more, probably, than I ought to have done. But I couldn’t elp wondering when I saw that you wrote steadily from morning till night.” “ I am an author,” I said; “my name is Agile Penne.” “ And mine is Leda Edwards.” The thought of the painting—Leda and the swan—flashed into mlyedmind and, mentally I compared the second a to the first, and t 9 comparison was not much to the of the former. “And you are in the theater?" I asked. “ Yes, I am a ballet-girl,” she answered, hon- estly. “You do not think any the worse of me because I am a ballet-girl, do you?” and I saw plainly that she put the question with some little anxiety. “No,” I re lied; “my education has been a liberal one. respect an actress if she be a good, nlure woman as much as if she followed an ot or occupation.” ‘Ah 1” she said, with a. sigh, “but all the world does not think like you. I have been upon the stage now a year, and I do not think I disadvantage am worse in any particular than when I sowed in a dressmaker’s shop in the Bowery. ” “How did you come to go on the stage?” I asked. “ I will tell you,” she replied, “if you think it worth your while to listen.” “Certainly,” I said. “ I came to New York with my father and mother just after the war ended. We came from Virginia. Father was a soldier on the Southern side, and we lost everything in the war. Shortly after we arrived in New York my father died, and left mother and I to strug- gle alone in the world. My mother did not lon survive the loss of father. She sickened and ter land. I procured work with a dressmaker, but I was not Very strong and could not bear the constant confinement. I felt that if I did not obtain some other employmentIshould soon join my parents. .And though I had but little wish to live, yet I knew it was sinful to give myself up to death. A young girl, with whom I became acquainted, was engaged in the ballet. She saw that the constant work with the needle was killing me, and so she advised me to 0 on the stage. I had always thought that I s ould like to be an actress, and I had been told that some of the greatest stars of the stage were once ballet-girls, and though the position was hum- ble, yet I knew that as long as I was agood girl, there was no disgrace attached to it. So I went on the stage. I receive eight dollars a week, and the sta e—manager has promised me that next season 6 will give me little parts to play and then my salary will be increased.” “But are you not exposed to great tempta- tion?” I asked. “ Not from those connected with the stage,” she answered, quickly- “the actors are nearly all gentlemen, and I ave yet to receive the first insulting word or look from any one of them. The insults come from young men like those whom you so kindly saved me from to- night. The stage-manager and balletmaster are sometimes a ittle cross, but that is when we are stu id and don’t comprehend their teach- ings. e0 le not connected with the theater have very ittle idea of what the ballet-girls are. Why, one of the leading actors of the country married a ballet-girl, hardly a year 0. She was in the same theater that he was p aying a star engagement in. None Of his folks think any the worse of her because she was in the bal- let before she was married.” Grasping- it in both hands. and stepping backward, he threw his whole: weight upon it. “ I confess I am somewhat astonished at your statement,” I said. “ Of course there are good and had every- where,” she continued; “all in the theater are not good girls, neither are all the shop-girls good.” By this time we had arrived at her d( or. I asked and obtained permission to call upcn her. And thus our acquaintance began. Nightly I escorted her home from the theater. It was useless to attempt to disguise my feel- ings. I loved her. I confessed that love and won from her the sweet confession that she’ loved me in return. She pr( mised that in three months’ time, she would become my wife. Two months of these passed away. On the first night of the third month, a new pantomime was produced at the theater in which Leda was engaged; and in the pantomime, Leda was make her debut as an actress; the part of the “ peaking Fairy ” bein intrustcd to her. Eagerly, in a front seat, waited to see in Leda succeed, for I felt sure that she woul ; and she did. That very indulgent monster the Public, took a fanc to her fresh young face, and as she spoke er speeches naturally and prettily, re- warded her with their approbation. I could plainly see the smile of joy lightening up her features as the a plause fell upon her ears. Ah! the Public litt e guesses how dear its applause is to the heart of the artist. In the transformation at the end of the pan- tomime Leda ascended in a golden shell, sur- rounded by colored fires, to the clouds, forming the center picture. The curtain descended amid a burst of a ’ plause, again it was rung up, and the final tag: can ng‘nin displayed. Ha y had the curtain touched the stage the second time, when I heard a crash behind the scenes—something had evidently 'ven wa . The audience pourin out of the auditorium iii haste had not noti the noise. A sickening chill crept over me; I remem- bered the dangerous position of Leda, high above the stage. Frantic with the thought. I rushed to the back door of the theater. The doorkee r, of course, knew me, as I was in the habit 0 com- ing for Leda, and admitted me without nes- tion. I made my way to the stage and t ere Behold a sight which congealed my blood with orror. In the center of the stage, supported on the knee of the rough, grim old sta e carpenter, who was now crying like a chi d, lay Led dying. _Her golden hair was clotted here arid there With blood—the red stains were upon the tinseladorned fairy dress that clothed her shapely form. The pale lips were gasping in the agonies of death. 