semen ’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ere meg

 

 

 

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VoL. XXX.

MY DAUGHTER'S FLOWERS.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

Proprietors.

 
   

 

 

Flower with the crimson tips,
Let me press thee to my. lips,
For you blithely grew where she
Played, of old, so merrily.

She has gone, my daughter dear,

To a nobler, purer sphere,

Where the flowers brighter glow

Than earth’s reddest roses know.

But I cannot see them shine,

And till then you'll be divine

To me, a symbol of the flowers
Glowing in the deathiess bowers.
O, as thus your crimson tips
Sparkle on my grateful lips, ,

May my taith yet stronger bé
That you are a prophecy.

Yes, a prophecy of hours,

Where there are immortal flowers,
And that yet I'll see them twine
O’er my daughter’s Heavenly shrine!

TOM AND I.

By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.

ee

 

 

(“Tom and I was commenced last week. Ask your News
Agent for No. 42, and you will get the first part.]

 

Next morning I awoke with a dull pain in my
head and bones, a soreness in my throat, and a
disposition to sneeze, all of which, Miss Keith
informed me, were symptoms of influenza, which
would nevertheless succumb to a bowl of hot
boneset tea, a dose of pills, and a blister on the
back of my neck. I took the tea, but declined the
blister and pills, and was sick in bed for two
whole weeks, during which time the Misses Keith
were unremitting in their attentions, and the
bride, little Mrs. Trevyllan, came to see me sev-
eral times. She was a kind-hearted, chatty body,
disposed to be very familiar and communicative,
and during her first visit to my room told me all
about herself, and how she happened to meet

George, as she always called her husband. Her
father was a clergyman in the Church of Eng-

land, and had a small parish in the north of Ire-
land, not far fromthe Giants’ Causeway, where
she was born. Her mother had belonged to one
of the county families in Essex, and so she was
by birth a lady, and entitled to attention from
the best of the people. George was junior part-
ner in the firm of Trevyllan & Co., near Regent
Circus, and would some day be very rich. He
‘was the best fellow in the world, and had been
staying at Port Rush for a few weeks the pre-
vious summer, and seen and fallen in love with
her, and carried her off in the very face of an old,
passe baronet, who wanted her for his wife.
Then she spoke of her home looking out on the
wild Irish Sea, and of her mother, who, to eke out
their slender salary, sometimes received one or
two young ladies into the family, and gave them
lessons in French and German. Miss Lucy Ellis-
ton had been one of these; and on her second
visit to me, the little lady entertained me with
gossip concerning this lady, whom she evidently
admired greatly—‘so stylish, and dignified, and
pretty, and so fond of me, even if lam the daugh-
ter of a poor clergyman, and she the daughter
of Colonel Elliston, who served so long in India,
and whose son is there now. We always corres-
ponded at intervals after she left. Ireland, and I
was so delighted to meet her again in Paris. She
has been to India herself for a year, it seems, and
only came home last spring. I believe she has a
lover out there; at all events, she talked a great
deal of a certain Mr. Gordon, who is very rich
and magnificent-looking, she said. She did not
tell me she had his photograph, but I heard her
say to a friend that she would show it to her
sometime, though she did not think it did him
justice. I would not wonder if I have it in my
possession this very minute.”

“You!” I exclaimed—“you have Mr. Gordon’s
photograph! How can that be ?”

“Tl tell you,” she replied. “I met Miss Ellis-
ton shopping at Marshall & Snellgrove’s, the
other day, and she apologized for not having
ealled upon me as she promised to do when I saw
her in Paris. ‘She was so busy,’ she said, and
then she was expecting her brother from India,
and she wished I would waive all ceremony and
come and see her some day. She gaye me her
address, and as her card-case was one of those
Florentine mosaic things which open in the cen-
ter like a book, she dropped several cards upon
the floor. I helped her pick them up, and sup-
posed we had them all, but after she was gone I
found, directly under my feet, the picture of a
man, who could not have been her brother, for he
is sick, and as it was taken in Calcutta, it must
have been Mr. Gordon. I shall take it back to
her, and am glad of an excuse to eall, for, you
see, George laughs at my admiration for Miss
Elliston, and says itis all on one side, that she
does not care two straws for me, or she could find
time to see me, and all that nonsense, which I

_ don’t believe, men are so suspicious.”

‘*I’d like to see the photograph,” I said, think-
ing of Tom, and the utter impossibility that he
could be Miss. Elliston’s friend, or that she could
think him splendid-looking,

Tall, raw-boned, thin-faced, with sandy hair,
brownish-gray eyes, and a few frecks on his nose
—that was Tom, asTremembered him; while the
picture Mrs. Trevyllan brought me was of a
broad-shouldered, broad-chested, dark-haired
man, with heavy, curling beard, and piercing,
gray eyes, which yet had a most kindly, honest
expression as they looked into mine. No, Miss

STREET & SMITH, j Nos. 27, 29, 31 Rose St.,
P.O. Box 4896, New York.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

a as See s

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1875, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C._

 

 

NEW YORK: AUGUST 30, 1875.

    

 

Three Dollars Per Year. bedia vous S. STREET.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

 

No, 43.

 

 

 

 

 

———
ALLOA TTT
MGT -

il
ri
il a

 

 

 

vants and friends, and equality with such people
as Lady Fairfax, who, I knew, was trying to
imagine how the crumpled, forlorn litthe woman,
with the shabby boots and feather, would have
looked as Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge. Tom
had once taunted me with the possibility of my
being Lady Cleaver, and with a thought of him
the great bitter throb of regret for what might
have been passed away, and I was glad in my heart
that I was not the mistress of Briarton Lodge;
so, when at last Lady Fairfax said to me, “Are
you not sorry ?” I looked at her steadily and an-
swered, “Yes, very sorry that Archie is dead, but
not sorry that I am not his wife. Years have
shown me that we were not suited to each other.
We should not have been happy together, and
then——” I hesitated’ a moment while:a feeling
of pique, or malice, or jealousy, or whatever one

\ | chooses to call a gesire to give another a little

 

 

 

 

 

ing of relief as I returned the photograph to Mrs.
Treyyllan. ;

Looking back upon that time, I know that in
my inmost heart there was nothought or wish
that Tom couid ever be more to me than a friend
and brother, but I did want him in that capacity,
I was so alone in the world, and though I did not
know Miss Elliston personally, I was sure she
would separate me entirely from Tom, for there
could be no sympathy between a proud, fashion-
able woman like Miss Lucy Elliston, and a poor
music-teacher like myself.

The next day Mrs. Trevyllan made her call,
and returned quite disappointed, and, as I fan-
cied, a little disgusted. Miss Elliston was very
sorry, but too much occupied with a dressmaker
to see any one, so Mrs. Trevyllan had left her
eard and the photograph, and retraced her steps
with a feeling that she had taken the trouble for
nothing, unless she took into consideration the
fact that she had at least seen the parlors of Miss
Elliston’s home. Beautiful beyond anything I
had ever seen they must have been, if her descrip-
tion of them was to be trusted, and I sighed a lit-
tle as I listened to her glowing account of the
carpets, and curtains, and pictures, and rare
works of art, and then glanced at my own hum-
ble surroundings, and thought how poor I was.
Only one pound ten was left in my purse, and
there was the doctor’s bill and the two weeks’
rent, to say nothing of a new pair of boots which
I must have, for the old pair leaked and was
past being made respectable by any amount of
French dressing. ¥es, I was very poor; too poor,
in fact, to remain idle much longer, and as soon
as I was able, 1 started out in quest of pupils in
the place of those I had lost.

Remembering the note of. Lady Fairfax, I re-
solved to seek her first, hoping that she had not
engaged another teacher for her little girl, not-
withstanding the imperative “Come at once, if
you care for another scholar.”

How well I remember that November day,
when, with a leaden sky overhead, muddy side-
walks underfoot, and a feeling of snow or rain
in the air, I started, in my suit of last year’s
gray, which nothing could make new or stylish,
but which I did try to freshen a little with clean
linen collar and cuffs, and a bright blue necktie
in place of the inevitable white one so common
then in England. I hunted up, also, an old blue
feather, which I twisted among the loops of rib-
bon on my hat, and felt a little flutter of satisfac-
tion ‘when one of the Misses Keith told me how
pretty I looked, and how becoming blue was to
me. It used to be when I lived in the roomy old
house in Middlesex, and Tom said my eyes were
like great robin’s eggs; but that was years and
years ago, and J felt so old and changed as I
turnedinto High street, and went down the stairs
to the station, and took my seat in a third-class
carriage of the underground railway. I always
traveled third-class in London, but so did hun-
dreds of others far richer than myself, and I did
not mind that, or think myself inferior to
the people around me, but when at last I
found myself ringing the bell at Lady Fairfax’s
handsome house, and met the cool stare of the
powdered footman who opened ‘the door to me,

and looked as if he wondered at my presumption.

in ringing there, I felt all my misgivings return,
and was painfully conscious of the faded gray
dress, the old feather, and the leaky boots, which
were wet even with the short distance it had

i> TEE Fg a en
ss, he asked: ‘Well, Mousey, wh

Elliston’s Mr. Gordon was mot Tom; and though- .
J had never suppesed it was, [ experierced a feel-

 

  

   
  
 

eeption room where I was to wait for Lady Fair-
fax.

She was at’ home, the tall footman said, and
engaged with a lady, but wished me to wait, and
I fancied there was a shade of deference in his
demeanor toward me after he had taken my card
to his mistress and received her message for me.
How pleasant it was in that pretty room, with
the flowers in the bow window, the soft, rich car-
pet, the comfortable chairs, the bright fire, which
felt so grateful to me after the raw November
wind outside. And-for a time I enjoyed it all,
and listened. to the murmur of voices in the par-
lor across the hall where Lady Fairfax was en-
tertaining her visitor. Both were well-bred
voices, I thought, and one seemed stronger than
the other, as if its owner were a stronger, more
self-reliant woman than her companion, and I
felt intuitively that I would trust her before the
other. Which was Lady Fairfax, and who was
her visitor, I wendered, just as a rustling silk
trailed down the stairs, and an elderly lady en-
tered the parlor opposite. I heard her address
some one as Miss Elliston, and the lower, softer
voice responded. ‘Then the stronger yoice said:
“Oh, Lucy, by the way, when have you heard
from your brother, and will he soon be home?”

Instantly then I knew that Lucy Elliston was
Lady Fairfax’s guest, and I was hoping I might
have a glimpse of her as she passed the door on
her way out, when a smart waiting-maid entered
the room hurriedly, and apparently spoke a few
words to Lady Fairfax, who exclaimed:

“Why, Lucy dear, Christine tells me that your
mamma has sent word for you to come home im-
mediately. Your brother has just arrived.”

“Good gracious!’ I heard Miss Elliston say,
and wondered a little at the slang from which I
supposed her class was free. ‘‘Cnarlie come!
Was he alone, Christine? Was no one with
him?”

There was a moving of chairs, a shuffling of
feet, and in the confusion I lost Christine’s reply,
but heard distinctly Mr. Gordon’s name uttered
by some one. Then the three ladies moved into
the hall, and through the half-open door I saw a
tall young lady ina maroon velvet street suit,
with a long white plume on her hat, and very
large black eyes, which shone like diamonds
through the lace vail drawn tightly over her face.
That was Miss Elliston; and the very tall and
rather stout woman in heavy black silk, with
lavender trimmings, was Lady Fairfax, who
pushed the door of the reception room wide
open, and with a firm, decided step crossed to
the mantel in front of me, and eying me closely
said:

“You are Miss Burton, I believe?”

“Yes,” I replied, and she continued: ‘Miss
Norah Burton who once lived in Middlesex?”

“Yes,” I said again, wondering a little at the
question, and how she had ever heard of Middle-
sex.

She was regarding me very intently, I knew,
taking me in from the crumpled blue feather on
my hat to the shockingly shabby boots still smok-
ing on the fender. These I involuntarily with-
drew, thinking to hide them under my gray dress.
She saw the movement, guessed the intention,
and said kindly:

“Dry your boots, child. I see they are very
wet. Did you walk all the distance from Ken-
sington here ?”

at do you think of us Y

 

tion, bus the streets are very nasty to-day ;”

and then I looked at her more closely than I had
done before.

She was very tall, rather stout, and might have
been anywhere from thirty-five to forty; certain-

-ly not younger. She had fine eyes, a good com-

plexion, and very large hands, which, neverthe-
less, were shapely, soft and white, and loaded
with diamonds. One splendid solitaire attracted
my attention particularly from its peculiar bril-
liancy, and the nervous manner with which she
kept touching it as she talked tome. She saw I
was inspecting her, and allowed me time in
which to do it; then she began abruptly, and in a
tone slightly fault-finding :

“You received my note, of course, or you would
not be here. It was written a month ago, and asI
heard nothing from you I naturally supposed you
did not care for, or need another pupil, so I have
obtained a governess for Maude.”

There was a choking sob in my throat which I
forced down, as I replied:

“Oh, 1am so sorry, for I do need scholars so
much, oh, so much.” :

“Why didn’t you come then?” she asked; and I
told her how her letter had been two weeks at
my lodgings before my return from the eon-
tinent, and of the sickness which had followed my
return. :

“And you live there all alone. Have you no
friends, no relations anywhere?” she askec.

‘None since father and Aunt Esther died,” I
said. “I have nobody but Cousin Tom, who is in
India, and who never writes to me now. I think
he has forgotten me. Yes, lam quite alone.”

“J wonder you have never married in all these
years,” was the next remark, and looking up at
her I saw something in her face which went over
me like a flash of revelation, and my voice shook
a little as I repeated her last words, ‘“Never mar-
ried!” while my thoughts went back to Archie
andthe summer days when I waited for him,
and he did not come, and that later time when
Lady Darinda wrote me he was dead.

Was this Lady Darinda? My eyes asked the
question, and she answered me: “Perhaps my
maaner seems strange to you, Miss Burton;
let me explain. I was wishing for a new
teacher for my little Maude, one who was gentle
and patient with children. A friend of mine,
Mrs. Barrett, whose daughter you have taught,
told me of you. The name attracted me, for 1
once knew of a Miss Norah Burton. I made in-
quiries, and learned that Jennie Barrett’s teacher
and Miss Norah Burton of High Bank, Middlesex,
were one andthesame. I wanted tosee you, and
so I wrote the note.”

She spoke rapidly, and kept working at the
solitaire, without once looking at me, till I said:
“You are Lady Darinda Cleaver ?”

Then her large blue eyes looked straight at
me and she replied:

“J was Lady Darinda Cleaver, cousin to Archi-
bald Browning, whom you were engaged to mar-
ry. Ifyou had married him’ you would have
been Lady Cleaver now of Briarton Lodge, for
both my brothers are dead, and Archie was next
in the succession.”

“Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge.” I whisper-
ed the words witha gasp, and for a moment tried
to realize what was involved in being Lady
Cleaver of Briarton Lodge.

Not athird floor back room, sure, with shabby.
boots and mended gloves, and faded dress of
gray, but luaxwry and eleganee, and troops of ser-

‘| you; he loyed you bi

   

| frour the?

sting; kept growing within me until at last I
added, “and then—Arehie’s first choice was for
i 1 best; offered himself to. you
| first, you know. You wrote me so in the letter.”

She turned the solitaire on her finger entirely
round, and her cheek flushed as she smiled faintly
and replied :

“Offered himself to me first? Yes, and was
very fond of me, I think, but whether he loved me
best is doubtful. Poor Archie, he did not want
to die, and at the last, after he had ceased to an-
swer our questions, he whispered to himself:
‘Poor little girl; she will be so sorry. Be kind to.
her.” That was you, I think.”

There was a great lump now in my throat, and
a faintness came over me which must have shown
itself in my face, for Lady Darinda exclaimed:.

“How pale you look, Miss Burton, and how
tired. Iam sure you will be better to take some-
thing,’ and touching the bell she bade the ser-
vant who appeared bring some biscuits and a
glass of wine. I was not hungry, but I reflected
that the lunch would save the expense of supper
at home, and I took thankfully the biscuits,and
sandwiches, and wine, which were served from |
solid silver and the most delicate of sevres

 

 

ton Lodge. ‘pitied myself even Fate the”

fathoming all my poverty, as I believed. Per-
hapsI did her injustice, for I think she really
meant to be kind, and when I had finished my
lunch, she said :

“Archie’s mother, Aunt Eleanor, is here with
me now—lives with me entirely. Would you like
to see her ?” and before I could reply she stepped
across the hall into the drawing room, where I
heard a few low spoken words; then another step
beside that of Lady Darinda, and Archie’s mother,
Mrs. Browning, was at my side, and holding my
hand in hers.

Time and sorrow had changed her greatly, or
else the silvery puffs of hair which shaded her:
face softened the cold, haughty expression I re-
membered so well, and made it very pleasing and
kind.

“Child,” she said, “itis many years since we
met, and Iam sorry to hear so sad astory of you.
You are all alone in the world, Darinda tells me.”
She had seated herself beside me, still holding
my hand, and at the sound of her voice I broke’
down entirely. Allthe loneliness, and dreariness,
and poverty of my life swept over me like a billow
of the sea, and forgetting the difference in our
stations, I laid my head in her lap and cried bit-
terly. Ithink she must have cried, too, a very
little, and that for a few moments she lost sight
of the poor music teacher in crumpled feather
and shabby boots, and saw in me only the girl
who had loved her boy, and whom the boy was to
have married, if death had not interfered. She
was very kind to me, and made me tell her all
the sad story of my life since father died, and
questioned me of Tom, and then, turning to her
niece, who had retired to the window, said:
“Darinda, you did not positively engage
Mademoiselle Couchet to read to me ?”

Her tone implied that she wished her niece to
say no, which she accordingly did, while Mrs.
Browning continued:

“Then, Ithink J shall ask Miss Burton if she
can come to me for two hours five days in the
week, and read to me either in English or French
as I may choose at the time. I will give her a
pound a week for the winter. Will you come for
that?” and she turned now to me. “Come be-
tween eleven and one, so as to lunch with me in
my room.”

I had hidden nothing of my needs from her,
and 1 felt sure that she included the lunch for a
purpose, and my heart swelled with a gratitude
so great that it was positive pain and kept me
from accepting the generous offer for a few mo-
ments. I had indeed found friends where I least
expected them, and when a little later I arose to
go, my heart was lighter than it had been since I
bade good-by to one favorite pupil in Paris. I
was to have a pound a week, with lunch, and what
was better yet Arthur’s friends were mine at last.
I was sure of that, and was not foolish enough to
question their motives or to suspect—what was
perhaps the truth—that inasmuch asI was in no
way connected with them, and they were not at
all responsible for my appearance, they could af-
ford to be kind and lend me a helping hand, and
then I might have been the Lady of Briarton
Lodge, and lived in as grand a house as that of
Lady Fairfax or Miss Lucy Elliston. I passed
the latter on my way to the station, knowing it
by the number which Mrs. Trevyllan had told
me, and which I found was the same which Tom
had sent me long ago.

 

 

 

 

 

sandwiches, with Lady Fairfax looking on and My

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. t~

 

 

 

The short November day was drawing to a
close, and already the gas was lighted in the par-
lors of No. — and in the dining room where the
butler was arranging the dunner table. He had
not yet closed the shutters, and I could see the
silver, and damask, and flowers, and wondered if
they were expecting company besides the son
just returned, or were their table surroundings
always as elegant and grand. Then I remem-
bered Mr. Gordon, and said: “He is to be there
too,” just as the figure of a young lady ps
before the window of the parlor. It-was Miss
Elliston in blue silk evening dress, with white
roses in her hairand a soft fall of lace at her
throat. She was dressed for dinner, and I stood
watching her a moment as she walked up. and
down for two or three times, restless as it seemed;
and then came to the window and looked out upon
the street. Did she see me, I wonder? The for-
lorn little woman who hurried away in the fast
gathering darknégs. If she did she thought it
some maid or shop-girl, no doubt, and continued
ber watch, while 1 sped on my way to the station
and was soon mounting the stairs which led up
and out to High street, Kensington.

It was not far to No. — Abingdon Road, but a
heavy mist was falling, and I was wet, and be-
draggled, and cold when at last I reached the
house, and finding the door unfastened, walked
in without ringing, and hurried directly to my
room. From the basement below one of the
Misses Keith called to me softly, and thinking it
Was some inquiry about my supper which she
wished to make, I answered back:

“T have had something to eat and do not wish
any thing more.”

hen I ran on up the next flight of stairs, at the
head of which was the door of my room. It was
partly a. and a flood of light and warmth
streamed out into the hall causing me to stand
erfectly still for a moment, while my eyes took

n the view presented tothem. Such a fire as

was roaring in the grate had never been seen

there since [ had been mistress of the apartment,
while in the middle of the floor the table was
spread as for a gala dinner, with celery and jelly,
and even the coffee-urn which I never had used.
What did it mean? Why had the Misses Keith
taken this liberty with me, and plunged me into
such extravagance, when they knew the low
state of my finances? I think I felt a very little
indignant at the good, kind old souls, as I pushed
_ the door wide open and advanced into the room,
starting back and stopping suddenly, at sight of

@ Man—a big, broad-s Louldered, tall man, muf-

fled in a heavy coat, and sitting with his back

to me, his feet resting on a chair, and his hands
clas behind his head, as if he were intently

t ing. Who was he that dared thus intrude ?

I thought, and my voice had a shary ring in it,

as I said:

“Sir, what are you doing here ? You have made
a mistake. This is my room.”

He started then, and sprang up so quickly as
to upset the chair on which his feet had rested,
and which he did not stop to pick up, as he came
rapidly toward me. What a giant of a fellow he
was, in that shaggy coat, with all that brown,
curling beard! and now my heart beat as he
caught me in his strong arms, and, kissing me
on both cheeks, said:

“T haye made no mistake, Norah, and I am
here to see you. Don’t you remember spindle-
shanks ?”

Then I knew who it was, and, with a glad ery,
exclaimed;

“Oh, Tom! Tom! Iamso glad! Why didn’t
you come before, when I wanted you so much?”

I had struggled to my feet, but did not try to
release myself from the arm which held me so
fast. In my excitement and surprise I forgot the
years Since we had met, forgot that he was a full-
grown man, and no longer the “spindlé-shanks,”
as Lused sometimes to call him—forgot every-
thing but the fact that he had come back to me
again, and thet I was no longer alone and friend-
less in the world. Tom was there with me, a
tower of strength, and I did not hesitate to lean
upon my tower at once, and when he said, as only

om could say, in a half-pitiful, half-laughing
tone, “Have it out, Norah. Put your head down
here, and cry,” I laid my head on the big over-
coat and “cried it out.”

I think he must have cried, too, for, as soon ~s
his hands were at liberty, he made vigorous u
of his pocket-handkerchief, and I noticed a rec-
ness about his eyes, when at last I ventured t
look him fully in the face. How changed he wa:
from the tong, lank, thin-faced, sandy-haired
Tom ptiaid! Broad-shouldered, broad-chested,
brown-faced, brown-hairod, and brown-bearded
there was scarcely a vestige left of the boy
used to know, except the bright smile, the white
even teeth, and the eyes, which were so kind anc
honest in their expression, and which, in their
turn, looked so searchingly at me. I had divest-
ed myself of my hat and sacque by this time,
and came bask’ to the fire, when, turning the gas-
jets to their full hight, Tom made me stand di-
rectly under the chandelier, while he scanned?
me so closely that I felt the hot blood mounting
to my hair; and knew my cheeks were scarlet.

“How changed and old he must think me,” I
said to myself, just as he asked:

‘ “a say, Mousey, how have you managed to do
“Do what ?” I asked, and he continued:
“Managed to keep so young, and fair, and pret-

ty, or, rather, to grow so pretty, for you are ten
times handsomer than you were that day you
walked down the lane with me, twelve years ago,
and I said good-by, with such a lump in my
throat.”

“Oh, Tom, how can you-—” I began, when he
stopped me short, and continued:

“Hear me first, and then put in as many dis-
claimers as you choose. I want to tell you at
once. all it concerns you now to know of my life
in India. Those first years I was there I fell in
with bad associates, and came near going to the
dog's, as you know, and nothing saved me from
it, 1 am sure, but the knowing that a certain little
English girl was praying for me every day, and
still keeping faith in me, as she wrote mein
her letters. I could not forget the little girl, No-
rah, and the memory of her, and her pathetic,
‘You will reform, Tom, fgr the sake of the dear
old times, if for nothing else,’ brought me
jack. when my feet were slipping over the
brink of ruin, and made a man of me
once more. I do not know why Mr. Rand
trusted me and kept me through everything,
as he did, unless it was for certain business
qualities which I possessed, and beeause I did my
work well and faithfully. When your father died
you know I offered to come home, but you bade
me not, and said you did not need me, and so I
staid; for money was beginning to pour in upon
me, and I grew richer and richer, while you—oh,
Norah, I never dreamed to what you were re-
duced, or nothing would have kept me away so
long. I always thought of you as comfortable
and happy, in pleasant lodgings, with a com-
petenece from your father. did not know of
music scholars and daily toilto earn your bread.
Why didn’t you tell me, Norah? Surely Ihada
right to know—I, your brother Tom!”

He did not wait for me to answer, but went
on:

“Six months ago Mr. Rand, my old employer
and then partner, died, and for some good, or
favor he fancied I had done him, he left me 50,000
pounds, which, with what I already had, made
me arich man, and then I began to think of home
and the little cousin who, I said, must be a dried-
up old maid by this time.”

At this I winced and tried to draw back from
Tom, but he held me fast, while his rare smile
broke all over his face as he went on:

“T thought I’d like to know just how you did
look, and so wrote for a. photograph, which,
when it came, astonished me, it was so young
and pretty, and girlish; not in the least old maid-
ish as I feared it might be——”

“Tom, Tom—are you crazy?” I cried, wrench-
ing my hands fromhis. ‘I’m not pretty; I’m not
yirlish; I’m not young; and Lam an old maid of

hirty-two.”

“Yes, yes, very true. Iknow your age toa
minute, for didn’t we use to compare notes on
that point when you brought up your seniority
of ten months as a reason why youshould domi-
neer over and give me fits. I knew you were
thirty-two, but you’d pass for twenty-five. Why,
I’m ten years older than you now, with my bush
head, and tawny face, and brawny chest. Loo
at the difference, will you?” And leading me to
the mirror he showed me the picture it reflected
—picture of a tall, broad: shibeldered: brown-
faced, brown-haired man, who might have been
thirty-five, and by his side, not quite reaching
his shoulder, the petite figure of a woman whose
forehead and lips were very pale, whose cheeks
were very red, whose eyes were bright with ex-
citement, and whose wavy hair was not unbe-

 

| and hardly knowin,

 

coming even if it was all tumbled and tossed,

and falling about her face and neck.

That was Tom and I, anda when, with his mis-
chievous smile shining on me from the glass he
asked: ‘Well, Mousey what do you think of us?”
I answered with a dash of my old sauciness: “I
think you look like a great shaggy bear, and I
like a little cub.”

He laughed aloud at that and said: “You are
very complimentary, but Ill forgive you for
onee, and go.on with my story, which was inter-
rupted at the point where I received the photo-
graph which astonished me so much that I de-
termined to come home and see if it was correct.
And, as you know,I came, and wishing to sur-

rise you gave no warning of my coming, but
unten up your lodgings, and felt utterly con-
founded when I was ushered into this little back
third-floor room, and was told you had occupi
it for years, and not only that, but that you gave
music lessons fora living, and had gone out to
hunt up scholars. Idon’t think I quite swore,
but I did tear round a little, and bade the woman
make up a roaring fire against your return, and
told herI was going to dine with you. Youought
to have seen her twist her apron, and heard her
stammer and hesitate as she told me ‘Miss Bur-
ton didn’t mostly have dinners now-a-days;’
meaning, of course, that you couldn’t afford it.
I believe I did say d——, with adash, under my
breath, but I gave her a sovereign, and told her
to get up the best dinner — for the time
for I was hungry as forty bears. She courtesi
almost to the floor and departed, but upon my
soull believe they think mea burglar or some-
thing dreadful, for one or the other of them has
been on this floor watching me slyly to see that
Iwas not rummaging your things.

While he talked [was trying to dry my wet
boots which, like Lady Darinda, he spied at last,
and exclaimed, “Why, child, how wet your boots
are. Why do you not change them? You will
surely take cold. Go now and do it.”

I did not tell him they were all I had, but he
must have guessed it trom my manner, and look-
ing sharply at me as if he would wring the truth
from me, he said: “Norah, are these your only
boots?” ; i

“Yes, Tom, they are,” and my lip quivered
a little, while he stalked up and down the
room, knocking over a chair with his big
overcoat and nearly upsetting a stand of plants.
I think I felt my poverty more at that moment
than [ had ever done before, but there was noth-
ing I could say, and fortunately for us both Miss
Keith just then appeared, saying dinner was
ready, and asking if she should send up the soup.
What a dinner it was, and Tom did ample justice
to. a until suddenly, remembering himself, he
said:

“By the way, I must be moderate here, for I
have another dinner to eat to-night: one, too,
where the fatted calf has been killed.”

Up to this point I had not once thought of Miss
Elliston since I found Tom sitting in my room,
but now I remembered the handsome dinner table
seen through the windows of No. — Grosvenor
Square, and felt sure it was to that table Tom had
been bidden as a guest, but { would not ask him,
and he continued :

“My fellow traveler from India was an inyalid—
that Lieut. Elliston of whom I wrote you once. I
nursed him through a contageous disease when
every one else had deserted him, and he seems to
think he owes his life to me, and sticks to me like
a burr, while his family, on the strength of that
and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins
make much of me and insist that I shall dine with
them to-night, so I must leave you soon, but shall
return to-morrow.”

I made no answer, but busied myself with pre-
paring his coftee, and after a moment he went on:

“By the way, Norah, what do you think of
Miss Elliston? She wrote you were at the same
hotel in Paris.”

“At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at
the Louyre? When?” I asked, in much surprise,
and he replied :

“Last September, when yeu were there with
friends. Did you not see her ?”

“No,” ILanswered. “I did not see her, or if I
did, I did not know it, and she is much too proud
#o make herself known to me, a poor music
teacher.”

This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no aol y,

what I was saying, I added:

“Then you are the Mr. Gordon she talks so
much about ?”

“Miss Elliston talk about me! How do you
mow that?” Tom asked, with eae» increase of
solor in his face. 4 {

Very foolishly I told him how I knew, and of
he photograph which must be his, though it was
not quite like him now.

“Yes, it was taken three years ago, and we ex-
changed. I remember it now—and she has it
yet,” he said, abruptly; then looking steadily at
me across the table, he continued: . “Norah, I
have not told you all the reasons which brought
me home. Iam thinking of getting married and
settling down in England among the daisies and
violets.”

“Yes, Tom,” I said, with a great throb of pain
in my heart, for I knew his marriage with Miss
Elliston would separate him from me further than
his absence in India had done.

“Are you not glad ?” he added, and there was a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and a lurking
smile at the corners of his mouth.

Then I told a fib, and said I was glad, for I could
sometime hope tosee him. My life would not be
so lonely.

He had risen by this time, and was putting on
his overcoat, which made him so big and bearish.

“Good-by, Mousey, till to-morrow. Take off
those boots and dry your feet the instant I am
gone. I cannot have you sick now. Aw revoir.”

He passed his warm hands caressingly over my
hair and across my cheek, and then he was gone,
and Isat downalone to think it all over, and won-
der if it really was Tom who had been there, or if
it was a dream from which I should awaken,
Naturally too, [followed him inimagination to the
dinner, and saw Miss Lucy in her blue silk with
white roses in her hair, and to my very finger
tips I felt how Tom must be impressed with the
differenee between her high-bred grace and ease
of manner and the little shrinking woman in
faded gray, with worn out, leaky boots. Idid not
take them off, but held them to the fire and
watched the steam as it came from the soles, and
rather enjoyed my poverty and loneliness, and
thought hard things against Miss Elliston who
had known I was at the Louvre and had never
spoken to me.

I must have fallen asleep while I thought, and
the fire was out, and the clock striking twelve
when I awoke, chilled in every limb with a dull,
heavy pain in the back of my head and a soreness
in my throat. Iremember going to the window
and looking out into the foggy night and wonder-
ing if the grand dinner: was over and how soon
Tom would come again. Then I crept shivering
to bed, and when I woke the Misses Keith were
all in my room, together with Mrs. Trevyllan,
and I heard them say:

“Twelve pairs of boots for her to try, with
orders to keep them all if they fit. Heis very
generous.”

Then I knew that somebody had sent me a box
of beautiful French gaiters, and it mude me s9
tired to think of wearing them all at once, as I
thought I must, that I gave a weary sigh, which
brought the ladies instantly to my side with
anxious inquiries as to how I felt and where I was
the sickest.

“Not sick at all,” I said, “only tired, and cold,
and sleepy. Please go away with the dinners, and
boots, and Toms, and leave me alone. I want to
sleep it out,”

“Poor girl, she’s out of her head,” I heard one
of them say, and then I slept again, how long I
do not know, but when I woke a curious thing
seemed to have happened, which yet did not sur-
prise me in the least.

[TO BE CONTINUED, |
>~e<+_—___—_

US EE U Ti
HINTS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE,

— To take the impressions of medals and coins,
melt a little isinglass glue with brandy, and pour it thinly over
the medal, etc., 80 as to cover its whole surface. Let it remain
on for a day or two, till it has thoroughly dried and hardened,
and then take it off, when it will be fine, clear, and as hard asa
piece of glass, and will havea very elegant impression of the
coin. It will also resist the effects of damp air, which occasions
all other kinds of glue to soften and bend if not prepared in this
way.

— To clean Japanned articles, such as tea-trays,
etc., rub gently with the hand a little olive oil over the article,
and then rub off witha piece of flannel. Warm water destroys
the varnish.

— For nervous deafness a clove of garlic wrapped
in cotton, or a few drops of the garlic juice introduced into the
ear, often prove very efficacious,

 

LIFE’S TRIALS.
BY E. M. R. H.

How oft we sigh, and moan, and fret,

And cluster up the woes we’ve met,

Forgetting God is with us yet

And will protect.

*Twas only yesternight the care
Of life seemed more than I could bear;
I longed the spirit’s robes to wear

In realms above.

By prayer the burden fell away;

My heart felt lightened as the day

By the sunbeam’s glorious ray—
And all was calm.

Again yet other cares annoyed,

My heart from comfort was decoyed,

And all the previous peace destroyed,
And came despair.

And thus alternate comes and goes

Life’s joy and pleasure, then its woes,

Our friends who love us and our foes,
Distrust and hope.

Upon each shoulder’s laid a load
Which each must bear o’er all life’s road;
How oft we envy what’s bestowed

On all but us!

Sweet peace will come, poor, weary one,
Soon care’!ll be over, labor done;
By earnestness the race is won!

Then shalt thon rest!

A.

Woman’s Temptation.

By MRS. FLORICE NORTON.
NEW CONTRIBUTOR.)

[“A Woman’s Temptation,” was commenced in No. 36. Back
Nos. san be obtained of any News Agent in the United States. |

CHAPTER XXVI.

She went up to him, her sweet face crimson with
blushes, her dark eyes bright with tears; she held out her
iittle white hand, and her lips trembled as she spoke.

“Lord Arncourt,”? she said, “pray forgive me, if 1 am
intruding on you. I could not help coming to thank you.
Mamma has told me how good aud kind you are to me,
and I am go grateful to you.”’

He took the little white hands held out to him, and as
he held them in his grasp @ strange thrill went over him.

‘My dear child,” he said, *‘you need not thank me. I
am only too glad to be kind, as you call it, to Reine’s
friend, You have been like a sister to her all your Jife,
Reine tells me.”

“IT love her very dearly, Lord Arncourt. You are 80
generous, so good, that you make me presumptuous. I
am going to ask a favor.”

‘Tam sare it will be granted,’’ he said, with a kindly
amile. ‘*What is it?”

The crimson deepened on her fair face.

‘Pray do not think me presumptuons,”’ she said, ‘but
you tell me so often you like me for Reine’s sake, because
I have been Reine’s sister; will you like me for my own—
just a little?”

He felt the small hands tremble in his own.

“My dearest child,’? he said, inexpressibly touched, ‘‘I
do like you very much ‘for your own sake,’ as you call it,
and I hope you will always be Reine’s sister.”

“You have been so good, so kiud to me,’’ she said.
“The tears stood in mamma’s eyes when she told me of
all your generosity to us. How am 1 to thank you?”

“By being a true friend to my daughter. She is beauti-
ful, brilliant; and high-spirited, but she lacks your quiet-
ness; she wants more stability, calmer, Clearer judgment.
I feel that the time will come for her when she will need
a friend; will you be that friend ???

She raised her eyes to his face, and there was in them a
depth of purpose, a steadiness, a reliance, that struck
him forcibly.

“I promise you,’? she said; ‘I will.”

And the time came when both remembered the words,
and she Kept her faith,

‘IT must not intrude on you,” continued the young girl,
in her clear voice; ‘butIcould not helpcoming. My
heart was quite full of gratitude; some of it must be told
in words.”’

Long after she had left him he sat thinking of her.

“Jt seems ungrateful to say so,” he thought, “but [
cannot help wishing Reine were more like her. _She isso
gentle, 80 sweet, so considerate; she is tender of heart,
pure of soul; she is one of those women who are born to
console and to comfort, to elevate and refine. Happy the
man who has such a daughter! happy the man who has
such a wife! I wish that Reine were more like her. Has
she any heart, that beautiful daughter of mine?’

He put her Lo the resp 3 day folowing. ~é asxca ner
to take a@ ride with him.

‘T will go,’? she replied, witha smile, “if you will let
me gallop as quickly as I like,’?

“That you shall do," he said.

Soon afterward they rode away together, Reine, in her
heart, half-vexed at being deprived of Eric’s society.

‘Tam going to take you, Reine, to a place that should
be ashrine for you,’ said Lord Arncourt, as they rode
through the beautiful Neversleigh Wood.

“I should be a sorry pilgrim, papa; or, if I were one at
all, tke peas in my shoes must be well boiled.”

She laughed curelessly. Both words and laugh jarred
upon Lord Arncourt’s sensitive nerves,

“It should be a slrine to you, Reine,” he said, “if not
to any one else in the world. It is your mother’s old
home—the place where I saw her first.”

A petulant, impatient expression came over the beauti-
ful face.

“Now I shall have to do so much sentiment,” she
thought; ‘‘and I cannot, I am sure. It is not in my
line.”

“Has sheaheart?? He asked himself the question
over and over again, as they stood before the pretty school-
house and garden.

Lord Arucourt had dismounted; and, with the permis-
sion of the residents, had taken his daughter through the
houseinto the garden. The apple-tree was still standing,
though in placeof the pink and white blossoms hung
beautiful ripe fruit.

He pointed to it.

‘You see that, Reine, Underneath itI saw your mother
first, with the sunshine on her hair.”

Reine looked carelessly.

“It is very interesting,’’ she said, not really knowing
what to say; desirous of pleasing him, yet with a horror
of all sentiment.

“Child,’? he said, hastily, ‘it is of your mother you
speak; ‘interesting’ is hardly the word.”

But she had already turned away; she was looking at
the little house.

‘Did my mother really live here?’’ she asked, and he
detected something like contempt in her tone.

“Yes, she lived here, fair as the blooming flowers, pure
as the lilies—sweet, ah! sweeter than words of mine can
tell.??

“Her sweetness did not hold you captive, papa,’’ she
replied, curtly. “It is a yery small place; she could not
have been very happy here. I shall find it difficult to
make a shrine of a scliool-house.”?

He bit his lips, and inwardly vowed never again while
he lived to talk sentimentally to his daughter. He re-
pressed his impatience, saying thatif she lad been train-
ed in a home of her own it would have been different.

‘‘You never ask me about your mother, Reine. Have
you no curiosity about her ?”?

“No, papa. ido not remember her; besides, it always
seems w me a painful story. The sooner itis forgotten the
better.”?

Had she any heart? He repressed his impatience still.
He showed her her mother’s favorite trees and flowers.

‘‘Would you like to gather some of those roses?’ he
asked. ‘I helped your mother to plant them,”

She sat down and plucked one—a dark, glowing rose,
fragrant and sweet. She fastened it carelessly in the
bodice of her habit—so carelessly that when she remount-
ed her horse he saw thatit had fallen, and she did not
even remember it. They sat down for a few minutes oma
rustic wooden bench that stood outside the porch, Lord
Arncourt recalling with sorrow of heart, the hours he had
spent in that sunny, bright garden.

‘*Reine,”’ he said, suddenly, ‘you are not in disposition
at all like your mother. Could you ever love any one very
much ?

“TI do not know, papa. I do not love many people. I
only care fora few. Inthe way you mean, love would be
a fire with me—not a sentiment.”

How vividly the words came back to him afterward,
when her love had indeed proved a devastating fire.

She seemed to forget his question, and looked up at the
humble little house.

‘“Papa,’’ she asked, abruptly, ‘‘was my mother a lady?”’

“What do you mean, Reine?’

‘Was she well-bred and elegant like madame? I know
she was not rich; but was slie educated and refined ?””

‘IT loved her,” he replied briefly. ‘‘That must answer
all.??

Then Reine arose, and gathered the fold of her. habit
around her.

“Shall we go now, papa? The horses will be tired. I
am afraid you do not find me a congenial companion for
a sentimental expedition.”

Lord Arncourt made no reply; he opened the gate for
her. She passed, and without one glance, one lingering
look, and went On with a brightening face.

‘Has she a heart ?’? Once more the question was asked.
The answer was: ‘‘No.’?

She had fire, animation, genius of a kind; but a heart—
no. And her father would not own, even to himself, how
great was his disappointment.

While Reine, as she rode by him, resolved that she
would not ride out with Lord Arncourt again.

“Belle would just suit him,’ she said. ‘She has all
those sentimental ideas, As a companion, I most deci-
dedly prefer Eric Chilvers.”’

The next time Lord Arncourt asked her to ride with him
she excused herself, and i{ Was well that he did not know
the reason why,

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

From that hour Lord Arncourt seemed to take another
view of his dauughter’s character. He never again ap-
peaied to her affection. She had no heart; the tenderness
and sweetness that form part of woman’s character
seemed foreign to her, but he was proud of her. Her
great beauty pleased him; he liked to hear her admired.
His vanity and his: ambition alike were gratified by the
homage paid to her. She was brilliant and gifted. He
enjoyed listening tO her conversation. Her satire was
polished, Keen, and oOccasioually bitter. .She shad the
talent of painting a character in an epigram; a few words
from her would say as much as & Volume from another.

“You are more French than English in character,” her
father said to her one day. “I could imagine when you
are speaking thatI was listening to one ofthe grand
French women of the olden empire, who ruled Half the
world with satire, and the other half with smiles,”

Reine laughed,

“fam quite Euglish in one respect,” she said, “and
that is my keen appreciation of the comforts of life.”

Lord Arncourt owned to himself that he had\done a
wise deed in sending for his daughter. His home was no
longer the same; it was presided over by a hignh-bred and
elegant woman, who was fond of society, wlio had a tal-
ent for it; who delighted in seeing the grand old mansion
filled with visitors; who was never so well pleased as
when she was arranging forsome great entertainment.
Madame was essentially a woman of the world.

The two young girls seemed to have brought with them
an atmosphere of youth and gayety. The sight of fair
faces, the sound of fresh, sweet voices, were pleasant af-
ter the deep. gloom that had so long overshadowed Nevers-
leigli. Then Lord Arncourt seemed as though he could
not do enough to indulge his beautiful daughter. No day
passed without some amusement. He gave grand dinner
parties, to which the elite of the country were invited; he
gave grand balls, where all youth and beauty congregated.
Fetes, archery meetings, croquet parties, were held ia the
grounds; riding parties were formed to yisit the ruins of
the neighborhood; picnics were arranged, where the
young people might enjoy themselves at their ease. Then
he was continually surprising Belle and Reine by the
magnificence of his presents. Everything that young
girls’ heart could desire was theirs in abundance,

Madame was very anxious that they should go to Lon-
don forthe season, and be presented. She constantly
urged this upon Lord Arncourt; he always put it off.

“IT have only just recovered my daughter,’’ he said.
‘“‘Let me keep her with me at least foratime. If I let her
go to London, I am sure to lose her.??

His real motive was the strong desire he had to see Eric
and Reine lovers. He thought that if they remained to-
gether, they must most assuredly fall in love with each
other. If Reine went to London she would soon havea
hundred lovers at her feet. He would rather she married
Eric than a royal duke even. No doubt that when she
once made her debut in the great world she would have
lovers higherin rank and position than Eric Chilvers;
but her marriage with him would please her father best,
He did not want her tobe thrown much into the society
of eligible men until she was betrothed to Eric.

Many people understood it. Madame, usually 80 quick
at penetration, was the last to perceive it.

‘Lord Arncourt would like his daughter to marry his
heir,”? was @ frequent remark. Mothers warned their
sons it was useless to fal] in love there. Men told each
other Lord Arncourt had other views for his daughter.
Many asked themselyes—would my lord’s wish be accom-
plished? It was impossible to tell, Eric Chilvers seemed
to have a very kindly Mking for his beautiful kinswoman.
He laughed with her, talked to her, epjoyed her satire,
admired her constant animation, for it was impossible to
feel dull where Reine was; but it was uncertain whether
he loved her. Many thought that he preferred the pure
and gentle girl whose face was like a sunbeam, whose
voice was music. He talked lessto her, but there was
quite another expression on Eric’s face when he addressed
Belle—one of reverence and deepest respect; there was
less familiarity, less Jaughter. With Reine he enjoyed a
jest; with Belle he enjoyed anoblesentiment. He turned
to the one forsympathyin all his amusement; to the
other in all his higher and nobler pursuits,

Lord Arnecourt could not decidein his own mind wheth-
er Eric loved Reine; but he began to think his daughte
loved Eric. '

She had said once, in speaking of herself, that with her
love would bea fire, not a sentiment. Now she was to
know how true her words were, for Reine—the proud,
beautiful Reine—had learned to love the heir of Nevers-
leigh with all the force and passion of which she was Ca-
pable. With such ill-regulated natures as hers—cold, hard,
brilliant, polished, yet capable of the highest degree of
passion—love knows no moderation, no bounds, no me-
diam. Loving Eric, she must either live or die for him.
She had no thought forany one else. Her ideas, her hopes,
all began and ended with him. It was the passionate love
of a strong, passionate heart.

It was not the pure devotion of a good woman; such a
love would have been impossible to Reine. It was not the
calm, deep stream that flows from heart to heart. It was
the resistless torrent that destroys all obstacles, that
brooks no opposition, that will not be stayed, that dashes
impetuously on its way, reaching its limit, let the cost be
what it might—a fire that destroyed all that opposed its
progress—a fire that would consume and burn. Reine
had rightly named it. From the first moment that his
proud, handsome head was bent before her, Reine had
loved him. It was not a good love. It was not founded
on esteem for what were really his good qualities, his no-
ble principles. His handsome face, the winning grace
aud chivalry of hig manner, had first aroused it, She
lowed him for himséll, ana Ot Or any quallties that dis-
tinguished him.

At first, and for some long time, she was too proud to
own her Jove, even to herself. She resolutely drove from
her mind all thoughts of it; she would not acknowledge
it. Pride was a master passion with her, and pride for-
bade her to own to herself that she loved a man who had
said nothing yet of loving her.

It conquered her at last; she yielded to it. It was like
the intoxication of rare wine, of sweet, subtle per-
fume. She laid down her pride and coldness at his
feet; she confessed to herself that she loved him; and she
gloried in her love, she was proud of it. Then she gave
up her whole heart and soul to the one task of winning
him.