7. ent from this cold world to join him in a bet—~ A treacherous wire had given way and Leda had been hurled violently to the stage. .Heortsick I knelt by the side of the d girl. The blue eyes unclosed—they rested moment upon my face—the lips parted. . “ Agile, she murmured, and then the red life-stream choked her utterance. Wildly I kissed away the blood from her colorless lips. A Single convulsive motion and Leda lay before me—dead. I can write no more. I have told the story of the loved and lost. he hot tears are in my eyes—a minute more and they will blot the paper. If the few words I have written will convince even a Single scotfer that some good may come out of Nazareth, the story of Leda, the ballet- girl, has not been told in vain. ing or a His First Crime. BY JACK HAMMOND. THE rain best in heavy torrents on Frank Lisle’s thinly-covered back, and ran in rivnlets ducwn his hat’s brim, the cold, icy rain of win- r. “ What a night.” he thought, with a shudder; “ and to go home empty-handed to my hungry wife and babies! I cannot! I dare not 2” He looked up the long, lighted street, full of its gay shops where such abundant stores re (1 so temptingly, and shuddered as any onest man might shudder who thought of stealing, for the first time in his life. ‘ Steal- ing!” t is a hard word, but when wife and children starve bard words and thoughts will come! Stealing! That was all he did contemplate at first, but when a portly, well-dressed o d gen- tleman came hurriedly by, the desperate man thought of more than that—robbery! Yes; and quick as a flash his strong, sinewy arm uprose as he passed a dark alley, and the old gentleman lay white and still at his feet without a cry or murmur. _With trembling fingers Frank Lisle searched his pockets, quickly thrust into his own their contents, and then gently drew the senseless form out to where it would be found, and silent- ly sped away. There was abundance in Frank Lisle’s home for many days and his invalid wife smiled , and got almost we , thinking of the nice situation her husband had obtained, for he was gone every day—not working, but Searching for work and finding none, except now and then a small job. His brain and heart were troubled: he was restless with sorrow and remorse, until at last he could stand it no longer, and he cried out in his heav pain: " I wil not be a villain! I cannot! my gentle mother’s teachings, my innocent wife’s trust, shall keep me from it. I cannot find em loy- ment, but I can go to that old gentleman lprob- bed and confess, and then, even if put in jail, I can breathe more freely.” From the papers in t e purse he had known all along who his victim was—a rich old mer- chant who lived in a. palatial home in the suburbs. One day, when the spring-time air and bright- ness made all earth so beautiful, he went to this grand home and nked for its master. The servant looked at him in contemptuous amazement, and said bluntly: “ What does the likes of you want with the master!” “It‘s a matter of life and death!” exclaimed Frank Lisle, fierce] , “ and I must see him.” “A matter of hfe and death, eh?” said the voice, near them, of the Old gentleman him- self, who, unperceived, had approached. “ Well, my man, go in, and we will have a talk, if it is that important.” With firm tread but beating heart Frank fol- lowed him to his study. “ Well, out with it! What’s to pa 1” “ I have a confession to make,’ and with lowertd eyes and feverish cheeks he told him all. At its close the color left his face, and his sad, questioning eyes looked at the man who had heard him so calmly. “ Starving!” the old gentleman repeated— “starvingl I never was hungry in my life; don’t know how a person would feel to be starving; not Ver comfortable, I suppose.” “ Oh, if you on y knew my tom tations,.sir l” with a sudden catch in his unstea voice. “I can only imagine them. ell, well; I suppose I ought to hand you over to the police, but I won’t. I’ll try some other punishment. How much of in money have you used 3” “About fifty ollars, sir; I tried to use it as carefully as possible. I have fifty more left; here it is.” “ Nay, you can keep the money, man, and I'll tell you how, not as a thief or robber, but as an honest man. I’ve need of a steady man about my grounds, here, and you can come and work it all out at a dollar and a half a day until you are out of debt; then, if I find you really capable, I will not turn you adrift.” hey were men, both of them—made in the image of God; and sure] the tears that coursed down Frank Lisle’s c eeks, and choked his thanks back, were not unmanly an more than the dimness that sudden! befe the gold- rimmed spectacles of the el er, and caused him to remove them and wipe them with his hand- kerchief, and blow his old nose vi orously—ro- pcating softly as to himself the while: “ Starving! starving!”and I don’t even know what it is to be hungry. Telephone Echoes. IF every person would be half as good as he expects his neighbor to be, what a heaven this world would be. A LITTLE girl at Newport, seeing the willow phaétons for the first time, exclaimed, “Why, momma, everybody rides out in their clothes- baskets here l” A NEW YORK man was fined $300 for giving tobacco to a giraffe in Central Park. But they gouflm’t fine him a cent if he only gave whisky a y. A RELIGIOUS paper asks, “ Why do flies bite so much worse in church than elsewhere!” and the N. Y. Commercial Advertiser says it is simply because they find “ so much worse” to bite. _A MEXICAN swain must tell the parents of his girl whether he can support her before he is al- lowed to begin courting. This rule is better than courting first and starving afterward. A YOUNG colored preacher in a recent sermon, wishing to dis lay his learnin , occasionally used the word ‘ curriculum,” an as often as he used it some one of the sisters said “Gloryl” _ Tm: New Bedford man who faian away out in Montana was only brought out of a fit by lacing adead fish to his nose. As be slow] an torevive he murmured: “How good! t smells just like home.” A YOUNG lady refused to allow her sister to borrow thq former’s beoux to escort her to o Ezrty, sayln “ It is not good that man should I a loan. ” he had not een a member of the Bible class for nothing. “ Gmnmx of the jury,” said an Irish bar- rister, “it will be for you to say whether this defendant shall be allowed to come into court with unblushing footsteps, and take three bul- locks out of my client’s pocket with impunity.” A MINISTER, hear-in a boy say, “ Bother the mosquttoesl” reprov him, sayin that, like all other creatures, the were dou tless made for some good end. “ hat ma be "said the boy, “ but I don’t like the end ythai; I feel, at any rate.” SUSAN B..ANTHONY says there are 1,000 wo- men practicing medicine in En Ion , and that so far as she has been able to Foam, “ they kill aslarge a pro .rtion of their patients, and re- ceivo as exor itant fees for so doin , as male practitioners” - ‘ V \“'/ :- 1-’ f—J . «may: .- ..<...:.~uwu.¢..mkm ‘ ‘-'- 'A ‘ ‘ .v H i ..‘n»;.m. 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