It was not to be done so that he could perceiveit. She
vowed to herseif that she would win him—that she would
gain from him love such asshe gave him; and it remained
Lo be seen whether, with ali her beauty, her skill, her ge-
nius, she could accomplish her ends.

“There could be no love,’’ so Reine thought, ‘‘where
there was such laughing, genial friendship as existed be-
tween herself and Eric. She must destroy that, then be-
gin again on a new foundation. It would not be difficult.
She had read in the workof some clever writer that,
given the opportunity, any woman could marry the man
she liked. Nowitremained for her to see if that were
true.’?

She considered. herself a good judge of character, but
she was puzzled; she could not tell whether Eric liked
her or not. She tried to test him.

He asked her one evening to sing for him.

“You have such a glorious voice, Reine,” he said; ‘do
sing for me. Not oneof those French chansons, that
have no music in them—not one of the German songs
that send me to sleep—but an old English ballad.”

She looked up at him with a bright smile.

“A ballad? .Yes; I like ballads, Eric. Shallit be one of
martial glory? one that will stir your soul as with the
music of a mighty clarion? or one that will touch your
heart, and bid some sweet fountain flow ?”?

He laughed.

“I do not think touching hearts is much in your line,
Reine,” he said.

She folded her hands with the air of one determined to
argue the question.

“Why do you say that, Eric? Now do not Jook satiric-
ally at me; I am not inthe humor for satire. Why do you
say touching one’s heart is not much in my line?”

His eyes lingered on her face with an expression that
aunoyed her.

“Why do you say it?’? she repeated.
your telling me.”

Eric laughed aloud.

“You ought to have been an empress, Reine, you are 80
imperious. You would clasp those pretty white hands of
yours, and say: ‘Take away that slave, and behead
him! ??

“My hands are not pretty,” interrupted Reine, angrily.

“They are beautiful, then. Does that please you better ?
They are white and soft, with the least tinge of pink; and
each blue vein is clearly marked. I kiss your beautiful
hands, Reine, after the fashion of o French clievalier.”

“You are always laughing at the French, Eric. I am
English; it does not annoy me. Will you give me a plain
answer to a very plain question? Why do you say that of
me? Why should I never touch any heart???

‘Belle!’ cried Eric, ‘‘come to my assistance. It is with
much difficulty tuat lam endeavoring to defend myself,”

“T insist upon

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Belle crossed the roem, and came up to Eric with a
smile,

“TI have involved myself in a terrible dilemma, Belle,’’
said Evie; “I have told Reine a certain truth, and she
does not jike it.’?

“T am atraid that few peopie ever do like the truth,”
said Belle. ‘Tell me what it was.’?

Bric repeated the words. >

‘‘] maintain,’ he continued, “that they are perfectly
correct, Reine has no talent for sentiment—has she,
Belle ??

The gentle girl looked at her brilliant, beautiful sister.

‘I can hardly tell,’? she replied. ‘Reine does not in-
dulge in sentiment in small things; but I have no doubt
that if she did entertain any idea of the kind, it would be
a strong one,”’

“Then I confess myself conquered,” laughed Eric. ‘'The
verdict is against me; Reine, | beg your pardon. 1 will
own that you-cam touch any one’s heart when you will,
Now, will you sing for me???

A pleased, softened expression came over her face, her
dark eyes were eloquence itself.

“J will sing anything you like, now that you have done
me justice. You must come and turn over iny leaves—no,
not that—I sing from memory; but you must stand by
me.”?

“IT am flattered beyond description,”’ said Eric.

She went across the room, her white evening dress
sweeping the rich crimson carpet. She sat down to the
piano, and Eric took his station by her side.

“Nearer,” she said, ‘‘tlat I may look at your face for
inspiration while I sing.’’

He could not help admiring the picture; the white hands
that gleamed on the ivory keys, the beautiful face, the
dark, bright eyes, s0 eloquent with passion, the lips 80
sweet and eloquent with song, the graceful neck, the pers

 

fect symmetry of the white shoulders—his eyes had never
rested on a fairer face, yet his heart did not soften with
anything like love.

Then her voice arose, so sweet and Clear, low ringing
and full of music; such a voice as the ancients of old gave
to the sirens; and Eric listened, charmed even against his
will. She sang one quaint ballad after another until his
heart Was strangely touched, and the tears stood in his
eyes. She sang of love that mever died, of troth that was
never broken, of faith that had never faltered—sie sang
unt the depths of his Weart were touched, and fancy had
taken him to another world.

Then she ceased, and the spell was broken; it was as
though some celestial harmony had suddenly ceased. She
turned to Eric with a smile.

“You have conquered, Reine. I shall never doubt your
pore of-touching hearts again. How am I to thank
you

“Lam more than repaid if I have given you pleasure,’?
she replied. And she looked so lovely With that tremu-
lous smile on her lips that Bric’s gaze lingered on her.
Then he caught a glance from Belle; there was no re-
proach init, only something of pained wonder and sur-
prise.

A glance that drew him quickly from Reine’s side; for
which the beautiful, willful girl could have slain her gen-
tle rival.

“Ihave made him listen to me,’ she said; “I have
pleased him—I do not think any woman’s yoice ever
made his heart beat before mine did—and his eyes Jooked
Kindly at me; shall 1 win him? If there be magic in
beauly and power in kindness, I will.’

Lord Arncourt gave a graud ball in honor of a celebra-
ted statesman who was visiting with his wife and child-
ren in the neighborhood; hesaid to Madame de St Lance:

“I wish you, madame, personally, if you will, to attend
to my daugiiter’s toilet. Lady Clements is a great favor-
ite at court; and I should like Reine to make a most fa-
vorable impression on her. Let no expense or trouble be
spared to make both the girls as beautiful as possible.”

Great preparations were made for the ball; the state
rooms were thrown open; Lord Arncourt sent to London
for music; there was an endless profusion of flowers and
decorations of all Kinds.

“Belle,” said Eric, the day pefore the one appointed for
the ball, ‘tyou will give me the first dance, will you not ?’?

The girl’s fair face flushed.

‘Certainly, 1 will,’? she replied.

‘That will be the only enjoyable part of the evening to
me,’? he continued. ‘J do not care for balls; I am not
fond of dancing, but I shall enjoy that.”

She did not like to say: “So shall I,” but he read the
words in the Clear, frank eyes.

That same evening he was standing with Reine on the
terrace, when Lord Arncourt joined them.

‘“‘Eric,’’ he said, ‘I have been wishing to see you. You
must open the ball with Reine, remember.”?

“Why, papa?’ she asked,

“My dear child, itis a matter of etiquette, not inclina-
tion; although in this cage they will probably go together.
You, as my daughter, as mistress of the house; Eric, as
my heir; it could not be otherwise,”

‘Unfortunately,’ said Eric, carelessly, “I am engaged.
I asked the favor of a young lady’s hand for that dance,
apd I must keep my engagement,”?

Reine’s dark eyes flashed one glance at him, then
drooped sadly. Lord Arncourt looked slightly annoyed;
he wished the whole neighborhood to understand that
the two were lovers; nothing would give a better idea of
this, than the fact of their opening the ball together.”?

“You must oblige me in this instance, Eric,” he said;
“etiquette demands il; 1 wish it; and I am quite sure that
you will not refuse. ‘Tell the young lady, whoever she
may be, and she will understand.”?

“It you really make a point of it, Lord Arncourt, I will
do as you Wish, that is,’? continued Hric, “with your
daughter’s permission.”?

‘‘My permission does not seem to be necessary,’’ said
Reine, proudly.

Her father walked away, satisfied with Eric’s promise,
thinking most probably that they would come to a better
understanding if they were left alone. Then Reine turn-
ed haughtily to him.

‘TI would rather never dance again—I would rather
never go near a ball while I live, than that you should be
compelled to dance with me against your will,”’

Despite the hauteur of her manner, and the pride on
her face, Eric saw tears in her eyes, and that sight tor-
mented him. He was naturally gentile of heart.

“My dear Reine, how mistaken you are. I never said
or thought dancing with you was against my will. How
can you say such a thing tome? 1 merely said that I had
asked some one else for that same dance. Suppose that
Lord Clements had asked you, and you, in consequence,
refused me, that would not mean that you did not Care to
dance with me. Ladies do not understand logic.”’

“We understand something much better,’? replied
Reine. **You must have been ina great hurry to have
engaged any one.’

She turned away, but Erie followed her.
of her voice touched him.

‘“‘Reine,’’ he said, ‘‘you are angry with me, I am sure.’!

“I do not see that it can matter to you if 1 am,’ she re-
plied.

He went to the flower-garden and gathered & most beau-
tiful blush rose; it was a flower perfect in shape and in
color, beautiful, too, in its rich fragrance.

“Will you accept this peace-offering ?”? he asked.

She turned round, and her dark eyes looked steadily at
him.

“No,’? she replied. ‘Take it to the young lady whom
you were 80 anxious to dance with.”

“knew you weit ongry, Reine, and itie very unjust of

ou.”?

Yet as lie spoke his face flushed. It looked very much
like jealousy, this strange conduct of Reine’s, and yet
how absurd; slie could not possibly be jealous of him—
they were friends, not lovers.

Then Reine’s mood changed, She raised her tace to
his, and its marvelous beauty was deepened by a radiant
smile.

“Do you want to make friends with me?’ she asked.

The beauty of that smile almost startied him.

“Yes,’? he replied; ‘indeed I do.”

“Then 1 will forgive you on one condition—that you tell
me the name of the young lady you asked to dance with
you. Willyou do that, Eric?”

“Why do you wish to know?’ he asked.

“That I may hate her,” sheiiowght; but she said noth-
ing of the kind.

“Simply from curiosity, Bric; that is all.’

Some prudential instinct caused him to hesitate. There
was something he could not understand in it,

*] cannot tell you that, Reine; seriously speaking, I do
not think it honorable.”?

“{ thank you for thinking me capable of asking you
anything it would not be honorable to tell.’’

She swept away with the dignity of an insulted queen,
leaving Eric with the rose in his hand.

‘“Reine,’”’? he cried; but Reine never moved her head.
She was deaf to his voice. She did not look round even
as she quitted the terrace. Eric was hal{-piqued, half-
amused. ‘I will make her accept this rose,’’? he said to
himself, ‘‘Sheis very proud, but she shall not have it all
her own way.’?

They did not meet again until dinner-time, then Reine
was looking unusaally beautiful. Sie wore a low dress
of rich yelvet, with point lace. Eric spoke to her two or
three times. She pretended not to hear him.

‘‘Reine,’’ said Lord Arncourt, atlength; ‘Eric is speak-
ingto you. Do you not hear him?”

She looked at her father with the most charming smile.

“Weare not friends,’? she said. ‘Iam not going to
speak to him again until he tells me something I wanted
to know.’

Lord Arncourt smiled to himself, thinking:

“Lovers quarrels are but the renewal of love.”

[TO BE CONTINUED. ] i

 

The hurt tone

———_- >-©-<-

Items of Interest.

x That public laundries help to spread diseases

has long been the opinion of eminent physicians who have in-
vestigated the subject. There is no doubt that smali-pox, sear-
let fever, and other infectious maladies have often been com-
municated to whole households through the clothes used or worn
by sick persons. Not caring to have them washed at home, or
not having the necessary washing conveniences, they are taken
from the sick-bed and sent to the laundry, impregnated as they
are with infectious matter. They are thrown carelessly together
with garments, sheets or pillow-cases from other houses, and
afterward washed together. Recently, in Kensington, England’,
there was a strange outbreak of scarlet fever among those who
had attended a large dinner party, and the presumption is tha&
the table-cloth used on the occasion was washed at a laundry
where the fever had obtained an entrance. Even if an estah-
lishment of this kind be able to show a clean bill of health so far
asthe clothes sent tothem are concerned, yet it may not be so
with the households of its numerous employees. The handsthat
washed and ironed the table-cloth referred to, may have been an
hour or two before washing in some. other locality a garment
recking with the disease.

ga A large sea-serpent was recently seen off
Cape Cod. An eye-witness, whose statement is borne out by
others, says that as marine glasses were brought to bear upon
the object of their curiosity a sword-fish was seen to dart at him
when he reared his head at least ten feet above the water and
then dove down again. His head is represented as rather flat,
and resembling that of a turtle. The body, at least eight inches
in diameter, presented a slimy surface, covered with large,
coarse scales. The lengthof the monster was variously esti-
mated, some reporting it to be sixty and others one hundred and
twenty feet long.

na A peculiar case of poisoning occurred lately
at Stettin, Prussia. Aman purchased a hat and wore tfora
short time, when he was attacked. with a severe headache. An
eruption next appeared on his forehead, followed by suppera
tion, the eyes became inflamed, and nearly the whole face wag
affected. Attention being called to the hat, it was found that
the brown leather lining was colored with an aniline dye con-
taining poison—hence tiie mischief. Proper remedies were ap-
plied and the man recovered,

xa= A wonderful clock has been manufactured in
France. It isan eight-day instrument, chimes the quarters,
plays tunes, shows the hours of the day, day of the week, day of
the month, and month of the year. It also shows the moon’s
age, the rising and setting of the sun, the time of high and low
water, and, by an ingenious contrivance, represents the water
which rises and falls, lifting ships at high water asif they were
in motion, and, asthe tide recedes, leaving them dry on the
sands,

ga California claims to have the champion rose of
the world. It is 16 3-4 inches in circumference, its shortest diam-
eter five inches, and the measurement in various directions from
tip to tip of petals, is over six inches. It is known as the Mare-
chal Neil, and is a cupped variety of rose, having a lemon tint,
with a delicate and delightful perfume. It was raised in Santa
Barbara.

ear A huge sturgeon, at least twelve feet long,
and weighing about 500 pounds, recently Jeaped into a sail-boat
on the Merrimac river, and by its violent twisting and turning,
upset the vessel, throwing its occupants out and creating quite &
consternation among them, A boat from the shore was sent to
their relief,

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

 

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SING YOUR GRIEF AWAY.

BY JOSEPH P. SKELLY.
Over your hearts of sorrow throw
Mantles of soothing song;
Music will work a cheerful glow,
Where reason would be wrong.
Sing like the-birds at early morn
Sounding the birth of day.
Care in their nest is never born—
They sing it all away.
Sing when you're sad, sing when you’re glad,
Sing all the livelong day;
Sing when at home, sing when alone,
Ana sing your grief away
.. Burdensare light beneath a song;
Troubles are felt no more
Happiness beams from every one
That seemed so sad before.
Oh, that our voices all could sing,
Mingled in one sweet lay,
Making the word with music ring,
To sing our griefs away!
Sing when you're sad, sing when yon’re glad,
Sing all the livelong day;
Sing when at home, sing when alone,
And sing your grief away.

 

 

 

ONE |
NICHT’S MYSTERY.

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming.

 

{“One Night’s Mystery” was commenced in No. 29. Back num-
berscan be obtained from any News Agent in the United States.]

PART FIRST.

CHAPTER XXY.—(Continued.)

**T am not in the habit of telling lies, Aunt Dor-
mer,” says Cyrilla in the same offended tone, obey-
ing all the grim orders as given.

“Are you not? Then. you differ from all the
Hendricks Jever knew. Your father never told the
truth in his life, and we don’t gather grapes of
thorns, or of thistles, we are told. Your mother
was a weak little fool—perhaps you take your truth
telling proclivities fromher. Let me see, where I
want to begin! Niece Cyrilla, is Frederick Carew’s
son in Canada ?”

‘*Ah! you have found that out! How cruel to tell
you—you who hate the very sound of the name.”

“Youown it then? Heishere. You have met
him; have been meeting him constantly since last
October ?”

Cyrilla looks up—a fiash of indignation in her
eyes.

““No, Aunt Dormer, I deny it! Whoever tells you
that, tells you a falsehood. I have seen him—only
a few times—and I did not speak of it to you. Why
should 1? I knew it would vex you to know he was
here at all, and his presence here made no differ-
ence to me, one way or other.”

‘“‘None! Take care! Is he not your lover, Niece
Cyrilla ?”

“Aunt, I was a little girl when I knew him in
England. I never thought ofsuch a thing as lovers.
Here, I have met him but a few times as I say, and
always in the presence of others.. We have had no
opportunity, if we had the desire to be lovers.

*‘Always in the presence of others,” Miss Dormer
repeats, her basilisk gaze never leaving her niece’s
unflinching face. ‘‘Who were the ‘others’ the night
you stole out of your bed-room window at school,
to meet him in kness, and by stealth, in the
grounds of your school ?”

“They have told you that, then!” exclaims Cyrilla
in confusion. ‘‘Aunt, dear aunt! do not be angry.
I did do that—a rash act,.I allow, and one for which
I nearly suffered severely, but I did it only to hear

. hews Ofpapa. You do not believe me perhaps,’—
Oh! the infinite scorn and unbelieving of Miss
Dormer’s face—‘‘but [love my father, and am always
glad and eager to hear newsof him, Fred Carew
was just from England, he had seen him shortly
before, and brought from him a message for me.

He tried to deliver it at Mrs. Delamere’s—where by

purest accident we met—but an odious woinan, one
of the teachers gave him no chance. I was dying to
hear it—I know and regret my folly. annt—[ did
steal out and-spend ten minutes with him in the

rden; not more. The woman—a detestable spy—
‘ound me out, and Mile. Chateauroy threatened to

1 me. Aunt, I assure you that was the first and

only time—oh, well! with one exception.”

‘And that exception, my dear Niece Cyrilla ?”

“Was in New York. Leaving Miss Owenson’s
house one day, I encountered him in Madison square.
He rode down town with mein the omnibus, and in
that omnibus we met by chance, Miss Jones the
spying teacher. It is from her all this has come. I
know how spiteful, and contemptible, and false a
wretch she is.”

‘And that is all, Niece Cyrilla—all? You never
met him at Mrs. Delamere’s here in Montreal, or at
that other woman’s—what is her Irish name—
Fogarty ?” s ;

‘Aunt Phil, I told you I had met him a few times,
but always in the presence of others. I did not
mention it to youatthetime. I wasafraid you would
forbid my accepting any more invitations, and these
parties were all the pleasure I had. Was it any such
great crime to meet him by accident there ?”

“No crime at all, only—what a pity you did not
tell me. It would be so much easier to believe you
now, if you had not deceived me then. And this is
all, absolutely all ?”

‘All, Aunt Dormer!” Unflinchingly still, the black
steadfast eyes above, meet the fiercely questioning
eyes below.

“Heis not your lover?” __ >

“My lover! Nonsense! This is Miss Jones’ or Mrs,
Fogarty’s doing. They were both in love with him,
themselves.”

“What a fascinating youn
I should like to see him.
then, Niece Cyrilia ?”

“My ” But this joke is so stupendous that
Cyrilla laughs aloud.

“You did not live with him as his wife for a week
in New York?” pursues Miss Dormer. Her eyes
never seem to wink, never seem to go for a second
from her niece’s face. Cyrilla starts up indignantly,
as if this were past bearing.

“Aunt Dormer!” she exclaims haughtily, ‘this is
beyond ajest. Even you have no right to say tome
such things as this. If you choose to believe my
enemies, women who hate and are jealous of me—
who will stop at no lie to ruin me—then I have no
more to say!”

She stands before her, her dark eyes flashing, her
dark face eloquent with outraged pride. Asa piece
of acting, the pose, thelook, were admirable. When
she said she would have played Lady Teazle better
than poor Dolly De Courcy, there can be no doubt
she spoke the truth.

“Then it is all false—all? You own to having
gone out of the window to meet this young man ?™
says Miss Dormer checking off the indictments on
her skinny fingers, ‘to having met him at the
Delamere’s and at the Fogarty woman’s. You own
to having come upon him by accident in New York,
and ridden with himinan omnibus. But he never
was your lover, and he ‘is not your husband. You
never lived with him for a week in a New York
hotel. That is how the case stands ?”

Cyrilla bows; her face pale, her eyes black, her
form erect, her look indignant,

‘You see I want to make things clear,” continues
Miss Dormer, almost apologetically, **my time may
be short,” a spasm convulses her face; *‘and a good
deal depends on it. Mr. McKelpin will be here next
week, and yourinnocence must be proven before he
returns. 1 would rather believe these women false
than you. You will not mind denying all this in
their presence I suppose, Niece Cyrilla ?”

‘Certainly not, Aunt Dormer.”

“Then I think that will do. I am tired with all
this talking. Sit down there, and take that book,
and read me to sleep.”

Cyrilla obeys, er heart is beating in loud
mufiied throbs, she feels sick and cold, a loathing
herself fills her. But she will not go back—on the
. road she is treading there seems no going

ack,

At noon the doctor comes, and Cyrilla quits the
sick-room for a breathing spell. Inthat interval the
doctor receives from his patient a message for “the
Fogarty woman.” She is to wait upon Miss Dormer
with her friend Miss Jones at five o’clock. She also
dictates a note to a third person, which the obliging
physician undertakes to deliver.

Miss Dormer keeps her niece under her eye until
about half-past four in the afternoon. Then she
el her to the ee with orders to be
pack precisely at five. Cyrilla is glad to go out,
vlad to breathe the fresh, clear air. The walk is
ing, she hurries fast, gets what she wants and

 

Lovelace he must be!
e is not your husband

 

{

 

 

 

 

hurries back. But in spite of her haste it is ten
minutes past five when she lets herself in, and runs
up to her aunt’s chamber. She flings open the door
and enters hastily.

“The druggist kept me some time waiting while
he 225M

She has got this far when she breaks off, and the
sentence is never finished. Her eyes have grown
accustomed to the dusk of the room, and she sees
sitting there, side-by-side, her two mutual foes—Mrs.
Fogarty and Miss Jones.

*“You know these two ladies, Niece Cyrilla ?” says
the shrill, piping voice of Miss Dormer.

Cyrilla stands before them, her black eyes flashing
—yes, literally and actually seeming to flash fire.
Mrs. Fogarty’s gaze sinks; but Miss Jones, the better
hater of the two, meets, with her light, sinister orbs,
that look of black fury.

“Tt is my misfortune, Aunt Dormer,” says Cyrilla
in a ringing voice, ‘‘to have known themonce. I
know them no more, except as’ slanderers and
traducers!” .

The strong English words flash out like bullets.
For a moment, they, with truth on their side flinch
and quail. It is a pugilistic encounter a la mort,
and the first blood is for Cyrilla.

‘Hal well put,” says Miss Dormer, a gleam of
something like admiration in the look she gives her
niece. Whatever else the Hendricks lacked, they
never lacked pluck, right or wrong. Open the
shutters, my dear, and let in the light on this busi-
ness,”

It is the first time in all her life that Miss Dormer
has called the girl ‘‘my dear.” Cyrilla stoops over
her, and for the third time in her life, kisses her.

“Do not believe their falsehoods, Aunt Phil,” she
cries passionately. ‘I am your niece; your own
flesh and blood. They hate me,bothofthem. They
have laid this plot to ruin me. Do not let them do
it ”

‘Prove them false, and they shall not;” Miss
Dormer answers, her old eyes kindling with almost
@ kindly gleam. ‘You are my own flesh and blood,
as yousay, and blood is thicker than water. Open
the shutters, and raise me up.”

She is obeyed. It is tobe a duel to the death.
Every nerve in the girl’s body is braced, she will
stop at nothing—at nothing, to defeat these two. A
rain of amber sunset comes in; over the thousand
metal roofs and shining crosses of Montreal the May
sun is setting. Miss Dormer is propped up, and
looks fora moment wistfully out at that lovely light
in the sky—last sunset she will ever see.

Itis a highly dramatic scene. The death-room,
the two accusers sitting side-by-side, the culprit
standing erect, her haughty head thrown back, her
eyes afire, her red lips one rigid line, her hands un-
consciously clenched.

‘‘Niece Cyrilla, there,is a Bible yonder on the
table. Hand it here.”

It is given. Miss Dormer opens it, and takes out a
folded paper.

“Niece Cyrilla, look!” she says, and holds it up;
“it is my will! Last night while you slept I sent for
my lawyer and made it. It bequeaths everything—
everything—to Donald McKelpin—it does not leave
youapenny. If I die without a will all is yours, as
you know, Prove these two ladies wrong in what
they have come here to accuse you of, and I will give
you this paper to burn or destroy as you see fit, and
my solemn promise to make no other.”

A gleam like dark lightning leaps from Cyrilla’s
eyes. Prove them wrong! What is there she will
not stop at to prove them wrong? °

‘*My Niece Cyrilla,” goes on the sick woman, turn-
ing to Miss Jones, ‘‘admits that she stole out of her
room to meet this young officer one night-in the
school garden, She admits,” looking at Mrs. Fogar-
ty, “having met him at your house and at Mrs, Dela-
ner's. She admits,” glancing again at Miss Jones,
“having encountered him by accident in New York,
and riding with himashort distance in the omni-
bus. But all else she denies, positively and totally
denies. Mr. Carew is not her lover, is not and never
will be her husband, She is to marry Mr. Donald
McKelpin next week. Now, which am I to believe
—my niece, ladies, or you?”

“Your niece is a most accomplished actress, ma-
dame,” says the saw-like voice of Miss Jones; ‘‘she
can tell a deliberate falsehood and look you straight
in the face while telling it. She may not be Mr. Ca-
rew’s wife—all the worse for Mr. McKelpinif she is
not, for she certainly lived with Mr. Carew as Mrs.
Carew in New York a whole week. I saw them en-
ter the hotel together, I inquired of the clerk, and
he told me they had been there together five days
as man and wel teers ,

-“Niece cyrilla,” says Miss Dormer, ‘‘what have
you to say.to this ?”

“Nothing to her,” replies Cyrilla; “to you J say it
is false! totally false; a fabrication from beginning to
end.”

“Let us call another witness,” says Miss Dormer,
‘since we don’t seem able to agree. Openthat door,
Mrs. Fogarty, and ask the gentleman to walk in.”

The widow arises and does as she is told, and for
the first time Cyrilla starts and blanches. For there
enters Fred Carew!

She turns blind for an instant—blind, faint, sick.
All her strength seemsto go. She gives an inyol-
untary gasp, her eyes dilate, she grasps a chair back
for support, then she sees the exultant faces of her
enemies, and she rallies to the strife again. No, no,
no! they shall not exult in her fall.

Fred Carew advances to the side of the bed, near-
est the door. Cyrilla stands directly opposite. He
looks at her but her eyes are upon her aunt. He
noas coldly to Mrs. Fogarty, and addresses himself
to the mistress of the house:

“You sent for me, madame ?” he briefly says.

She looks at him—a strange expression on her
face. ‘tl am going to see a ghost,” she had said to
her niece. Surely itis like seeing a ghost to see
another Frederic Carew, with the same blood in his
veins, the same look in his eyes, at her bedside after
five-and-twenty years. .

The old smoldering wrong seems to blaze up afresh
from its white ashes! Asin that distant time she
hated and cursed the father, so now she has iit in her
heart to hate and curse the son.

“I sent for you, sir,” she answers, ‘‘to settle a
very vexed question, A simple yes or no will do if,
for you are an officer and a gentleman, with noble
blood in your veins—the blood of the Carews—in-
capable of deceiving a poor, weak woman. Oh! the
sneer of almost diabolical malice in eyes and voice
as she says it! Fred’s face flushes, ‘It is only this
—is my niece, Cyrilla Hendrick your wife, or not ?”

He looks across the bed and their eyes meet.

‘*For Heaven’s sake, Fred, say no!” her eager, 1m-
ploring glance says. ‘Tell the truth, Cyrilla!” his
command, imperiously. ‘*For my sake!” their soften-
ing look adds.

“Speak!” Miss Dormer cries fiercely; ‘‘don’t look
at her. Speak for yourself! is she your wife or
not?”

‘I decline to answer so extraordinary a question,”
Fred says, coolly. ‘If I had known your object in
sending for me, Miss Dormer, I would not have
come.”

*-Do you deny that she is ?”

“IT deny nothing—I affirm nothing. Whatever Miss
Hendrick says—that I admit.”

**She is Miss Hendrick then—you own that 2”

“I have never heard her called anything else,
madame.”

‘**Will you speak, or will you not! cries Miss Dor-
mer,ina fury. ‘Are you my niece’s husband? Did
she live with you in New York as your wife ?”

He folds his arms and stands silent.

“And silence gives assent,” says the spiteful voice
of Miss Jones.

“Speak, sir!” goeson Miss Dormer. “I ama dying
woman, and I demand to know the truth. What is
my niece to you ?”

“My very dear friend. More, I positively refuse
to say.” i

“Cyrilla!” the old woman almost shrieks, ‘he
will not speak—you shall. Come nearer and repeat
what you have already said. Is that man your hus-
band or not!”

The agony of that moment! There are drops on
Cyrilla’s face--cold, clammy drops. A rope seems to
be tightening around her neck and strangling her.
Across the bed, Fred Carew’s eyes are sternly fixed
on her changing face,

“Speak!” her aunt screams, mad and furious,

‘“He—is not!”

“You never lived with him in New York as his
wife?”

“T did not.”

“You are not married to him, and never will be.”

“Tam not, and never will be.”

‘Swear it!” cries the sick woman, frenzied with
excitement. ‘*Your word will not suffice. I must
have your oath!” She flings open the Bible at the
Gospels. ‘Lay your hand on this book and say after
me! I swear that Frederick Carew is not my hus-
band and never will be, so help me Goa!”

She lays her hand on the book—blindly, for she
cannot see. A red mist fills the room and blots
out every face except one—the one across the bed,
that looks like the face of an avenging angel—the
face of the husband she loves and is torswearing,

‘Speak the words,” cried Miss Dormer: “I swear
that Frederick Casew is not my husband”—begin!”

 

 

 

Oh! the terrific, ghastly silence. The two women
have arisen and stand pale and breathless.

“Tl swear—that Frederic Carew—is——”

Her face, the livid hue of death, a second before,
turns of a deep dull red, the cord around her throat
strangling her, all at once loosens, and she falls
headlong across her aunt’s bed,

*‘She has been saved from perjury,” says the som-
ber voice of Miss Jones.

Fred Carew is by her side as she falls. He lifts her
in his arms and carries her out of the room. Old
Joanna is without in the passage, and recoils at the
sight of the young man’s stony face and the burden
he bears.

“Take her up to her room,” she. says, and leads
the way. ‘Poor dear, has she fainted ?”

Cyrilla has not fainted—vertigo congestion—
whatever it may be. She is conscious of who
carries her ; knows when she islaid upon her bed,
in a dull, painless, far-off way. She tries to open
her eyes ; the eyelids only flutter, but he sees it.
His face touches hers for a second.

‘*Good-by —good-by !” he says.

Then, still in that dulled, far-off way, she knows
that he has left her; she hears the house door open
and shut, and feels through all her torpor, that for
the first and last time in his life, “~ed Carew has
crossed Miss Dormer’s threshold.

CHAPTER XXVI.
OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER.

She lies there for the remainder of the day, while
the rose light of the sunset fades out, and the pale
primrose afterglow comes. The moon rises, and her
pearly luster mingles in the sky with the pink flush
of that May sunset. The house door has opened and
shut again and again, while she lies mutely there,
and she knows that her triumphant enemies have
gone, that Dr. Foster has come, for it is his heavy
step that ascends the stairs now.

A torpor, that is without pain or tears, or sorrow or
remorse fills her, and holds her 'spell-bound in her
bed. Her large, black, melancholy eyes are wide
open, and stare blankly out of the curtainless win-
dows, as she lies, her hands clasped over her head,
She can see the myriad city roofs, sparkling in the
crystal light of moonrise and sunset, a dozen shining
crosses piercing the blue heaven, which she feels
she will never see. As she gazes at them dreamily,
the bell, of a large building near, clashes out in the
quivering opal air, It is a convent, and the bell is
the bell of the evening Angelus. How odd to think
that there are people about her, scores and scores of
people who can kneel before consecrated altars,
with no black and deadly sins to stand between them
and the holy and awful face of God.

And now it is night. All the little pink clouds
have faded in pallid gray, and the clustering stars
shine down upon Montreal. How. still the house is,
Are they both dead—her aunt and Joanna? No!

 

While she thinks it, Joanna comes in with a cup of | ¥

tea and a slice of toast.

‘Better, miss?” says the old servant, interrogat-
ively. ‘‘Would have come sooner. Could not get
away. Waiting -on her, Very low to-night. Eat
something, miss.” :

Cyrilla drinks her tea thirstily, and makes an
effort to get up. It is a failure—there is something
the matter with her head ; she falls heavily back.

‘Lie still, miss. You look gashly. I'll stay with
her to-night. Have asleep, miss.” And old Joanna
takes her tray and untouched toast, and goes.

So she lies. Presently the high bright stars and
the twinkling city lig ts fade away in darkness,
There is a long blank—then all at once, without
sound of any kind, she awakes and _ sits up in bed,
her heart beating fast. Some one isin her room,
and a light is burning. Itis old Joanna, standing at
her bedside, shading a lamp with her hand. .

“She's gone, miss,” says Joanna.

“Gone!” Cyrilla repeats vaguely; ‘‘who? Gone
where ?”

““Yes—where ?—I'd like to know,” says Joanna,
staring blankly for information at the papered wall.
“The Lord knows, don’t. But she’s gone. Went
half-an-hour ago. Four o’clock to a minute. The
cocks begun to crow, and she riz right up with a
screech, and went.”

The girl sits staring at her—her great black eyes
looking wild and spectral in her white face.

‘All night long she talked,” pursued Joanna;
“talked—talked stiddy. It was wearin’ to listen.
About England and the time when she was young,
I reckon, and Frederic Carew and Donald McKelpin

and her wild brother Jack.. That’s what she called }

im, _ And she talked it out erazyamd toud like,

wouldn’t a-heerd her. It was awful wearin’. Then
she was quiet. Kind o’ dozin’. I was dozin’ myself.
For it was very wearin’. Then the cocks crowed for
mornin’. Then she riz right up with that screech,
and went. Will you come, miss? It’s wearin’ there
alone.”

Cyrilla rises and goes. The house is so still—so
deathly still that their footsteps echo loudly as they
walk. The shaded lamp still burns in Miss Dormer’s
room, and on the bed stark and rigid, with wide-
open, glassy eyes and ghastly fallen jaw, Miss Dor-
mer lies—the ‘‘rich Miss Dormer.” Lonely, loveless,
and unholy has been her life—lonely, loveless and
unholy has been her death. Even old Joanna,
not easily moved, turns away with a creeping feel-
ing of repulsion from this grisly sight.

“She won’t make a handsome corpse, pore thing,”
remarks Joanna, holding up the lamp, and eyein
her critically, as if she had been waxwork; “but
suppose we must lay her out. We must shut her
eyes and put pennies on’em. And washher. And
make a shroud, and staight her out. And 3

‘“‘T cannot,” the girl cries out, turning away, death-
ly sick; it would kill me to touch her. You must go
for some one or else wait until some one comes.”

But Joanna does neither. Dead or alive she is not
afraid of Miss Dormer. She goes phlegmatically to
work, and was all herself, while Cyrilla sits, or
rather crouches in a corner, her folded arms resting
on the window-sill, her face lying upon them. She
has stood face to face with death before, calmly and
unmoved, but never—oh! never with death like this.
So—when morning comes, lovely, sunlit, Heaven
sent, shines down upon the world again, it finds
them, The sun floods the chamber with its glad
light, until old Joanna impatiently jerks down the
blinds in its face. On her bed, Miss Dormer lies, her
ghastly eyeballs crowned with Coin of the realm,
her skeleton arms stretched stiffly out by her sides,
but the mouth is still open, the jaw still. fallen, in
spite of the white bandage.

‘“‘T knowed it,” Joanna observes, with a depressed
shake of her ancient head, stepping back to eye her
work. You can’t make a handsome corp of her, let
you do ever so.”

Then her eye wanders from the dead aunt to the
living niece.

“You ain’t of no use here, miss,” she says, with
asperity. ‘‘You’d better come down with me to the
kitchen, and I'll make youa cup o’ strong tea. It’s
been a wearin’ night.”

Thev descend, and the strong tea is made and
drank, and does Cyrilla good. Joanna bustles about
her morning duties. At nine o’clock Doctor Foster
knocks, is admitted, hears what he expects to hear,
that his work is finished, and his patient has taken
a journey, in the darkness of the early dawn, from
this world to the next.

After that, many people, it seems to Cyrilla, come
and go—come to look at the rich Miss Dormer in
death, who would never have crossed that doorway
in her life. Mrs, Fogarty and Miss Jones come with
the rest. She sees them from her bedroom window,
but she is conscious of no feeling of anger or resent-
ment at the sight. All that is dead an one—gone
forever—with hope, and love, and ambition, and
daring, and all the plans of her life. Only a day or
two ago—a day or two! it seemsa lifetime! She
keeps her room through it all, stealing down to the
kitchen now and then, through the startling still-
ness of the house, for the strong tea or coffee on
which she lives. No one sees her, though dozens
come with no other object. For the story—her
story—is over the city. Mysterious hints of it are
thrown out ia the morning papers; it is the chit-chat
of barrack and boudoir, mess-table and drawing-
room. Nothing quite so romantic and exciting has
ever before happened in their midst, and Mrs, Fo-

arty and Miss Jones awake and find themselves
amous, The heroine keeps herself shut up, ashamed
of herself, very properly; the here is invisible, too.
And how has Miss Dormer left her money! That is
the question that most of all exercises their exer-
cised minds.

The day of the funeral comes, and Miss Dormer,
in her coffin, goes out, for the first time in years,
through her own front gates. It is quite a lengthy
and eminently respectable array of carriages that
follow the wealthy ee, to her grave.

“Tam the Resurrection and the Life. He that be-
lieveth in Me, although he be dead, shall live; and
every one that liveth and believeth in Me, shall not
die forever!” gays the reverend gentleman in the
white bands who officiates, and they lower Miss Dor-
mer into her last narrow home, and the clay goes
rattling down on the coffinlid. It is a wet and
windy day; the cemetery looks desolation itself—a
damp and uncomfortable place to take up one’s
abode. The sexton flings in the clods, and no tears
are shed, and no sorrow is felt, They are glad to

 

w<atsy THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. @8— - 3

sateen

 

 

get back to the shelter of their carriages, and men
laugh and crack jokes about Fred Carew and the
dead woman’s niece all the way home.

The dead woman's niece has not gone to the fune-
ral. Old Joanna alone represents the household.
The doctor is there, and the lawyer is there, for they
expect ample fees for their pains presently; but the
dead woman’s niece expects nething. She sits in
her lonely room; a lost feeling that something has
gone wrong with her head ever since that cord
snapped around her throat and she fell across her
aunt’s bed—her principal feeling. She puts her
hand to it in a forlorn, weary way, wondering why
it feels so oddly hollow, as if the thinking machine
inside had run down, and the key waslost. Shesuf-
fers no acute pain, either mental or physical, only
she seems to have lost the power both to sleep or
eat, and does not feel the need of either. There is
a tiresome, ceaseless sense of aching at her heart,
too, a blunted sense of misery and loss, that never
fora moment leavesher. She plucks at it some-
times, as if to pluck away the intolerable gnawing;
but it goes on and on, like the endless torture ofa
lost soul.

Mr. Pompet, the lawyer, has come to look after
bonds and mortgages, receipts, bank accounts and
papers of value, to remove them to his own safe, un-
til the arrival of Mr. McKelpin. He is engaged in
this work when the door of the room opens, and a
figure comes gliding toward him—a figure with a
face so white, eyes so black, and weird, and large that,
albeit not a nervous man, Mr. Pompet drops the
deed he holds and starts up with a stifled ejacula-
tion. Itis the dead woman’s niece.

“Don’t let me disturb you.” The weird, dark eyes
look at him—the faint, tired voice speaks. “I will
only remain a moment. You are the lawyer who
made Miss Dormer’s will?”

‘*Yes, miss—I mean Mrs...” Here Mr. Pompet
comes to a dead lock. He has heard so much about
Miss Hendrick being Mrs. Carew, that he is at a loss
| how to address her.

‘‘T am Miss Dormer’s niece. Will you tell me how
she has left her no. 2” He looked at her compas-
gionately—how wretchedly ill the poor girl is look-
ing, he thinks. A handsome girl too in spite of her
pallor and wild-looking eyes—Lieutenant Carew has
had taste. ‘Has Mr. McKelpin got it all? Don’t be
afraid to tell me, or—am I remembered ?”

‘*Except a small bequest of one hundred douars
to her servant Joanna, Mr. McKelpin has it all,” an-
swers the lawyer.

“*T-am not even mentioned in her will ?”

Again Mr. Pompet is silent—again he looks em-
barrassed and compassionate.

‘Please answer,” she says, wearily. “I would
rather know.”

‘*You are mentioned then, but only to say she has
disinherited you for your falsehood and deceit, and
to warn Mr. McKelpin in no case to aid or help
ou,”

She bends her head with the old graceful motion.

‘Thank you,” she says, and goes.

So it is over, and she knows the worst—it is only
what she has known all along, the lawyer has but
made assurance double sure. In striving to keep
love and fortune she has lost both. She has lost all,
good name, lover, home, wealth, everything she has
held most dear. And her own falsehood has done it
all. Ifshe had been honest and dealt fairly by her
aunt, she would at least, as Donald McKelpin’s wife,
have been arich woman. If she had been honest
and dealt fairly by Fred Carew, she would have had
his love and presence to comfort her. But she has
lost both. Truly, even for the children ofthis world,
honesty is the best policy—truly, also, the way of the
transgressor is hard, and the wages of sin is death.

Another night falls upon the lonesome, dark old
house, another ghostly, hushed, sleepless night. She
lies through the long, black, dragging hours, and
listens to the rain pattering onthe glass, and the
wind blowing about the gables. ‘*Blessed is the
corpse that the rainrains on,” says the children’s
rhyme. The rain is beating on Aunt Dormer’s grave
—is Aunt Dormer blessed ? she wonders.

Again it is morning—another gray, wet morning.
In the early dawn, sleep reluctantly comes to her,
and with sleep dreams, The sleeping is more cruel
than the waking, forshe dreams of her husband.
She is back with him in New York, living over again
that one bright honeymoon week—that week that
will stand out from all the other weeks of her life.
With asmile on her lips she awakens, and thena
moment after there is a desolate cry. For the truth
has come back to her with a pain sharper than the

ain Of death, She has neard nothing vf him, or

rom him since their parting—she never will again
—that she knows. That whispered ‘good-by’ was
for alltime. Why should sheexpect otherwise? In
the face ofall she denied him—forswore him. What
could he have left but scorn and contempt for her.

It never occurs to her to think of seeing or hearing
from him again. Her sentence is passed—its jus-
tice she does not dispute.

That forenoon brings a telegram from Mr. McKel-
pin. He has landed at Quebec—by to-morrow he
will be in Montreal. Her brief respite is at an end
—she"must be up and doing now. She has no right
in Donald McKelpin’s house. He is an honest man,
and she has betrayed him. She has no intention of
allowing him to find her here—by to-morrow morn-
ing’s early train she will go.

[To BE CONTINUED. }

 

oh jek

Wonders of Nature.

By Prof. M. Rudolph.
WHAT ARE SHOOTING STARS?

From remotest antiquity there have been seen darting
across the cloudless sky what seemed to be Stars, differ-
ing from the Stars, however, in that they soon disap-
peared, leaving only for a few moments feathery lines of
light along their paths. They have been compared to
“fiery arrows shot from some invisible bow inspace,”’
but aimed at no definite mark.

There is a peculiar fascination in their appearance, and
they always awakena lively interest both among the
learned and the ignorant, and a desire to know more of
their character and origin.

These bodies are Known to the masses under the com-
mon names Shooting Stars, Falling Stars, Fire-balls and
Thunderbolts. Among the scientific they are classified
as Meteors, Meteorites, Aerolites, Eolides and Uranolites,
They are regarded as having essentially acommon origin,
aud bearing generally a striking resemblance to each
other, Itis hardly necessary to say that they are not
Stars, nor do they bear auy resemblance to them in their
constitution or motions,

We begin with the class known as Meteors, the least
important buf most numerous of them all. These are
evidently composed of some very light and combustible
substance, as they take fire and are consumed in the air,
and therefore never reach the surface of the Earth.
From the brilliaucy of their light, and the fact that they
ignite at very high altitudes where the airis very thin,
we would infer that their substance was of a phospho-
rescent nature, and easily set on fire at a very low Lem-
perature.

 

HOW THEY ARE SET ON FIRE,

The question will at once arise ‘how those bodies can
take fire away from ali heat and flame, and even in the
highest regions of the atmosphere, where the coid is so
very intense.’?

We all know the effect of friction in producing heat.
If we take a small coin and rub it quickly a few seconds
Oonasmooth board, it will soon be of a temperature to
burn the hand. Now, one of these bodies in passing through
the atmosphere has a somewhat similar experience. By
its rapid motion it compresses the air before it, and thus
greatly increases its density, making it more difficult to
pass through. Butitdoes pass through, and with im-
mense velocity, and this produces so much friction that
sufficient heatis produced to set the body on fire and
thus it continues until there is nothing more to burn, and
then the Meteor, of course, disappears. The temperature
of the compressed air is probably raised, and this aids in
igniting the Meteor,

The production of heat by compressing the atmosphere
is strikingly illustrated by a simple experiment. Thus,
if a tightly-fitting piston, having a little tinder or punk
attached to the end of it, be suddenly forced into a cylin-
er, the air in the cylinder will be so compressed that suffi-
cient heat will be evolved to set the tinder on fire,

These bodies are frequently seen moving in a horizontal
direction for a short distance, and then disappearing.

In such cases, they are at a great elevation, and are
seen but a short time as they merely pass through the
outer part of the Earth’s great atmospheric .envelope,
and can be visible only while immersed in it; because be-
yond the atmosphere,.there is nothing sufficiently dense to
produce the friction requisite (o eyolye heat so as to etmit
light.

Their motion is generally toward the Earth in an oblique
direction, although occasionally, from some unknown
cause, they liave been seen to dart upward,

Although their motion is toward the Barth, this class of
bodies never reach it, nor do they come very near it. This
is conclusively proven by the fact that they are never seen
during acioudy sky. lt will be at once seen that they do not
approach very near the Eurth’s surface, when we remem-
ber ihat the clouds vary in height Irom about one-fifth of
a mile to five miles,

Now as Meteors are never seen beneath the clouds, it is
evident that they never approach near the surface, but
are entirely cousuimed in the atmosphere some distance
above the Earth.

There is another class of bodies similar to these, which
are seen under the clouds, and are also known to fall to

 

+ <0 evar serena oe

 

the Earth, These we will consider hereafter. The alti-
tude of visible Meteors varies from 6 miles to 140. Their
velocity is estimated to be from 1,000 to 2,000 miles per
minute. -

With this class of bodies there is no explosion nor au-
dible report, but they move silently through space. Prob-
ably, however, were we sufficiently near, we should hear
a sound as of a swiftly rashing mass, for we can hardly
conceive of a body, even though gaseous, moving at the
rate of one or two thousand miles a minute, and yet thus
inoving without any perceptible noise.

OF VARIOUS MAGNITUDES—THEIR ORIGIN.

Some of these peculiar bodies are quite small, probably
not more than a few feet in diameter, as they are so soon
consumed; but others are unquestionably of great size.
Qne was seen as large as the rising Moon, and remained
visible for some time. If it was 110 miles distant, as it
probably was, then it must have been fully 1 mile in di-
ameter. But if only 1 mile distant, then it must have had
at least a diameter of 48 feet.

It was formerly supposed that they originated in exha-
lations from the Earth. This theory probably had its
origin in the well-known fact that some gases are formed
on the Earth’s surface, and ignited by the oxygen of the
aire Thus the common phenomenon called the Jack o?
Lantern is produced by the formation of phosphorus acid
from decaying bones in low, swampy ground, and from
hydrogen gas rising in the vicinity from decaying leaves
at the bottom of stagnant water. This may be easily
proven. by gently stirring the leaves, when the gas wiil
rise in bubbles to the surface, and may be collected in an
inverted tumbler, the air being first expelled from the
glass by filling it with water, when the gas bubbles may
be caught and will displace the water as they rise in the
vessel, A lighted match applied will be followed by a
slight explosion, and prove tlie success of the experiment,
Now, these two gases, phosphorous acid and hydrogen,
unite in what is chemically termed the nascent state,
that is, atthe moment of their production, and when
united, the compound is called phosphoretted hydrogen,
which is so very inflammable that it is actually set on fire
by the oxygen of the air, and burns slowly as it gradually
moves with the air-current, until entirely consumed,
This, the Jacko’ Lantern, it was once supposed, explained
the origin of Shooting Stars. .1t is sufficient to say, that
the production of phosphoretted hydrogen on the Earth’s
surface, is entirely inadequate to furnish the splendid
meteoric displays so often seen; and, moreover, even if
sufficient, it would be all consumed near the surface be-
fore rising to such heights as we 80 often witness these
beautiful phenomena—consumed just as is the Jack o?
Lantern itself, Hence we see that these bodies cannot
originate on our globe, and we are compelled to look
elsewhere for their source. What is that source?

Astronomers are‘now very generally agreed that Meteors
are, as before stated, intimately connected with Comets
It has been often observed, that when Qomets visit ug
Meteors are most frequent, and they continue to dart im
large humbers across the sky, even long after tie Comet
has departed,

This 1s particularly true of those Comets that approack
near the Earth. In such cases, the trains sometimes ake
most touch the upper regions of our atmosphere, and seeng
to leave a portion of them behind, this portion of the train
being drawn to us by Lhe superior attraction of our planet,
and reaching soon the dense part of the upper air, they
are iguited, and thus we are made aware of their pre-
sence, Their motion, however, is too rapid to refer it to
the Barth’s attraction alone. Some other unknown force
must propel them in their wondrous flight.

Occasionally we see immense numbers of Meteors ing
Single night; sometimes appearing to fall almost as thick-
ly as the snow-flakes of a midwinter storm. This was the
case in the

GREAT SHOWER OF METEORS OF NOVEMBER 13, 1833.

This most wonderful phenomenon the writer had the
good fortune to witness, and the impression then made
cau never be effaced. The heavens probably never offer-
ed, and Earth surely never beheld a Spectacle so sublime,
From all parts of the sky there was one continuous rain
of seeming stars; and doubtless, to the ignorant, who
regarded the falling bodies as veritable Stars, it must have
been a matter of wonderment that a single twinkling orb
was left to adorn the heavens on the succeeding night.
But that succeeding night they were all still there. Not
one Star was missing, and to the amazement of the multi-
tude, the heavens wore precisely the same old aspect ag
before. During the falling of this flery rain, nearly every
fire-drop would leave a luminous, feathery streak along
its path, which would remain a few seconds, or minutes,
aud then wholly disappear.

Occasionally, a larger body would dash with startling
rapidity across the heayens and leave a much longer,
broader and brighter line of light, which would remain
for an hour and assume peculiar forms that were supposed
to resemble yuarious objects, accordiug as the betioider
was under the influence of fear, superstition, or imagina-
tion, Thus some sawin these fantasiic lines, swords,
spears, and luge serpents, while some‘confidently asserted
that the word WAR was plainly seen in letters of fire on
ihe dark sky. A pruning hook was, however, distinctly
seen in the north-east which continued visible a full hour-
and-a-quarter. It added not a little to the impressiveness
of the scene that the most perfect stillness reigned
throughout the whole Visible heavens, inspiring a feeling
of awe in every beholder, Some persous actuaily died
from terror, Supposing the heavens and the earth were on
fire, and that the day of final judgment had verily come.
It will here be borne in mind&that the falling of Stars is
spoken of in connection with the last day, in Scripture,
and, as already remarked, the falling bodies had every ap~
pearauce of Stars, willl the additional liues of light trai
ing after, which tended to make the spectacle still more
grand and awful. Hence, the terror of those entertaining
Such views. This amazing exhibition extended over the
whole of the United States, from the. lakes of Canada to
tie West Indies, and from about longitude 61 deg. in the
Atlantic to 100 deg. in the heart of Mexico. The shower
began before midnight and continued nearly seven hours,
and but for the sunlight, doublless would have been seem
much longer. The sume exhibition was seen on the for
lowing night, but in other parts of the world, and ong
less grand scale. For three or four years after, the me-
teoric showers occurred about the same time iu Novem-
ber, but the Meteors were far less numerous and nots@
brilliant as at the first display in 1833. Somewhat similar
phenomena have occurred about the 12th of November,
1799, in South America,at Camana. So also in November,
1831, another shower was witnessed in Ohio and in Spain,
but both inferior in splendor to that of 1833. Other
showers of like character ave occurred at various period?
ail more or less remarkable for the number and brilliance
of the Meteors. Those of November proceeded from @
point in the heavens near the star Gamma, of the con-
stellation Leo. This point was evidently very distan&
from the earth, as it remained fixed among the Stars, and
like them apparently moved westward. This proves tha&
the source of these mysterious visitors was not within the
limits of Our atmosphere, else it would have revolved
with the atmosphere from west to east, whereas its course
was in the opposite direction from east to west,

A very singular fact was noticed in connection with
this radiating point, It did not itself seem luminous; at
least, it gave tous nolight, There wasa dark, circular
space of several degrees diameter—a degree on the sky
being about twelve inches—and from this the Meteors a
seemed to come, and though not always seen to staré
from it, yet their lines of light all pointed toit. From ths
it would seem that this meteoric source was a huge globe
of gaseous or phosphorescent matter, and that in its
march through space it came so near our globe that its
superior attraction drew separate portions of its sub-
stance iato our atmosphere, which set them on fire. The
colors of some of these bodies were most beautiful, and a
few exhibited all the hues‘of the rainbow, appearing like
broad ribbons, the tinted siripes most delicately blending
as they streamed across the sky.

Occasionally explosions were witnessed, which must
have been at great elevations, as they were seen over &
wide extent of country, aud though evidently very vio-
lent, yet no sound was heard,

These phenomena we may expect to occur periodically,
with more or less brilliancy.

The time most likely for them to appear is about the
12th and 13ih of November, and also about the middle of
August; but they are ofien seen at other times, and es-
pecially within the tropics.

On the 18th of May, 1838, an exceedingly splendid Me-
teor passed over the northern part of the United States
and Oanada. Its diameter was estimated by Professor
Loomis to be three-quarters of a- mile. He also stated its
velocity to be 2,100 miles per minute, and it was only
about thirty miles above the Earth,

UTILITY OF COMETS AND METEORS,

It has already been suggested in a former article that
Comets probably furnish a portion of the fuel which aidg
iu sustaiming the heat of the Sun, as some of them after
revolving around him for thousands of years are at lasé
drawn to his surface by his superior attraction overcom-
ing his repelling force. The same may be true of Meteors
which doubtless fall into the solar atmosphere far more
frequently than into tie Earth’s, owing to his greater
power of attraction, They may possibly also hliaye some
beneficial influence upon our atmosphere in supplying it
with some necessary gaseous elements which are consum-
ed or absorbed iu the support of animal aud vegetable life.

It is not improbable, too, that they are designed to ace
complish a moral purpose by giving us some intimations
of the boundless resources of the great Oreator, and teaols
us some lessons respecting theearly condition of our own
and other worlds,

We learn also from these bodies that mere gas-worlds
do now exist, and we know from the teachings ef Chem-
istry Lhat these gases can be condensed even to solidifica-
tion, and hence we may infer that such was once the con-
dition of our own globe—i. e., gaseous, But of this we
shall speak more fully, hereafier, in other articies,

Our next article will be on the AIR-STONES—l, €, solid
bodies—so frequently falling from the sky.

—_>- e+
RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

 

New Mvusic,—‘As Pretty as a Little Butterfiy.”? Double Soig
and Dance. Words and music by John T. Rutledge. “Riding
Gallery Schottisch.” By Charlie Baker. Publisher, F. W. Hem-
lick, Cincinnati.

THE EXPRESSMAN AND THE DETECTIVE. By Allan Pinkerton
Publishers, W. B. Keen, Cooke & Co,, Chicago. This is a true
story from the pen of a successful detective. As he says in his
preface, if the incidents should seem to the reader marvelous or
improbable, he mast remember that “truth is stranger than fic-
tion.” The illustrations are good and numerous—fourteen in

 

mumber.

 

 

 

 

 

 

£34

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Po

—7

 

 

 

 

 

RPL Pee

NEW YORK, AUGUST 30, 1875.

DP DOR oer"

Terms to Subscribers:

 

 

One month (postageyree) 25c. | One Year—1 copy (postage free).$3
Two months............. 50e. SA Seyoglaae BO) op RRRBSS Oyen 5
Three months........... 75c. ae TE ISS 4 * . 10
Four months........... $1 00. Bile Set

 

 

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A Lively Story for the Boys.

In the next number of the NEw YORK WEEKLY we sliall
present the opening chapters of a'spirited story, full of
dramatic action, entitled

The Boy Wrestler,

By Roger Starbuck,
Author of “Red Helm,” “The Boy Diver,” etc.

While a fascinating plot connects the incidents, thereisa
constant succession of intensely exciting scenes, in many
of which the Boy WRESTLER exhibits his ability asa
trained athlete in the performance of novel daring feats.
These are described with such graphic. vigor that the
reader is charmed and thrilled, and contemplates the ac-
tion with as much interest and excitementas if he viewed
human beings in actual contest.

“THE BOY WRESTLER’ will be commenced next week.
ES EIA RIN EE ST 72>

Self Made Men.

When we giance at the long list of characters who have
raised themselves by their own exertions to eminence, it
would seem as though there are certain ennobling quali-
ties to produce which a soil of privation and poverty is
requisite. . Without any elaborate research, let us call up
from memory the names and antecedents of such men as
illustrate the remark we have just made. Andersen, the
popular Danish poet, was the son of a poor shoemaker,
and came near starving to death. He is still living and
his works have been printed in fifteen different languages!
Beranger, the lyric poet of France, was in youth a street
beggar. Elihu Burritt was a blacksmith’s apprentice.
Andrew Jackson, the successful soldier and President of
the United States, was born of Irish emigrants. Carleton,
the Irish novelist, was the son of a peasant, and begged
his way to knowledge. Henry Clay was an humble clerk
in a Jocal court in Virginia.. Rafael Carrera, President of
the Republic of Guatemala, began his life as a drummer
boy. Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States,
Was bornin poverty and want. Dumas, the great French
novelist and dramatist, was the illegitimate son of a plan-
ter and a negress, and was in a starying condition in
Paris till he worked his way to success. Henry Wilson,
Vice-President of the United States, was a cobbler. Daniel
Webster, the great American statesman, was a poor far-

i mer’s son.

Faraday, the English chemist and naturalist, was a
bookbinder by trade. Horace Mann, the eminent educa-
tionist, was born in poverty. Millard Fillmore, President
of the United States, was first a plow-boy. Herring, the
remarkable animal painter, began the profession of art by
painting signboards. Jasmin, the Buffis of the south of
France, was the son of a tailor, and the grandson of a
street beggar. Dickens, in his youth, was a strolling actor
and newspaper reporter. Benjamin Franklin, the philos-
\opher, was a soap-boiler and tallow chandler in early life.
‘Horace Greeley was a printer’s devil, but rose to the front
‘rank of journalism, and was ‘a candidate for the Presi-
dency of the nation. Minie, the inventor of the well-
known rifle, was a private soldier. John Jacob Astor,
who died worth over twenty millions of dollars, began life
asamechanic. Sir Richard Arkwright, the famous Eng-
lish inventor, was a barber’s apprentice. Robert Owen,

, the philanthropist was shop-boy to a grocer. Stephen
Girard, who did so much for Philadelphia, commenced
life as a cabin-boy in a coasting schooner. Stanfield, the
distinguished landscape painter, was a common foremast
hand aboard ship. N. P. Banks, statesman and poli tician,
was @ machinist by trade. Charles Lamb was a charity
scholar.

Jolin Bunyon, the celebrated auther of Pilgrim’s Pro-
gress, was a tinker. Thiers, the well-known historian
and French minister, was a charity scholar, and afterward
a printer's devil. Burns, the poet, was a plowman.
Thomas Wright, the Manchester philanthropist, worked
in an iron foundry for forty years. Joln Bright, the Eng-
lish orator and statesman, was a cotton spinner. Nath-
aniel Greene, the distinguished American general, was a
blacksmith. William Lloyd Garrison, the philanthropist,
was brought up to the cabinet-maker’s trade. Johannes
Rouge, the leader of the German Catholic movement, was
a poor shepherd boy. Frederick Douglass, the distinguish-
ed American orator and writer, was a Southern slave.
Thomas Hood, the famous English humorist and author,
Was an engraver by trade. John Ledyard, the American
traveler, was once a common sailor. Ebenezer Eliiot,
the Ebglish poet, was an iron-founder. De Foe, the popu-
lar author of “Robinson Crusoe,’? was a butcher's boy.
Marshal Ney, Duke of Elchingen, one of Napoleon’s most
famous geuerals, was by trade a cooper.

John C., Calhoun, the emiaent American statesman,
was the son of an Irish emigrant. Christopher Columbus
was a poor Italian sailor boy, but afterward the discoverer
of a continent. Daguerre, Whose name has been rendered
famous by the discovery of the daguerreotype process, was
@ poor theatrical scene painter. Captain Cook, the famous
navigator, was & common sailor in early life. Douglas
Jerrold, the great wit, author, and playwright, was a
compositor in a London printing office.

And so we might go on multiplying interesting exam-
ples of a similar character. Is there not encouragement
in these facts—encouragement for the poor and down-
hearted, and also a rebuke for those who constantly harp
upon ‘the wrongs of the humble, and the impassable bar-
riers between high andlow? Rach man is the architect
of his own fortune, and success is ever conquered by the
brave and persevering. Though ‘fortune brings in some
boats that are not steered,” still, as arule, the mold ofa
man’s fortune is in his own hands.

 

 

—_———__>-@+___-_
The Fire Island Musquitoes.

Until this year, Fire Island, opposite Babylon, L. 1,
has been considered a delightful summer resort. But the
visitors, this season, have experienced few delightful sen-
Sations, in consequence of the numberless swarms of
mMusquitoes wirich lave made Fire Island their summer
camping ground. Indeed, for aught we know to the con-
trary, the lively insects are holding their centennial on
the sandy isle, and haye played. old scratch with the un-
fortunate human beings who there sought recreation and
rest. But there is norest fora man or woman who is
attacked in front and fiank by the insatiate blood-suckers;
and it cannot be called sport tospend the entire night
and day in killing that sort of game. It’s too tiresome to
be dancing around wth a wet towel, and flattening at
every Stroke a score of insects whose places will at once
be occupied by at least a hundred more bent on a bloody
revenge for their slain brethren. Seriously, Fire Island is

 

 

  

anything but a delightful place while the weather is favor-

able to musquitoes; and we are sorry that such is the
case. Wehave spent many a pleasant hour there; but
this year we cannot afford the blood, and therefore have
been reluctantly compelled to beat an inglorious retreat,
leaving Fire Island in possession of the musquitoes.

 

A MOUSE IN THE ROOM.

It is wonderfal how afraid all women are of a mouse,

The woman who would brave untold dangers in other
respects, the kind of heroine who would not shrink at
walking barefoot over red-hot plowshares, if it were
necessary (aud why such a performance should ever be
necessary is @ Mystery to us) would scream, and tremble,
and climb on the table, and tuck her skirts round her
feet, and ‘feel cold all over,’’ if a mouse should make his
appearance in the room.

What there is so terrible in the aspect of an ounce or
two of mouseflesh, covered with a scrap of grayish fur,
and finished by a long tail, we cannot conceive.

Let. the house cat come into a room where a half-a-
dozen ladies are seated, with a mouse In her mouth, and
drop it, as cats generally do, and no matter how entertain-
ing a dish of scandal is being discussed, every lady will
let her work fall, and, with a scream, spripginto her
chair, draw her feet up under her skirts, aud yell for
somebody to come with the broom.

There will be one or two of the company of more nerve
than the others, who will tell what they would do if they
only had something to do it with, and the others wiil
join in a chorus of remarks, such as:

“Oh, how could you?”

*‘T wouldn’t for all the world!’?

“Dear me! what were mice made for ??

“Mercy! here he comes! He’s coming at mel’?

And then all the ladies shriek together, and tuck their
skirts in anew, and scream louder than ever for some-
body to come with a broom. :

And, meanwhile, the wretched: little mouse, quite as
much frightened as any of the party, dashes hither and
thither in the vain attempt to find egress from tlhe room,
and no doubt he is glad when the broom arrives, and the
cat foreseeing a possible loss of her prey, seizes him, and
with one crunch of her jaws puts an end to his sufferings.

We are acquainted with ladies. who are not afraid of
snakes, who can let a spider crawl over their hands with-
out screaming, who can kill caterpillars, and currant
worms by the gallon, who can look upon a toad without
the cold shivers running over them, but, we believe, we
do not know a single woman who is not afraid of a
mouse!

Why is it?

PETTIGREW PAPERS—NO 3.

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

 

KaTE THORN.

 

 

We was all dumfounded at the sight which met our
eyes as the light of Old Flynn’s lantern shone onto the
scene. As the novel writers say, “it was a scene for a
painter!’

There stood Gibbs, with one eye out—it was a glass one
as [found out afterward; and I had lost fifty dollars’
worth of my skulp, warranted ali jong hair and not dyed,
and 32 inches long; and if you'll believe it, the folks that
we'd heerd kissing one t’other in the dark, and that had
kicked us, and skulped us, was none other than that on-
dutiful and onregenerate son of mine, and Sarah Flynn!

I was 80 overcome that I had to grasp Gibbs’ arm for sup-
port, and lean onto his manly breast in feminine weak-
ness.

For I had put confidence in Seeze, and how cruelly he
had deceived me. Oh, treachery! thy name is men folks!

“Seezel’? sez I, ‘lam grieved and astonished at you,
and my heart is sore! At this rate, my son, it won’t be
long before you will bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the
gravel’?

“According to present appearances, ma,” sez this dis-
respectful boy, ‘“‘you won’t have any hairs, gray or other-
wise, to bring to the grave, or to any other place! You're
dredful nigh barefooted on the top of your head, I should
say!??

“‘Seezel? sez I, “I’m took all aback! struck all ofa heap
at your condact!’? @

“Just my case with regard to you, ma!’ sez he.

“A gal that you never seed, nor heard tell of, till two or
three hours ago!’ sez I, ‘‘and hugging and kissing of her
out here in the dark, jest as if you had been a schoolmate
with her, and her ma had sed you might.”

“And you out herein the dark, Mrs. Widder Pettigrew, a
veing hugged by a man with a glass cye, that you never
seed till an hour or two ago, and the late lamented Josiah
not yet six months under the sod! Mrs. P., lam ashamed
of you! ‘And the shoes not yet old with which you fol-
lowed,’ etc., etc., to quote the immortal Shakespeare; and
the crape half a yard deep around the skirt of your dress,
and mourning borders on your handkerchiefs—oh, lordy!
lordy! I feel as if I could creep into a knot-hole! Say,
captain, you don’t happen tu have one laying round loose
anywhere, do ye???

Qld. Fiynn took a chaw of tobacker, and wopsed it over
two or three times, and spit twice, before he answered.
Then, sez he: ;

“Tvs about6and ahalfadozen! Better offset, and callit
square. The old lady and Neighbor Gibbs has had it their
way, and this young jackanapes and Sarah has had it
their way, and it’s Lhe natral way of things, after all; and
by jings! I’ve done jest so myself! Come in, ail of ye, and
less have a drink of sweet cider!?

There warn’t nothing more sed about it, and the next
morning Seeze and I agin sot fourth.

So far, Abe had behaved like a gentleman, and I told
Seeze that it did seem as if hauling the Ciean Sweep had
swept the tantrims clean out of that hoss critter! But be-
fore the day was.over, I found out that it haint never best
to crow till you’re clear of the woods!

We rid through a very nice track of country, but there
warn’t many houses, and most of the people was onfor-
tinitely in good health, and didn’t waut no Clean Sweep.

Along toward night we come to a house sot down in a
pitch pine swamp. It was one-roomed, and had a lean-to
on the hinder end, like a bustle on to a city belle; and there
was three sheep, and some hens and roosters, and four
children, and a baby, aud five dogs, and a pig, all on the
doorstep, and @ Man with a red shirt on sawing wud
cluss by.

He was smoking an old black pipe, so short-stemmed
that it seemed as if his nose must be iron-clad, or it would
have got burned off; and indeed he might have spared
half of, it and not hurt him, for it was as long as the Pre-
sident’s Message.

Seeze driv up to the door, and all the dogs barked, and
all the hens and roosters cackled, and all the children be-
gan to yell and pullhair. The man:he stopped sawing,
and shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked at us, and
then he yelled out, to somebody in the house:

“Old woman! I say, old woman! Somebody’s cum!’’

“Look here, mister,’? sezSeeze. “Anything the matter
With your disgustive apparatus ?’?

“Hay ?? sez the man, staring at him.

“There'll be a sliort crop of it, this year, won’t there?’
sez Seeze, “but may I inquire if your liver and bowels
be in good tune ?”?

“Hay ?? sez the man, staring wuss than ever.

“It was twenty-five dollars a ton, and on the rise, the
jast I heerd of itl’? sez Seeze, ‘‘but that’s nothing to do
with your internal orgins. Want any Clean Sweep ?’’

“No,’? sez the Man; “my old woman uses a hemblock
broom!’

“But this is another thing,’ sez1; “it’s a medicine,
warranted to make your teeth white, your cheeks red,
your hair curl, and to clean your cistern from all impuri-
ties and humors, or the money refunded! The A No. 1 thing
for the disgustive orgins, and——”’ f

“Hello there! Hello Hanner!’? shouted the’ old man to
the house. *“Lsay, come out here! Here’s a couple of
Irishmen or, Frenchers, dashed if I can tell which, and
see if you Can make anything of their lingo!’

Out cum a middle-aged woman in a checked gound,
With a blue apron on, and a red shirt, the mate of the
one the man had on, in her: hands, and she was a wring-
ing the soap suds out of it as she cum.

“Whatin nater do you want, Sam Grimes?’ sez sive.
“You're allers in diffikillty. What’s cum acrost ye now?”

He pointed to us, and Seeze he opened fire on her afore
she could say anything.

“We're intruducing a new medicine,’’ sez he; ‘‘most
wonderful thing of theage! Everybody needs it. Nobody
can do without it. Sets you up prodigiousiy! Makes the
old young, and the homely beautiful! The life of man,
and woman, too! Inspires the intellect! All great men
take it. Washington took it straight, without sugar,
every morning! Napoleon took it on the field of Water-
loo! Goliah was full of it when he killed David, or was it
vicy verser? Tilton takes it. Beecher couldn’t exist
without it! Of course yeu know Beecher?”

‘Beecher? Beecher?” sez the man, rubbing his forehead;
‘TI guess not, mister. One of the revolutionary fellers?
Britisher or Yankee?’

“Oh, good Lord!’ sez I, “whoever seed such a man?
Never heerd tell of Beecher ?’?

‘““Mebby the old woman has!’ sez he. ‘Say, old wo-
man, ’taint that new tin peddler that cheated ye out of
ten cents tother. day, is it???

“Dunno nothing about him, nor don’t want tol’ sez
she, giving the shirt a shake that slung the soap suds into
my eyes and mouth, and nigh about choked me.

‘How is your internal orgins?’? sez Seeze.

“T haint got no orgin,” sez she; ‘‘there haint no orgin
in town but Suke Smith’s, and there aint a-going to be!’
and she went into the house and slammed the door to be-
hind her, and Seeze and I driv onards, jest the same as
we was afore.

We sold six bottles of Clean Sweep as we went. along,
and run overadog and lamed him, and stove in some-
body’s frunt fence by Abe’s running aginst it in one of his
tantrums, but otherways everything was lovely, and Abe
had behaved like a hoss angel.

He driv into the village, and the Clean Sweep went off
like hot cakes. I was as happy as if [ had struck ile, and
Seeze whistled like a canary bird,

As we driv along quite a crowd of boys and dogs fol-

 cousiverable time

 

lowed us to hear Seeze explaterate, and to see him per-
form.

Pritty soon we cum to a railroad track. It was the first
one we had cum to, and Abe is allers full of kinks when
he sees one. I began to ixpict he would have a contrary
fit, and I told Seeze to hold on.

Abe he sot back his ears, and planted his fore feet onto
the track, and there he stood like a statoot. There warn’t
no such @ thing as stirring of him. He’d made up his
mind, and when once he’s sot, he’s as sot as the hills. All
the boys hoorayed, and all the dogs barked, and Seeze he
swore at the pony, andI laid the whip onto him, and he
stood there aud seemed to enjoy the sensation he wasa
making.

And rite in the midst of if we heard the screech of an
ingine, and the fag man cum a running, and yelled out to
us:

“Drive that old plug of your’n along, or you'll be kill-
ed!) and he added a few swearing words by way of orny-
ment.

‘My onriligious friend,’ sez I, “I’m sorry to dissypint
you, but it can’t be did. This annimile has gota mind of
his own which it ain’t easy to change.’’

The flag man grabbed Abe by the head, and giv a pull
as if he expected the hull Concern to start to once, but in-
stid of that Abe gotup onto his hinder legs, and let his
forud paws down onto that flag man, and he tumbled
heels over head onto the track, and round the curve cum
the ingine, and the whistle a sounding, and the ingineer
and fireman a screeching, and Seeze and I a setting there
awaiting to be launched into eternity!

—_—__>-e~+__—_
HOW A HEART WAS LOST,

BY FRANCOIS 8. SMITH.

 

The sun’s latest rays were the maple trees gilding,
And stretch’d on the green sward I dreamingly lay,
When Flora’s sweet voice stopp’d my air castle building
By bantering me to a game of croquet.
l instantly jumped to my feet all a-tremble,
And seized on a mallet the game to begin,
And I said, “‘Dearest Flora, I cannot dissemble—
I play for a heart and am anxious to win!’

So, beginning the contest with such an endeavor
"As only is made when one plays for a heart,
I inwardly vowed she should conquer.me never,
And brought all my skill into play from the start.
I led all the way and I thought the game over—
I reached the home stake and I might have gone out,
But I gave her a chance by becoming a “rover,”
When 1 saw the vex’d beauty beginning to pout.

Oh, fatal mistake! How it grieves me to tell it!
I thought my poor heart with vexation would burst,
When she sent my ball spinning away with her mallet,
Then passed through her wickets and hit the stake first.
In vain for another encounter I pleaded—
With victory flushed, in a voice full of glee,
She said, ‘All your vows and your prayers are unheeded—
The wife of a ‘rover’ I never will be!” #

The time is long past, but a sad‘spell comes o’er me,
And back to the old spot my thoughts fly away,
And a scene on the emerald lawn flits before me,
When I think of the heart that I lost at croquet.
And now let me say to all jubilant lovers:
When playing with Cupid be fully awake—
With the game in your hand ’tis unwise to be rovers—
If you wish to be certain, go straight for your stake.

THE MURDER AT THE ELMS.

BY J. C. WILFORD.

About ten or twelve years since I was practicing law at
the village of Freeman, then Containing ten or twelve
hundred inhabitants.

The great man of Freeman was Ralpli Newcomb, who
resided on his estate, “The Elms,” about a mile from the
village, and who owned, in addition tothe paper factory,
a large amount of real estate, in and around the village.
A generous, good-hearted man was Ralph Newcomb, as
was proven by his adopting his nephew, James Fair-
Weather, when the boy’s father died, leaving him an or-
phan of ten years of age, destitute and almost penniless,
This was twenty years before the time of which this sketch
treats. And Ralph Newcomb was a young man then, and
he had but just commenced rearing the immense fortune
which, at fifty years of age, he was possessed of. And
this made his adoption of the orplan-more noble than if
he had had a large sum of money which he did not know
how to dispose of.

The boy grew up in the house of his uncle, and when
he arrived at a suitable age he was sent oe to school;
and, when prepared, was sent. to college. ere James
acquired some bad habits. He became a member of a se-
cret club, composed of students of the college, and, in
their company, he learned to drink and to gamble. Fora
did pot reach the ears of his uncle,
but, fnaily, Ralph heard of it, and as soon as lis business
would permit took the cars for Rutherford, the city where
the college was situated. Arriving there, he repaired to
the institute, and hadalong and friendly talk with his
nephew, which ended in the young man’s promising to
abstain from his evil habits and resign his position asa
member of the secret society. But, alas! the temptation
was too strong. For several days he did not touch a card
nor drink a drop of spirituous liquor. Nor did he enter
the mysterious precincts of the club. But, finally, in an
unguarded moment, one of his former companions in-
duced him to take a glassof wine. This aroused, with re-
newed vigor, the appetite which the young man had suc-
ceeded in partially quenching, and glass after glass of
the stimulant was consumed. Then, winking to each
other in congratulation of their success, his ‘‘brothers’?
of the club led their half-crazed comrade to the club-room,
and producing the cards the play began. Rendered more
and more reckless by repeated draughts of flery brandy,
young Fairweather staked heavily, and almost invariably
lost, and, consequently, when he arose from the table he
was over ten thousand dollars in debt to his friends.(?)

The next morning James Fairweather awoke with a
dull, heavy pain in his head, the result of his dissipation,
and as he gradually recollected the proceedings of the
evening before, and the large amount which he owed to
his companions, he bowed his head in despair of ever be-
ing able to break from the chains which bound him. And
le was soon convinched that his creditors were resolved
to have the last cent of his indebtedness to them. They
were angry with him forJeaving their society, and had
taken this method of revenge. Also, hoping by it to in-
duce him to rejoin them. And as soon asit was ascer-
tained that young Fairweather was awake, his creditors
came into his room aud demanded the amounts due them.
He informed them that he did not have near that amount
of money, and had no means of procuring it.

“Write and ask your uncle forit. He will not refuse
you,” said one.’ :

“Twill not ask him for money to pay my gambling
debts, after breaking my promise to him,’’ answered the
unhappy youpg man.

“If you do not we will,” said another. ‘And we will
not Tepresent your offense in a mild light, we can assure

ou.’ 2
James saw that they were in earnest; and unless he
succeeded in raising the money which they claimed, they
would make application to his uncle for it, and would,
undoubtedly, greatly exaggerate his offense. So he arose,
and informing them -thathe would get the money for
them in one way or another, went to the principal and
asked and obtained leave of absence, and then started by
the first train for Freeman. This was the tenth of the
month. On the morning of the eleventh the usually quiet
village of Freeman was startled by the intelligence that a
murder had been committed the night before, and, on in-
quiry, I learned that the murdered man was Ralph New-
comb. 1 was about to start for his late residence, when
an officer of the county jail, which was situated at Free-
man, arrived at my office and informed me that James
Fairweather, who had been arrested for the murder of
his uncle, Ralph Newcomb, wished to see me, in order to
engage me as his counsel in the case. Limmediately re-
paired to the jail where the young man was confined,
and was speedily admitted to his cell, and I heard from
his own lips this explanation:

He said that he had arrived at Freeman by the night
train, and, not wishing to disturb his uncle’s household,
had proceeded to the village hotel, where he spent the re-
mainder ofthe night. .Early in the morning he had re-
paired to his uncle’s mansion, determined to at ence tell
him all and throw himself upon his mercy. The front
door was unlocked, and he opened it and stepped into the
hall. No one was in sight,as but few of the members of
the household had yet made their appearance. Kuowing
well the location of the room where his uncle slept, he
had immediately hurried up the stairs and arrived at the
door of his uncle’s apartment. As this was not locked,
he opened itand stepped in. Here a horrible sight met
his gaze. His uncle was lying on the bed dead, a large
knife buried in his breast, Almost paralyzed with horror,
the young man mechanically stepped up to the corpse,
and drew the fatal knife from the murdered man’s bosom.
As he did go, he noticed thatit. considerably resembled
one which he himself sometimes carried, but which he
had lost a day or two before. But he was not ailowed
much time for reflection; for at that moment Mr. New-
cemb’s valet entered the cliamber for the purpose of
awakening his employer, and, seeing Fairweather stand-
ing by the dead body of his master with a-bloody knife in

 

 

his hand, he rushed from the room, crying that James:

Fairweather was mardering his master. The chamber
was soon filled with the servants and others, and in a very
few moments James Fairweather was securely locked in
a room in the upperstory of the building to await the ar-
rival of the coroner, who was instantly sent for. This in-
dividual upon his arrival immediately summoned a jury,
and by their verdict the young man was remanded for
trial at the next session of the court, which was to be held
in about a week. ,

I have always considered myself a pretty good physiog-
nomist, and I had no doubt of the truth of the story re-
lated by the young man. ‘I conversed with him a few mo-
ments more, and then left, assuring him that I would do
my best toclear him of the charge brought against him.
l immediately repaired to the residence of the murdered
man, and was admitted to the reom where the crime was
committed. After carefully searching, I could find noth-
ing that would tend to shift the guiit from the shoulders
of my Client. ; i

The days flew past, and, though I worked tirelessly and

 

‘ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 30>

pereerering:yy when the day appointed for the trial came
had absolutely nothing on which to base my defense.
On the contrary, the prosecution had a very complete
chain of evidence to fasten the guilt on young Fair-
weather. The Knife found in the murdered man’s breast
proved not only to resemble the Knife which my Client
had carried, but to be the very one with his name en-
graved on the handle. This fact, with many other seem-
ingly very important occurrences, was produced. The
district-attoruey was & young man of much more than
ordinary ability, and he also had spared no effort to win
the case. And when I saw what a mass of evidence he
produced, which could not answer by any rebutting
testimony, I nearly dispaired of doing anything for my
client, I need not tire you with the details of the trial,
Suffice it to say, that young Fairweather was pronounced
guilty of the murder of his uncle, and was sentenced to
be hanged in two months from that time. I still had a
faint hope that something might occur that would war-
rant mein demanding a new trial; but, as the weeks
passed and nothing occurred, even this slight hope was
dispelled, and I expected nothing but that my client would
be hanged on the appointed day.

One evening, about a week before the date fixed for the
execution, I had been attending a suit at Claremont, a
village situated about four miles from Freeman. The
suil was held rather late, owning to the tardiness of one
of the counsel. Aud consequently, it was about ten o’clock
when the court was adjourned. The stage had left about
two hours before, and as there was no livery stable in the
place, I would have to stay at Claremont all night, unless
Il walked home. I could not conveniently stay there un-
til morning, as I had a suit that was to be called on the
following morning; and there were some papers pertain-
ing to it which it was absolutely necessary should be pre-
pared before. And 1 feared that if I waited at Claremont
until morning, I would not be able to reach Freeman in
time to prepare them. Therefore, after deliberating the
question in my mind, I decided to start for Freeman im-
mediately. The walk I did not mind, as I had often trav-
ersed more than that distance without any discomfort.
The night was pleasant, though rather dark. And about
half the distance was traveled before anything occurred
out of the ordinary routine of such a journey.

After I had accomplished about half the distance be-
tween the two villages, as [came around a curve in the
road, I saw alight afew rodsahead of me. Evidently it
was the light from a lantern held by @ man. There was
nothing extraordinary in this, and I was about to shout
and request the proprietor of the lantern to let me also
enjoy its light, asI had found it so dark as to slightly
impede my traveling. But,asI was about to speak, I
heard a sound as though some one was digging; and
then the man with the lantern addressed a companion as
yet unseen by me. The place was a very lonely one—over
half a mile to the nearest house, and it struck me as
rather peculiar that two men should be digging there at
that time of the night. And I resolved to approach near-
er to them, and endeavor to ascertain what they were do-
ing.

Accordingly, I silently approached them until I reached
a place where, by the light of the lantern, I could discover
What was their business. One of them—the one I had
heard digging—had shoveled out a hole about two feet
deep, and into this they threw something, which I judged
was a bundie of old clothes. This done, they again filled
up the hole, and removed all traces, as far as was possible,
of their work. Then the one who had been digging
leaned on his spade, and said:

“There, Jim, I guess that will destroy all traces of the
murder in our possession. Young Fairweather will be
hung for the crime, and then no one willthink of us, That
was lucky, my finding the young fellow’s knife, wasn’t it?
That, with other circumstances, turned suspicion toward
him, mighty nice. Come, let’s go home; I am sleepy.’

So saying, the two men turned and took their departure.

For a few moments I was so astounded that 1 could not
move, and could scarcely think. And then, when I saw
that Providence had provided me with an opportunity to
save my friend and client, I fellon my knees and devoutly
and earnestly thanked Heaven for it. Then, rising, I
hastened to the village. Asearly the next morning as
possible I went to the proper magistrate, and told him
What I had seen and heard. He immediately dispatched
an officer to arrest the two men whom I had recognized
as Jim Chum and Peter Haskin—two of the greatest ras-
Cals in that section of country.

As the two scoundrels were not expecting anything of
the kind, the sheriff found them at home, and in two
hours time they were safely lodged in the county jail. The
bundle which I had seen them bury was found all right,
and proved to be some garments stained with blood. On
these representations being made to the proper court, I
found no difficulty in procuring an order for a new trial,
at which James Fairweather was fully acquitied of ali
suspicion of the murder of his uncle. When Jim Clum
saw the evidence that was produced against him, he
turned State’s evidence, and confessed all. And Pete
Haskin, who was the real murderer, was subsequently
tried, condemned, sentenced, aud executed.

THE HOUSEHOLD TYRANT.

BY GEORGE LINEAMEAUER.

 

 

 

He gets up in the morning angry as thunder, and keeps
that way aliday. He sits downto breakfast, and says:
“Tt suppose yOu’ve guu wie piuc-tcachcr that gos call
beefsteak for breakfast again! Nice stuff to call coffee,
this is. And if you haven’t got Dutch bread, Pm ready 10
be sent to a lunatic asylum! Johuny, what do you slick
that knife in your mouth for? Do you want to learn the
trick of sword-swallowing, and disgrace your parents by
exhibiting the kind of a giutten you really are? Beside,
you’ll cut your ever-babbling tongue off, but that wouldn’t
be much of a loss. Well, my dear, what do you see so
astonishing in my remarks, that you sit there at the end
of the table and gaze at me with as much astonisiment
as if I were a new kind of gorilla, or peculiar style of
bonnet? Oh, you wouldn’t insult a gorilla by comparing
him to me, eh? And this is the woman I have promised
to love and cherish,- and who in turn promised to
love, honor, and obey me. Nice obedience you give,
isn’t it? Now, for heaven’s sake, what’s Johnny
trying to do with that roll? Eat it, eh! Do you
expect a roll the size of a brickbat will go into
his mouth at one bite? When I come home to supper I
expect to get something decent to eat, not potatoes
scorched and with lumps in them, just from the simple
reason of alazy cook. I haven’t had anything fit for a
human being to eat in six months. I suppose there’ll be
raw fish, or turkey, or mutton burned to a cinder, or some
wishy-washy little bits of oysters, that look as if they
were consumptive, with the meat all steamed out of them.
Why, it would turn the stomach of a Digger Indian, and
make him so mad that he couldn’t recover his temper until
he had scalped a whole village of women and children.”
With that our good-natured friend left the table and pro-
ceeded to the stable. “Now, Ben, why the d——i don’t
you clean yourstable better? This is no way to have
things lying about. I never kept such disorder.”? When
he Knew all the while that the stable and horse were nev-
er kept better. ‘“Haven’t loften told you about riding
and driving that horse to the creek? He'll get
the ague some day. Now, sir, hitch up my horse
immediately after breakfast; I want to get away early,
to see my patients. Won’t do to.be lying in bed
until seven o’clock in the morning.*? Then our amiable
friend goes down town, and in the course of the morning
comes back to his office again, and pitches into his stu-
dent, and tells him ‘the don’t post his books worth a
cuss.’> He also makes the student feel comfortable and
jubilant ali day by informing him that some people handle
pens who ought to be wielding crowbars instead, and yet
this man’s wife kisses him every night, ditto his son
Johnny, and he shakes them off and telis them it is fool-
ish. Having a whisky punch he retires, only to get up in
the same manner the following morning.

THE LITTLE HELMSMAN.

BY ROGER STARBUCK.

 

 

 

A head like a huge pine knot, glaring eyes, and a pair
of fists like lumps of lead, attached to a broad-breasted,
round-shouldered figure, clad in green jacket, oiled-canyas
pants, thick blue stockings, and coarse pumps, came out
of the cabin of the ship Marlborough on a raw wet morn-
ing some years ago.

The vessel, homeward-bound from Cuba, was beating
against a sou’easter off Cape Hatteras, under close-reefed
topsails, with her yards braced up sharp, and her pointed
fly jib-beom looking right into the wind’s eye.

Bang! slap! clatter! clat!

Fore and aft everything began torattle and quiver;
Ganvas, topmasts, yards and all, as the person alluded to
came on deck.

No wonder the stout ship was seized with an ague fit at
sight of this man, wWilo Was none Other than that old ty-
rant Captain Waters, the ‘‘double-fisted highbinder,” the
“old loggerhead,’? “the barnacled humpback,” ‘‘the
whale-tosser,’? “the sonofia double-gshotted nine-pound-
er,” classic names by which he was best known among
seafaring men.

‘Keep full, there!’ he gritted through his teeth, his-red
eyes upturned toward the shaking canvas.

“Ay, ay, sir,’? answered a beyish voice. ‘But, you see,
it’s hard for me to work the wheel in such weather, and
eT

There came a heavy blow from the tyrant’s huge fist,
and with his mouth full of blood, the little nelmsman fell.
He was the captain’s own son—little Jack, as he was
called. Scareely had he risen, when striking him with a
rope’s end, the skipper ordered him to go below and not
show his face again until he was called.

The little tellowed obeyed with tears in his eyes, and
one of the foremost hands took his place at the wheel.

Just then an erratic blast came howling along, scooping
the spray and sending it flying to the ship’s very trucks.
Away went the torn jib, atthe same moment sheoting
straight up into the air like arocket.

‘‘__—— ye? roared the captain; and he struck the new
helmsman in the face.

The man had laid his hand on his knife, and the cap-
tain called for his pistols, when the mate, Who was a good-
hearted fellow, interposed. .

“Go for’ard, Bill,” said he, ‘‘and wash the blood off your
face. Pll take your place for the present.”’

The captain said nothing as the man walked away. To
tell the truth the captain stood in awe of his mate, who
was a person of tremendous strength, which he had once
shown in a remarkable nranner during a wrestling match
between him and Waters. He had then picked up the
‘stout skipper and fairly thrown him over his head witha
force that stunned him.

 

As Bill walked forward there was an
among his shipmates, ee

“We'll have to put up with it,’ said the d man.
“The crew won’t ‘stick’ together if we do ‘mutiny;? there
are too many traitorous Portuguese among us.”?

Nevertheless the men still grumbled, Poor little Jack,
the captain’s son, was a great favorite with them, and it
had made their blood fairly boil to see him struck down
by his own father. This was not the first time the boy
had suffered from the tyrant’s brutality. The skipper had
thrashed him severely a few days previously for convey-
ing a pine-apple from the cabin to asick man in the fore-
castle. Notwithstanding all this the captain secretly
loved the boy, who was his only son, and would have
Spent a fortune to set himupin some good lucrative
business.

He abused him through a misunderstanding of his fa-
vorite adage, “Spare the rod and spoil the child’—a dan-
gerous maxim for an ignorant man like Waters, who,
blinded by passion and narrow judgment, would be apt
to use the lash when;there was not the slightest réason for
80 doing. :

In the middle night-watch an old Portuguese came aft
and whispered to the captain that he had just overheard
suspicious talking among the foremast hatds in the hold.
He could not hear allthat was said, but had heard enough
to Convince him that one of the men intended to desert
by means of the boat hung on tlie davits astern.

“Humph! humpht!? gritted the captain through his
compressed lips, “I’llsee about that! Here,’ giving his
rascally informer a piece of silver, ‘‘you jast go now and
Keep quiet.”

Three hours latera man came aft and requested the
third mate—the officer of the watch and sole occupant of
the quarter-deck—to walk forward, as he wished to show
him a huge rat just captured inthe forecastle.

The third officer complied; as he did so three figures
stole aft, and softly threw the davit falls from the pin.
One of these persons, muffled in a huge pea-jacket, now
glided into the boat.

‘All right!”? he whispered, “lower away.”?

Cautiously the two men began to lower. They could
not see the boat from where they stood, but they could
feel it descending in the proper manner. Suddenly, how-
ever, they felt a slight jerk, which Was followed by a light
splash. The loud roaring of the waves, the din of ¢reak-
ing timbers, and the whistling, moaning of the blast, ai-
most drowned the poise.

“The boat has struck the water,’ whispered one of the
men, “and now’sour time to tumble intoit. In half a
second we’ll be far astern of the blasted old ship and her
tyrant skipper.’?

They sprang upon the rail, when, peering downward,
they uttered a lowcry of dismay. The boat had not
yet touched the water; there it hung, far over upon its
side and empty!

The splash which had been heard was that of its occu-
pant tumbling into the seal The falls had become twist-
ed, and this, the seamen believed, was the cause of the
boat’s overturning.

‘Man overboard!) they screamed. ‘Man overboard !?

“Caught!’’ said a gruff voice behind them, and turning,
they saw the captain, with a pistol in each hand.

The two sailors let go the falls.

“Aye, aye,’? continued Waters; ‘‘I’ve fixed ye out fine.
I just claps a rope on the outside gunwale of the boat, and
carries other end into the cabin through one of the dead-
lights. I knowed you was going to desart, you see, and
so I just waits down below until I hears the boat being
lowered, when Il pulls upon my rope, turning the boat
over aud holding it so that you couldn’t either h’ist or
lower it.’?

“Aye, captain!’ exclaimed one of the men; ‘‘and by do-
ing that, you didn’t know that you spilled out a chap that
Was in the boat.’?

‘What 2???

The brutal skipper had known from the first that there
was some person in the boat when he overturned it by
pulling upon the rope, but he deemed it best to pretend
ignorance of that fact.

“Do you mean to say there was anybody in tiie boat ?”?
he continued.

“Aye, aye, and he’s overboard—overboard, sir. We'd
better veer ship and look for him, though I don’t think
we'll ever find him. Little Jack wasn’t much of a swim-
mer, you know.”

“Who ??? ’

“Little Jack, your own son, captain. He it was who
was in the boat. With him we two were going to de-
sert.??

“Great Heaven!” gasped Waters, hoarsely. ‘I have
drowned my own boy! When I pulled that cursed rope,’’
he coutinued, madly shrieking out his words, *‘] knew—
yes, | knew there was somebody in the boat; but I did
not dream it was my Jack.”

Wildly he gave the order to veer ship. For three days,
“hoping against hope,’? the wretched man continued his
search for the lad, but all in vain.

On the fourth day he went raving mad, and in the
midst of a heavy gale, before any person could prevent
him, sprang overboard.

He went down like a shot and was never seen again.

Bad as the man was, all hands felt sorry for his fate,
when, a few days after their arrival in port, a West India
brig came into the harbor with little Jack aboard.

The boy, it seems, on falling into the sea, had clung to
an empty breaker (a small cask) which had also dropped
from the overturned boat. >

“By means of arope attached tothe breaker he had
lashed himself to his frail support. While thus drifting
with wind and waye he had seen the ontlinesof his
father’s ship as the vessel passed to leeward in search of
him, but he had been unable to make himself heard.

Afew hours after, just at daylight, he was seen and
picked up by the brig already mentioned, which, as
shown, soon reached her destined port.

So now the boy’s old shipmates, glad enough to see their
favorite alive and well, cheered him again and again, and
drank many toasts in his honor. |
_ An old shipowner, who had known his father, became
interested in the orphan, and resolved to help him. Ina
few years he was given the command of as fine a ship as
ever sailed.

He still ‘follows the sea,” sometimes taking with him
his wife, a lively, brown-eyed little woman.

   
 
   

 

THOUGHTS FoR EVERY ONE.

How solemn the thoughts which can but recur even to
the most thoughtléss that we, even as all things by which
we are surrounded, are passing away. It may be in a
few short weeks or months, or, at most, a few fleeting
years; and the places we now occupy will be vacant, or
filled by strangers, and we shali be forgotten, save by
a very few, ere the grass shall spring above the
mound containing our frail bodies. “‘Passing away.’’ It is
the inevitable doom of all. We iade as do the leaves,
and scarcely less rapidly. We perhaps look forward to
years of happiness. Hope whispers of future honors and
pleasures, of fortune and its many friends, and we silence
the thought taught us by observation, that we are passing
away; and when the voice of wisdom would fain beseec1
us to prepare for the final transit, we turn a deaf ear to

 

continue,

“Our days flow away like the water, and we spend our
years as a tale that is told.’? Borne on by the resistless
course of time, we find ourselves nearing theshores of the
unseen jand, and pausing ere we cross the dread river of
death. Memory will but too faithfully recall the golden
hours and days we suffered to pass by unimproved while
yet we had time for amendment. But, alas! how vain the
regrets caused by those reflections. We are soon to be
ushered into the presence of Him who holds the “keys of
all the creeds’”—the arbiter from whose decision none
can ever appeal—tiiere to be sentenced to an eternity of
bliss or of endless woe. We should ali think or these
things, though the constant occupations and sordid cares
of every day would seem to leave but littie time for aspir-
ation after things Heavenly—those that endure forever;
not like the frail things of earth, that are continually
eluding our hold and passing away. Faithfully should we
Strive to win the great reward held high above all earthly
things, as a prize for the ‘just made periect.?? The task
though difficult, may be achieved by faithfully performing
the task allotted to us in this state of probation. Walk-
ing everin the pathof duty, though made thorny by in-
clinations crushed, by hopes blighted, and sorrow ever
coming faster and yet faster, we shall at last enter into
the home Of rest, and peace, and joy prepared on high by
our Heavenly Father for those who weary not in well
doing. JULIA FRANKLEN.

 

Kissing.

The kiss snatched hasty from the sidelong maid.—
Thomson. ;

Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and
peace have kissed each other.—Bibdle,

The fragrant infancy of opening flowers, fowed to my
senses in that melting kiss.—Seuthern.

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, kisses
the blushing leaf.—ZLongfellow.

One kiss—so ends all record of my crime! itis the seal
upon the tomb of hope.—Bulwer Lytton.

Teach not thy lip such scorn, ior it was made for kiss-
ing, lady, not for such contempt.—Shakespeare.

And with a velvet lip print on his brow such language
as the tongue has never spoken.—Mrs. Sigourney.

Let me drink of this living spring to nourish new in-
vention.—Massinger.

It is the passion that is in a kiss that gives to it its
sweetness.—Bovee,

 

 

, Lured Away.

Another charming domestic story by the author of
“Thrown on tke World,” ‘Love Works Wonders,” etc.,
will be commenced week after next.

LURED AWAY

is the title, and the story isin the author’s best style, full
of interest, devoid of extravagance, and yet every scene
is absorbingly fascinating. The reader’s eyes become
dimmed with the moisture of sympathy asthe mind pic-
tures the agony of the devoted husband, whose life was
embittered by the vanity and unwise ambition of

A DISCONTENTED WIFE.

 

“LURED AWAY’? wid be commenced week after next.

 

its admonitions, and strive to think even as now we shall

 

 

 

 

 
  
  
   
   
    
 

 

 

  

  
        

  

 

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THE TREE OF LIBERTY.
A NATIONAL LYRIC.

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

It is a goodly thing to know
How, like a seed in good soil planted, .
A noble Principle may grow,
By slight, and blight, and storm undaunted,
Till it towers and spreads afar,
Under ever sun and star,
Stanch and sublime
In every clime
Where beat the hearts that would be free.
~ Even such a power,
Even such a dower
Hath proved our strong and beauteeus Tree,
Our glorious Tree of Liberty.

How feebly from our soil at first
It pierced the jungles that inclosed it,
While o’er its head War’s tempest burst,
And tyrant ax and scythe opposed it!
God, howe’er its life sustained,
Freemen’s blood upon it rained,
And woman’s prayers,
Like April airs,
Its young life wooed to bourgeon free;
Till all the land
Was greenly spanned
And oversheltered by the Tree,
_ The stanch young Tree of Liberty.

a
& * Now, after years a hundred flown,
Through other storms as fierce and blanching,
ont ha See how the stubborn plant hath grown,
: From ocean unto ocean branching!
See, beneath its leaves of light,
Farms, and towns, and cities bright,
Wild lands subdued
: For wealth and food
And homes of millions yet to be;
Labor and rest
Securely blessed
Beneath the happy Human Tree,
The full-grown Tree of Liberty.

  

eee

God’s sunbeams through its foliage pour,
Its roots the nether rocks are twining,
Its fragrance flows to every shore
Where trampled human hopes are pining.
Heavenward stretch its branches fair!
God for aye its life will spare!
From zone to zone
Its seeds are sown
By every gale that sweeps the sea;
A boon from God
To Man’s abode,
Still grows the vast immortal Tree,
Our glorious Tree of Liberty.

 

THE

Pearl of the Prairie;

OR, THE
SCOUT AND THE RENEGADE.

By Hon. W. F. Cody,

(BUFFALO BILL.)

 

[“The Pearl of the Prairie’ was commenced ih No. 40. Back
Nos. can be obtain from any News Dealer in the United States.]

CHAPTER XIII.
LONE STAR, LORD OF THE DEN.

“Tt is well,” said the renegade chief. ‘I believe
in your truth and courage, and in that belief I will
immediately install you in the command left vacant
by that carrion there.”

As he spoke he contemptuously pointed to the
body of Antonio, which some of the band were re-
moving. He noticed the bearers stop and stare at
him; and looking around him he found the same ex-
pression of indignant surprise on every face in the
outlaw band. e saw that disaffection existed, and
on nosmall seale. His fierce eyes swept the circle
with a murderous glance.

**Men!” he said, threateningly, through his set teeth,
pointing to the corpse of the executed manas he
spoke. “You have seen how I punish a traitor.
BEWARE how you follow his example! In that
treacherous wretch’s office Tam about tv place a

r the post, and on whom I can rely.”
The chief turned toward the scout, who stood
quietly beside him with folded arms, and laying his
hand upon his shoulder said: -

“This is the man!”

An angry murmur swept over the outlaw band
like the first rumble of an earthquake, causing the
chief to start and glare around him like a tiger.

“That man is a stranger, Captain Bertram, and
has no right to control us, who have long and faith-
fully served you,” cried a deep voice in the crowd,
and a murmur of assent was heard from a dozen of
men.

‘Who is it that dares object to my will?” yelled
Bertram, his face growing black with rage.

“Tam not alone in my opinion, Captan Bertram,
but backed by good men and true,” said the same
voice, and a man stepped from the crowd and faced
the chief.

He was a man of burly form, and evil, desperate
face. His expression was one of determination.

The chief gazed upon him in quiet anger, the
crouching of the panther before the spring upon the
victim. But unheeding him the man continued:

“There are men here who have long served you
faithfully, Captain Bertram, and if you select one
from the number to command the stronghold we'll
say nothing. But we won’t submit to having a
stranger put over us.”

“Who asked you to submit, you despicable hounds ?
Burt Baldwin, you have gone too far,” yelled the
chiefin a wild rage, and he attempted to draw a

istol from his belt, but it was caught firmly in the
olster, and the effort was fruitless, while the bold
mutineer, who had bearded the leader so daringly.
—. upon him with drawn knife, crying in loud
ones:

‘Down with the tyrant, men; rally around me.”

But suddenly a tall form sprang in front of the
chief, a revolver in each hand, and his eyes ablaze,
while his ringing voice checked all as he shouted:

“Back, mutineers! Back, I tell you!”

It was the disguised scout that spoke, and who
had boldly thrown himself between the renegade
chief and certain death.

But the blood of the bold mutineer, Burt Baldwin,
i fighing heat, and after a moment’s pause, he
cried:

“Come on, men! Let not a stranger cur drive
us from our own kennel.”

They were the last words he ever uttered, for the
scout’s pistol rang out sharply, and the mutineer
fell dead, shot through the brain.

Again there was a shot, and another renegade
shared the same fate, and the mass that was rushing
upon the chief and Lone Star stopped suddenly.

All had happened in the twinkling of an eye, so
quickly had Lone Star sprang to the front and fired,
and then the chief was alongside of him, a revolver
in one hand, a knifein the other. The next moment
a form rushed forward, bent down, and possessing
himself of the knife and pistol of the dead mutineer,
ae, himself in a line with Bertram and Lone

ar.

It was Fred Hazleton, who had been a most atten-
tive and deeply interested spectator of the whole
scene; and seeing the stand taken by the scout, he
felt that therein lay their only safety, for did Ber-
tram fall, he knew not to what bounds of madness
the fury of the band might carry them.

‘Aha! come on now, you mutinous hounds!” yelled
Bertram, as he saw the band hesitate.

But they made no motion, their leaders were killed,
and they felt no desire to press the mutiny.

“You have had enough then, have you? It is well
you have. Now back to your cabins, and get: ready
to be on the march in an hour’s time. You have a
long ride before you, Here, halfa dozen of you bear
off the bodies of these dead traitors,” and the chief
motioned to the forms of Antonio and the two men
ae _ fallen by the unerring aim of the scout’s
pistol.

Completely cowed the band hastily departed, and
then the chief, turning to Lone Star, grasped his
hand most warmly, whife he said:

“I knew there was the right mettle in you. I am
seldom mistakenin aman. Heavens! what a crack
shot youare. Why that prairie roamer, the Lone
Star scout, could not shoot with more deadly aim,
and they say he has not his equal east of the Rocky
Mountains,” —

“I am glad it was in my power to quell the trouble,
chief. I saw your difficulty, so I commenced the
action,” modestly replied the Lone Star.

“And well and ge you did it. If you had
not.i would have been food tor wolves before now.
And to you, sir, I also owe thanks, for you came to

 

| my aid like a man,” and Bertram turned to Fred

; Hazleton.

‘I merely pursued the wisest course,” quietly re-
sponded Fred Hazelton, and he walked back to the
veranda and took a seat by the Pearl of the Prairie,

| who had been a most indifferent spectator of the
whoie affair, except when the scout was in danger.

‘‘Now, Bernard, my plans are as follows: First to
i leave you in command of the stronghold, and the
thirty guards who defend it. J will take my band of
| fifty men and strike tor Fort Kearney, and have an
jinterview with the commander. Upon that inter-
| view hangs the fate of Captain Hazleton, for unless
| they return me the seven prisoners they hold belong-
ing to my band, and promise not to molest me .so
long as I do not invade the settled districts, I will
shoot him down as I shot Antonio.”

“T fear the poor captain will have to die,” sadly
said the scout.

“‘T hope not, for he is a brave man and has a long
life of pleasure before him. But I'll kill him, so help
me Heaven! if they do not grant my terms.”

“They will refuse, chief. The commander of the
tort would not give you the rest you have if he had
more troops; but his few forces are constantly busy
with the Sioux Indians, and he has little time to
spare to follow you here, with a chance of victory,
for he well knows how strong is your position. You
see I know their feelings regarding you.”

“Of course, sergeant; but, anyway, I shail make
the attempt. Within the hour I shall be off with
my whole raiding band, forI dare not go far away
from the stronghold unless I have sufficient men to
give a good fight. Then I have another plan in
view.”

“And that is_—”

“To ambush that Lone Star scout, and take him
alive if possible, for I have a deep grudge against
him. He is said to live in the hills on the other side
of the prairie, and we’ll lay for him a week, if need
be, to cateh him.”

**He has been a hard man to take, chief.”

“7 know it. He seems to bear a charmed life, but
I feel that we will yet meet face to face.”

“J hope so, chief. Now about the prisoners.”

“Well, if they escape you will suffer the same fate
as Antonio did,” sternly replied Bertram.

“Tl keep my eye constantly upon them,” returned
Lone Star.

The two men then mounted their horses and rode
around the stronghold, as the chief wished to in-
struct the newly-appointed officer in the means of
offense and defense, and all the duties devolving
upon him during his absence from the camp.

An hour more and then the renegade band, with
Bertram at their head, rode in Indian file from the
stronghold on their way to Fort Kearney. Lone
Star, the scout, was left in command of the village,
which he had so daringly entered at the risk of his
life, to save from death Captain Fred Hazleton, his
rival in love, and the Prairie Pearl.

CHAPTER XIV.
MUTINY IN THE STRONGHOLD.
When Bertram and his men had departed from the

 

stronghold, the scout sought Captain Hazleton, and
made known to him his intention of immediately
planning for their escape. It was essential that the
captain should gain the settlement and return with
sufficient force to take the stronghold, and occupy it
soas to surprise the chief upon his return, and
make him prisoner.

“You have been most fortunate thus: far, my
friend, and I believe the fates will aid you still,”
said Hazleton. ‘Believe me I will do all in my
power to aid you; but have you no iear of a disturb-
ance among the men; now that the chief is away,
for I noticed several of the mutineers were left be-
hind?”

“Yes, captain; I know that they feel sore at my
being placed over them, and I amon my guard
against surprise. But now I willlook around me,
so tell the Pearl of the Prairie to be of good
cheer.”

The scout walked away, while Fred Hazleton re-
turned once more to talk with the beautiful maiden,
who daily interested him more and more, for the
Pride of the Pawnees was little like an untutored
Indian in her conversation and deportment. She
was witty, even cheerful, and as beautiful as woman
could be.

Fred Hazleton had loved Nellie Rupert, or im-
agined he did, and in one of his moments of enthu-
siastic admiration had asked the judge for her hand,
believing, man-like, that he could easily win her
heart, although rumor hadtt that she had already
gi @ it. ta Lane Star, tho coont, :

Sein the young officer was a gallant and handsome
fellow, noble, and generous to a fault, and most
anxious to carry back to his metropolitan home a
beautiful oorder girl as his wife, for well he knew
that she would shine as a star there even among the
belles of society. ;

The judge had granted the request of the rich
young officer, but Nellie had given no encourage-
ment to his suit, and thus it stood when the attack
was made on the valley of the renegade band.

Fred Hazleton was of a fickle nature, and the
beautiful dark eyes of the Prairie Pearl, added to
her beauty of form, her grace, and her pleasant dis-
position, not to speak of the bond of sympathy that
bound them together as fellow prisoners—all these
combined caused the young officer to forget Nellie
and fall deeply in love with the Pearl of the Prairie,
who trusted him with her innocent, child-like na-
ture, as though he were her beau ideal. Still the
Pride of the Pawnees did not forget the scout, as
her admiration for him was intense.

After leaving Fred Hazleton, Lone Star went to
the shed where Bertram kept his horses, and in-
spected them.

There stood his own horse, Runner, as fresh as
ever, and next to him was White Wing, the steed of
the Prairie Pearl.

Several other fine animals belonging to Bertram

were there, and the best of these Lone Star soon
settled upon as the one for Fred Hazleton.
“So far so good! Now for the chanches of es-
cape,” muttered the scout, and he walked toward
the village to become more thoroughly acquainted
with the men under his command, that he might
discover the ones best suited to his purpose as a
guard over the outer blockade.

Hardly had he entered the row of cabins, when
there was a shot, and a bullet whistled by his head,
while a dozen men advanced upon him from behind
a log-hut.

To spring into the open door of a cabin was the
work of an instant, and the next he stood with
drawn pistols awaiting the onset which he felt must
come from the envious renegades, who had deter-
mined to take his life, now that the chiet had gone.

But the renegades were wary in their approach.
Already had they witnessed the deadly aim of the
new officer, and they dreaded to get within his
range, so they resorted to strategy to take him.

Quietly the scout waited inside the cabin, his

eyes eagerly serrching for any hole in the wall by
which he might be taken unawares with a shot, and
suddenly he saw a bright ray of sunshine piercing
through the roof, then it became darkened, and he
knew that a face was covering it.
Instantly he aimed his pistol and fired; there was
a groan, a struggling upon the dirt-covered roof,
een all was quiet. The bullet had done its
work.

A fierce yell followed from the men, and a rush
was made for,the door, when unexpectedly to the
scout, several pistol shots were heard, and spring-
ing to the door he beheld Fred Hazleton, the Pearl
of the Prairie, and a man dressed in the faded uni-
form of a private in the army, running upon the
band who were around:the cabin.

Instantly Lone Star sprang to aid his friends, and
ignominiously the renegades took to their heels,
foe erying for mercy as the shots rapidly followed
them.

Fortunately for the scout and his friends only a
few of the band had joined in this mutinous attack
upon his life. The majority of the renegades. were
true, and rallied to his side, and the mutiny was
over.

‘“My man, you deserve praise for your conduct,”
said Hazleton, turning to the ex-soldier, who had
aided him in the defense of the seout.

“Thank you, captain; and if { might make so bold,
sir, if I thougnt I could go back into the service and
not be shot for a deserter, I would gladly do so,” re-
plied the man.

“What caused you to desert your flag 2?”

“T was in love with a Pawnee girl, and I over-
stayed my leave when I visited her in her camp. I
was afraid to go back to the fort for fear of a flog-
ging, so I made tracks for this stronghold.”

“Well, if you will obey my instructions I will get
apardon fer you. Nowjoin the men, and let not
any of them know of our conversation.”

Lone Star was determined not to let the mutineers
escape unpumished, so he quickly had them put in
irons, and then warning the others that he would
submit to no interference from them, he returned to
his quarters accompanied by the Pearl of the Prairie
and Captain Hazleton, whom he warmly thanked for
a timely aid when he stood so sorely in need
of it,

 

 

 

 

Upon their way back, Fred Hazleton told the
scout of his conversation with the deserter, and sug-
gested that he could be made useful in their escape.

“Yes, and he is doubtless aware of more men like
himself who would be glad to return to the army
under your promise of pardon if they aided us, for
they cannot but feel that the power of Bertram is
not as great asit was a year ago,” replied Lone Star.
“He is your guard. I will give you a chance to
speak to him. He will speak more freely to you,
being a prisoner, than he would to me, the loyal
commander-of the post. Ha! ha! Here, sentinel.”

The soldier advanced and saluted.

“These prisoners are intrusted to your care,” he
said, sternly. ‘‘See that you keep good watch over
them, for you are held responsible for them with
your life. Remember!”

‘‘He’s no better than Bertram himself,” muttered
the soldier, as Lone Star walked away. ‘Curse
them all; I wish I was well out of their clutches.”

“Suppose you do get out of their clutches!” said a
loud voice in his ear.

The soldier gave a start, and nearly dropped his
rifle in his affright. But when he saw Captain Fred
Hazleton, he was re-assured.

‘How would you like to escape with Prairie Pearl
and myself to-night ?”

“Tike, sir! Iwould like nothing better in the
world. Lam sick and tired of this robbing and
throat-cutting.”

“Have you any comrades of the same mind ?”

“Only one thatI am sure of, sir.”

‘*How long will you be on duty ?”

‘SAn hour, sir, and on again at midnight.”

“Weil, when you are off duty seek your comrade
and tell him of our proposal to escape. We will ar-
range matters when you come on again. Will he be
willing to go. Think!”

“Only too glad of the chance, sir. He and I were
not always bad men, and it will be a happy day
when we turn our backs on this place.”

“What's your comrade’s name ?”

‘Reuben Thomas in the army—here they call him
Hard Shell.”

‘*‘And your name is——”

‘““Ned Dawson, sir. They call me Pious Ned.”

‘*Pious Ned ?” said the captain, with a smile.

“Yes, sir. They caught me one time reading a
Bible that I stole from an old woman in an emigrant
train.’

“Well, Ned, I trust that your life in future will be
more in accordance with the teachings oi the stolen
ee. laughed Hazleton, as he rejoined Prairie

earl,

 

CHAPTER XV.
PLANNING AN ESCAPE.

Night settled upon the face of the earth, and the
renegade stronghold was under the vail of darkness.
Only a light twinkled here and there from a cabin
window or door.

In the main cabin, the quarters of Bertram, sat
Captain Hazleton and the Pear! of the Prairie, quiet-
ly discussing the chances of escape during the night,
for the Indian maiden spoke the language of the
pale-faces well.

A guard walked to and fro in front of the door,
his eye cautiously upon the prisoners.

Gradually the time stole away, and the Pearl of
the Prairie passed into the next room, rolied herself
in her blankets, and sank down upon a bed of skins,
but not tosleep. She lay awake patiently awaiting
the hour when the scout would give the signal for
them to depart from the hated spot.

Fred Hazleton also lay down to sleep, feeling as-
oes that at the proper time the scout would arouse

im.

In the meantime Lone Star had been going the
rounds of the stronghold, with all interest apparent-
ly attending to his duty.

From Fred Hazleton he had learned the names of
the two members ofthe band who had deserted from
the army, and one of these, Reuben Thomas, better
known as ‘‘Hard Shell,” he had placed as one of the
sentinels at the stockade, to go on duty at twelve
o’clock.

It was the habit of Bertram to always keep halfa
dozen men on duty at the stronghold; but. this the
new commander said was unnecessary, and he dis-
missed all but two sentinels, to the great joy of the
men, who cared not for extra duty. .

‘““Men, you can goto your cabins, but be ready to
turn out at once ata signal from the sentinel, which
will be a pistol shot. You two remain on duty. One
at a time ean watch, and the other sleep, and thus
divide the night between you.”

Lone Star then returned te-his quarters, and hay-
ing full accesso the store-room of the chief, he soon
gathered together a sufficient supply of provisions
to last them for the twenty-four hour’s ride to the
Pawnee village, for whichit was his intention to
head at once. ;

When all wasin readiness the scout returned to
the room where Fred Hazleton slept, an@ found that
Ned Dawson was on duty.

Quietly he awoke the young officer, who was in-
stantly upon his feet, asking:

“Ts all in readiness ?”

**Yes. Did the soldier see his companion ?”

“T know not, sor he came on duty after I dropped
off to sleep.” 2

“Well, it matters not, for I have but two men on
duty at the stockade; but one of those is the fellow,
Reuben Thomas,” whispered Lone Star.

In reply Fred Hazleton walked to the door, held a
few moments’ conversation with the guard, and then
the two entered the room together.

“T have told Dawson all, scout, and he says that
his companion is only too glad to geta chance to go,
therefore we have nothing to dread.”

‘*No, it seems all right now. I will go and arouse
the Prairie Pearl;” and the scout entered the room
and softly called her name,

“The Pearl of the Prairie listens,” responded the
maiden, rising to her feet.

“Come. All is ready, and we go to take the Pride
of the Pawnees back to her people,” said Lone Star,
and the two entered the room where waited Fred
Hazleton and the guard.

“Now, Captain Hazleton, my plan isto leave you
to come on with this soldier, the Pearl of the Prairie
and the horses, all of which you will find ready
saddled in the shed.

“In my room I have laid out rifles and side arms
for yourself and the soldiers——”

**And will not the white brave give the Pearl of
the Prairie a rifie and knife? Her arm is strong,
and her eye is quick,” said the Indian maiden, in a
tone of mild reproach at having been neglected.

‘‘Well does the Lone Star know that the Pride of
the Pawnees has courage, and she shall be well
armed,” replied the scout. After a pause he con-
tinued: “Now I will walk on down to the stockade,
tell the guard that I know about his desire to escape,
2° together we will bind and gag the other senti-
nel.’ ‘

So saying, Lone Star took his weapons and de-
parted for the outpost.

Hard Shell, the deserter, was on duty, and the
other sentinel was cheerfully snoring away the
hours.

‘““My man, your companion, Ned Dawson, has told
me of your plan for to-night,” quietly said the
scout. A

The soldier appeared terrified by the discovery
that he had been betrayed, and trembled in every
joint. Observing his trepidation, Lone Star con-
tinued: id

‘‘Have no fear, forIl go with you, and ere long
Dawson will join us with the officer and Indian
prisoner. Now let us throw ourselves upon yonder
sleeping fellow and make him a captive.”

With delight at the change affairs had taken,
Hard Shell sprang forward and his hand clutched
the throat of the sleeping guard, while the scout
quickly pinioned his hands and feet, and shoved a
piece of blanket into his mouth asa gag.

‘‘Now we are safe, I think,” quietly remarked the
scout, and a momentafter Fred Hazleton advanced
mounted upon Bertram’s best horse and leading
Runner; while behind him came the Pearl of the
Prairie on White Wing.

“Into the saddle—up with you!” cried the scout,
in gleeful excitemeat, and he was about bounding
on his own steed, when his eye fell upon the boun
and gagged sentinel. Approaching him, he said:
“‘When your cut-throat chief returns, if he ever does
so, tell him that the deserter, Sergeant Bernard,
was LONE STAR, THE SCOUT, who will be ever
most happy to meet him or any of his villainous
crew!”

Not only the bound guard, but the two soldiers
who accompanied him, were astonished at the sound
of the name, and the two latter gave loud expres-
sion to their wonder at the desperate daring of the
scout, who could so coolly enter the den of his
deadliest foe.

“Now,” cried Lone Star, springing into his sad-
dle, ‘‘we must not mar our fortune by delay. Away,
then, for your lives! We know not but Satan may
put it in the head of his favorite tocome back. Hi,
Runner! forward, for life and freedom!”

Off they dashed, as rapidly as the dim light and
the narrow trail would permit. The Loup was
crossed, and away—away over the rolling prairie at
@ sweeping gallop.

 

e¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. >

The Pawnee village was reached, and, as the chief
and his people swarmed out to meet the party, Lone
Star, leading the horse of Prairie Pearl, said:

“The Lone Star has kept his word. He has
brought the Pride of the Pawnees back to her

people!”
CHAPTER XVI.
PLANS—THE ASSAULTING EXPEDITION.

The cheers of the Indians rent the air, when they
saw their lost Pearl safely returned.

Every soul in the tribe loved the Prairie Pearl
dearly—warrior and woman, old and young, ad-
mired her beauty and amiability, and bowed to su-
periority.

The village had been a scene of gloom ever since
her capture, and grown impatient at the delay in
the return of the scout, the chief had marshaled his
warriors to attack the stronghold in person.

This very party that cheered the ringing welcome
to the scout and the rescued maiden, were starting
on the expedition when the object of their solicitude
arrived.

Instantly all the encampment burst into a state of
jubilee bordering on frenzy.

“The mighty warrior of the pale-faces has kept
his word,” said the chief, proudly taking the hand
of Lone Star and leading him to the place of honor
on his own mats. ‘His tongue is as true as the
signs of the Great Spirit. He has brought back the
Pride of the Pawnees to her people, and we are
happy and bless the Lone Star scout in our hearts.”

“Tam repaid by the happiness of aiding the Prai-
rie Pearl.”

‘Let the scout find a wigwam in our village and
be one of our nation. Let him roam the prairies
with our braves, for they will hunt him no more as
the hound hunts the wild deer. Spotted Horse has
spoken.”

‘Lone Star has heard the words of Spotted Horse,
and their kindness has fallen into his ears,” said the
scout in the Pawnee language, which seemed
strangely musical in his deep. earnest tones. ‘For
many years Lone Star has roamed the plains and hills
alone. He loves his lonely life and cannot leave it
or live in the villages to doze away his life among
the squaws. He has been the enemy of the Paw-
nees, and his knife has drunk the blood oftheir best
braves, for they brought sorrow and ruin on him
and his. He vowed vengeance and bitterly has he
kept his vow.”

Amurmur, whether of indignation or assent,
passed over the crowd, but was stopped by a wave
of the chief’s hand.

“But the Pawnees have done the Lone Star and
his friends a kindness, and he is their enemy no
more. He will not forget their kindness. He prom-
ised that he would restore the Pearl of the Prairie,
and the pride of the Pawnees now stands before
them.”

Loud shouts and murmurs of congratulation pro-
claimed the admiring gratitude of the people.

‘The renegade enemies of the Pawnees and their
wicked chief yet live unpunished. If Spotted Horse
and his people think that Lone Star deserves any-
thing for bringing back Prairie Pearl let them fol-
low him back on the trail to Bertram’s stronghold,
and every wigwam pole of the Pawnees shall hang
with renegade scalps, and every brave shall enrich
himself from the home of the outlaw band. The
Lone Star has spoken.”

Words cannot picture the excitement that fol-
lowed the speech of the scout, for the Pawnee braves
were all wild with the brilliant anticipations before
them, and Lone Star and his friends were at once
invited into the council-lodge of the nation fora
grand pow-wow over the intended expedition.

The result of the conference was that Fred Hazle-
ton was toremain with the two soldiers as guests
in the Pawnee village, while Lone Star should at
once proceed alone to the valley settlement, once
again arm himself with his wonderful repeating
rifle, and, mounted upon Flying Arrow, go ona
scout in quest of Bertram andhismen. If they were
still on the war-path we was to return to the village
of Spotted Horse, and, with two hundred braves,
start for the stronghold, and after capturing it to
lie in ambush there and attack the renegades upon
their return. Butif they had already returned to
their stronghold, the scout was to go to Fort Kear-
ney, get what troops he could, and returning by the
Pawnee village, join Spotted Horse and his warriors,
who would gladly accompany the soldiers in a com-
mon war against Bertram.

After rest and refreshments for man and beast,
Lone Star mounted Runner, and was soon dashing
along in the darkness, heading for the valley where
dwelt the only woman in the world he loved. His
own generous act, he feared, had parted him from
her forever by the release of his rival from the pow-
er of the renegade chief.

But, prairie wanderer though he was, Basil Ber-
nard had a noble heart, and no man could ever ac-
cuse him of a mean or unmanly action, and he felt
that in saving Fred.Hazleton from imprisonment,
perhaps from death, he had but done his duty toward
his fellow man, and obeyed the dictates of his con-
science.

“If I lose her,” he said, ‘it will be better to have
the thought that I did so without being guilty of a
mean or selfish act to make her mine. Oh, Nellie,
if you only knew how deeply, how dearly Llove you,
you never would become the wife of another. Mine
has been a hard lotein life, and sorrow has ever
dogged my footsteps; but with Nellie Rupert for my
wife, happiness might yet be mine.”

As if urged on by his thoughts, the scout drove his
spurs into Runner, and the astonished animal bounda-
ed forward like the wind through the tall prairie
grass.

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE FORT AND CAMP.

The morning broke with a cloudless sky, and as
the mists lifted from valley and plain, Lone Star left
the lonely night camp, which he had selected more
for his horse’s sake than his own, and pursued his
way with fresh vigor.

The trail he took led to his secret home, where
the faithful Errola waited anxiously for his return;
but he diverged from the direct course to visit the
home of Judge Rupert, which held the loadstar of
his heart.

The old judge saw his approach, and challenged
him, without the slightest sign of recognition until
the scout revealed himself. But the eyes of love
were sharper, and Neilie pierced through his dis-
guise the moment she saw him enter the cabin.

“Thank Heaven, you are safe back again!” she
said, with a thrill of fervor that shook his heart,
and she ran toward him, with warmly extended
hands,

“Head! the girl could see through a millstone,
with the fellow on the other side,” muttered the
judge, who could see no similarity between the sol-
dier and the scout. “But, come, Basil—breakfast
isready. Tell us your latest harum-scarum scrapes.
Have you heard anything.of poor Hazleton, and
that pretty, plucky little Indian girl?”

‘Yes; they are both safe in the Pawnee village,”
said Lone Star, gazing at Nellie’s face, over which
strange emotions were flitting.

“And you saved them, Basil Bernard?” said the
judge. ‘‘You saved Captain Hazleton ?’

‘JT did,” answered the scout, with a half sigh,
as he saw Nellie bend her lovely head to avoid the
gaze he could not remove.

‘*Basil Bernard!” exclaimed Judge Rupert, throw-
ing down his knife and grasping the scout’s hand
warmly, ‘I admire you more that everI did. You
are a gallant fellow, and bear a noble heart.”

If he had only known how that noble heart was
racked at that moment with the pangs of hopeless
love!

Nellie Rupert, glancing shyly up at her lover,
noticed the emotion which her father had failed to
see, and proudly she raised her head and fixed her
gaze full on the scout.

*‘Basil,” she said, with trembling lips and humid
eyes, “you risked your life to. save Fred Hazelton?
Heaven bless your generous heart.”

This was altogether too much for the scout. He
was not used to the melting mood. This love for
Nelie Rupert was the only weakness he had ever
shown. That love was so tender, so sensitive, that
the girl’s artless blessing for the preservation of his
rival caused a pang of jealousy to pass through his
heart. He felt a choking sensation as if the food he
had eaten would strangle him. ;

“Tut, tut! Nellie, it is nothing,” he said, rising
from his chair with a nervous haste very unusual to
him. ‘My life has often been risked on less occa-
sions than the rescue of the affianced of a friend.”

‘A generous thought, my boy. Well said, well
said!” exclaimed the judge, slapping his hand ap-
provingly on the scout’s shoulder.

But the eyes of Lone Star were fixed on Nellie,
who turned away with a pale, offended look, and left
the room, perhaps to hide the tears she felt unable
to control.

“T have stayed too long,” said Lone Star, in a
flurried manner, ‘I must away on another trail.”

“Another harum-scarum, life-risking scrape ?” said
the judge,

““Well_yes, judge. What matter? My life was
always one of risk, and will be till the last risk las-
soes me and prepares me for the grave,” said Lone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Star, with an endeavor at cheerfulness that was
more pathetic than the most mournful words or man-
ner would have been. Good-by, judge, the sun is
already high and’malaggard. Good-by. Ha! Nel-
lie’s gone!” he cried, as if he did not knowit. ‘Give
my good-by lo her. Heaven bless you both.”

He hurriedly seized his rifle and bringing his horse
from the shed where he had been feeding, put his foot
in the stirrup about to mount, but he was stayed bya
gentle touch on the arm, and turning saw the pale,
pear tat face of Nellie Rupert raised appealingly to

is.
[To BE CONTINUED.]

NORAH GLENN:

THE ROSE OF SLIGO.

By John F. Cowan,
Author of “O’CONNOR’S CHILD,” “CHARLEY
GALE’S PLUCK,” etc., ete.

 

(‘Norah Glenn” was commenced in No. 38. Back Nos. can be
obtained from any News Agent in the United States. }

CHAPTER XII.—(CONTINUED.)

The considerate mountaineers had retired, and, with a
forethought asrareas it is commendable, Looney had
placed a bottle and cup on the table at the artist’s elbow.

“Robert ?”? she questioned, with a‘start.

“I wish, Fanny, you would read my heart as earnestly
as you read the embers,”

“I wish—indeed, 1 wish 1 could,” she said, ‘‘and see so
bright a vision.*’ ‘

“Take my reading,’’ he whispered, earnestly pressing
her hand.

She turned and looked him full in the eyes, and sadness
struggled with arcliness in her voice when she said:

“Ah! I fear me you would falsify.”

“No, never, Fanny,’? he breathed, fervently. ‘I never
knew my own heart tillnow. 1 neyer appreciated—never
saw—the wealth, the depth, the goodness of yours until
ne day and night. Iwas stupid, I was blind—I was a

olt!

Then, with a quick suspicion that he was making him-
self immensely ridiculous, lhe said, with hurried energy
and an assumption of burlesque:

“Oh, Fanny! Frances! Miss Crofton! Lady of Highvalel
for the love of sanity don’t laugh at me—don’t tell me
that you were only acting at our last interview.”

She saw the real feeling that was hidden behind this
flimsy vail of raillery, and was merciful. She pressed the
hand that neld hers and said, in a very, very low tone:

“{ will not laugh, Alton. I was not acting.”

“Then Llove you, Fanny—love you as I never did be-
ee iOen you forgive me? Can you replace me in your
leart?

The Lady of Highvale placed asmall hand on either
shoulder of the pleader, and looking deep, deep into his
ores said, in a voice that spoke the concentration of her
soul:

“Yes, Ilove you, Alton. You never were displaced.”

Then well became that handsome, romantic goat-herd
to throw his arms around the fair acknowledger, and
then and there took place the “loug, long kiss of youth
and life aud love”? of which the puet speaks, and Heaven
only knows to what a poetical infinity it nught have been
drawn out, had not the unromantic whisky bottle on the
coggly table upset and rolied to the floor with a crash that
brought Looney and his mother rushing forth from their
compartments, to find the Lady of Higlivale blushing
and confused, and Mr. Alton, ag Looney expressed it,
‘ooking as sheepish as a goat.””

A rapping at the door came to the relief of the parties
and interrupted Looney’s lament over the wasted whis-
ky, but it startled them as well. The old woman caught
Miss Crofton by the hand and hurried her away into the
darkness of the inner chambers,-and Looney stood with
bent body and hollowed hand behind his ear Jistening for
the repetition of the summons.

“All safe,” he said, cheerily; ‘it’s Corney Lafferty.
He’ll give us news of Conroy and Norah. Now, Mr. Alton,
ye’ll see a mountain beauty,” he whispered, with a broad
grin, ashe commenced to undo the many fastenings of
the door. ‘Corney Lafferty is the professional baby-scarer
of the townland, divil as ugly a face was iver put through
a horse-collar to wake fun at a fair. Come in, Corney,
and make ’aste for fear of the light. There's so many
stragglers and strollers about that care is needful.”?

At uncouth, grotesque, frightfully comic-looking indi-
vidual entered the low door wiih a stooping motion, which
might be natural or might have been acquired from the
horse-collar performances suggested by Looney. His body
was crooked and clumsily muscular, his head enormously
large, with a crop of hair like a furze-bush, distorted fea-
tures—eyes at perpetual warfare with each other, a large,
wet moutli and a nose like a potato.

At present on this rough countenance a look of settied
grief was visible through all the grotesqueness, and jis
salutation to Alton and the old woman, who had re-ap-
peared, carried with it a craving for sympathy. Looney,
having re-iastened the entrance, came toward the fire, and
addressed the new comer, eagerly’

“Well, Corney, Why don’t ye speak? What do you
stand gapin’ at ?”?

Corney’s eyes had been fixed with admiring veneration
on Miss Crofton, but, at this challenge, he faced the
speaker with a start,

‘I followed as you tould me,” he said, ‘but I lost sight
o’ them in the hazels. I hurried on over brush and brier,
through mud and mire to where we seen the carriage. It
Was standin’ there as stillas a hearse, wid the driver
kickin’ his heels on the box, but of Norah and Con, nay-
ther one nor the pair—hilt or hair could Corney see.’

“And what did you do?”

es hurried back widout pause or slack till I came to the
glin.

“You should have stayed by the coach,” eried Looney,
With an angry motion and exclamation that made the
messenger recoil, as if he had felt the weight of that hand
before. ‘*Whiat else did you find ?”*

“Nothing but what the people say, and sorryI am to
Say it afther them,” said Corney.

“What is it—what is it?’

“That Conroy and Norah never left the island. They
got intangled in the whins, and couldn’t get out till the
fire came upon them, and they were smothered and
burnt. ‘

A cry of horror arose from the old woman. Miss Crof-
ton, and Alton, and Looney uttered a growl of rage, and
caught Lafferty by the arm.

‘““Who told you this? Who said so?’ he cried.

“Hughes and Harkness, the men that strove to carry
out the body of the young squire that Conroy shot for
bringing the sojers on him.”?

Alton and Fanny gave utterance to their astonishment,
but Looney Lorton shook the poor fellow savagely.

‘It?s a lie?’ he cried. “How could Oonroy shoot him
when the sojers had taken his arms away? You know
well it wasn’t the young squire brought them on.”

“You axed me what they tould me,’? said Corney, dog-
gedly. ‘I didn’t shoot them, I didn’t burn them, I didn’t
put the words in the mouths of Hughes and Harkness.”’

“Where are these long-tongued claverers?’”’? cried Loo-
ney, excitedly, seizing his hat and coat.

‘In jail,” said Corney. ‘The sojers dragged thim out
o’ the stream where they were quenchin’ their clothes
and coolin’ their burns.’?

“711 stop their harum-doin’ ifI should kill them through
the bars,”? roared Looney Lorton, snatching a firelock
from two pegs driven into crevices of the rock, but his
mother ran in a frightened manner and caught him
around the neck.

‘Are ye mad, Looney, dear?’? she cried. ‘Would ye
dare go to the town after the night? What harum can
they do poor Conroyif he is burnt? Hut, tut! man, yer
mad! yer foolisi!’

Lorton grounded the gun heavily, perfectly unnerved
by the agitation her words caused, |

“Con Conroy burnt—dead!”’ he said, in a husky, broken
voice. ‘‘And the Rose—Poor Norah Glenn? Oh, mother!
mother! It can’t be true! I won’t believe it!”

“You must belave it, Looney!’ blubbered Corney Laf-
ferty, who was affected by his friend’s grief. ‘They can’t
be found, high or low; and as for the shootin’, the dead
man hisseif or Squire Lysaught alone could tell the
rights of it, and the squire, Heaven help him! is as dead
and dumb as his son.”

‘*True for you!’ cried Lorton, suddenly freeing his neck
from his mother’s hold; “true for ye, and the blame of
that deed will hurt him no more in this world thanit will
Con Conroy. In the next world, Heaven help them both,
their sins will be laid at the right door.”

All present gazed at the speaker in astonishment and
expectation, for his manner was positive, and there was
a significant tone in his voice.’ He drew a pistol from his
pocket and held it up.

“How would @onroy shoot any living soul,” he cried,
‘when the sojers had disarmed him. This is the squire’s
pistol, with his name on the mountin’, that he cast from
his hand when his horror made him drop on the corpse
of the boy. See, one of the barrels is empty. There’s yer
proof. John Lysaught shot his own son}?

“No, no! Itisimpossible! It is too horrible!’ cried
Fanny Crofton, rushing forward to view the weapon, as
did also Alton.

But as the mountaineer put his finger on the silver
name-plate her face became still paler than it was, and
she said, with a horrified shudder:

“But what excuse, what motive could he have for so
dreadful a deed ?””

“Tt was the curse—it was the curse!’? said Corney Laf-
ferty, in an awed whisper; and they turned to gaze at the
fellow’s face, made absolutely horrible by the expression
of superstitious fright it bore, ‘It was the curse of the
Widow Glenn on the squire. You heerd her, my lady,
when she prayed that the screech af the mornin’ might
be upon him, and his heart be broken as hers was??? ;

Miss Crofton waved her kand for the speaker to be
silent and stand aside, and he retired abashed to the
shadow where the old woman was uttering ejaculations
of piety and fear. :

“Why do you make this terrible accusation against my
poor uncle?’ she asked, addressing Lorton, ‘Why should
he willfully kill his own child ??

“Tax your pardon, my lady,” hesaid. ‘I did not say
he done it willfully. If his honor was alive I’d lose my
tongue before I’d say it, even ifl saw him doit. lt wasa
mistake, I believe, He wens there to warn Con and No-
rah agin the sojers and Hansard.”

‘“‘Hansard?? exclaimed Fanny Crofton, excitedly.
“What, Herbert Hansard, the man they call the cap-

 

tain ?”?

 

 

 
 

%

ie ETT

in aA a ENS ans

en oo Ao

i

 

 

 

 
 
 
  

 

 

 

 

The self-same man, my lady, that you saved the people
from at Highvale. Not the laste doubt ’twas him the
squire meant to kill.”’

“But what mission had Hansard there ?’’

“The same, my iady, that took him to Highvale—Norah
Glenn——”'

Miss Croften lifted her hand with a sudden look of com-
prehension. For a few seconds she gazed at the fire with
Set eyes and compressed lips, patting the earthen floor the
while with her foot. :

“Gooud-night, Alton,’ she said to the young artist, who
had been watching the strange effect of Hansard’s name
upon her with a clouded look. “You need rest as well
as I?!

Then crossing to Lorton’s mother she took her wrinkled
hand and said:

**‘Mother!??

The name pleased the old woman, for she caaght the
girl in her arms ang kissed her fondly. ;

“Then, Heaven bless you, child,’’ she said. ‘It is long
since I had a daughter. What is it ye wish, mavour-
aneen 21)

“Give me some place to lay my head. I need rest and
sleep, for I have work and thinking to do,’ she said,
wearily, and bowing in reply to the ‘‘good-nights’’ ofthe
men, she disappeared in company with the old woman.

“What link cau there be beLween her and Hansard?’
was the mental question of Robert Alton, as he laid his
stiffened form ou a pallet prepared for him by the fire-
side. An ugly feeling of forboding and doubt came over
him and tortured him until weariness brought sleep, and
even then it followed him in a hideous sort of nightmare.
He saw the scorched face of Norah Gleun gazing at hiin
with painful appealing, and Herbert Hansard with Fanny
‘Crofton leaning,on his arm, smiling on him with contemp-
‘tuous triumph. The sight seemed to maddeu him, and
he tried to cry out and was unable. He could only mur-
sour deep in his heart:

“What can Ye have to do with Herbert Hansard ?
What has becoine of Norah Glenn?’

 

CHAPTER XIII. j
“‘What black, charred face is this come back from death?”

Taking into consideration the strain of excitement
through which Robert Alton had passed, together with
the fatigue of his mountain tramp and the inflammation

_ Of his wound caused by neglect of proper dressing, it is
not wonderful that he awoke the next morning exceed-
‘ingly ill and feverish, Perhaps his couch upon the damp
floor of the mountain cave contributed to this effect.

Looney Lorton and his mother simultaneously noticed the

condition of their guest, and the old woman brought into
play all her medicinal knowledge, and divided her atten-

tion and the fire between the cooking of breakiast and
. ‘the preparation of decoctions of sundry mountain herbs
-possessed of miraculous properties.

Miss Crofton made her, appearance very early, and
earnestly inquired after the health and rest of the wound-
ed man, but a thoughtful quiet pervaded her manner,
usually so vivacious, and the pale, worn look of her face
told of a sleepless night and inward unrest.

She expressed ler intention of starting out homeward
immediately, but seemed troubled and undecided when
she became aware of Alton’s illness, and the likelihood of
its being protracted.

<‘Alton,’? she said, suddenly, alter sitting by his side in
silence for a considerable, time, ‘I am sorry to be forced
to leave you in your present weak state, when you so
much eed tender care; for although our friends are kind

Df heart, they are but rude nurses.”’

da why must you gv?’ he said, for he felt that her

=} ure would make this mountain retreut to which

evil fortune had bound him a prison indeed.

<{ must go, It is imperative,’ she answered, half ab-
gently. ‘‘You must believe so when [ force myself to part
Mrom you. The cause of this last night’s horrors must be
‘sought out and explained, and [ aloue can do it.”

«You, Miss Crofton!” exclaimed Alton, in a tone of sur-
grise and displeasure. ‘“‘Why you, Fanny? Is it not the
‘duty of the authorities, of the police, to see about such
things? Why should a lady degrade herself by becoming
a detective ?”’

«Degrade myselfl’? she cried, with an angry start from
her seat that caused him to look up, aud he saw that her
face was flushed crimson. ‘Ll believe [ have pride and
womanhood enough to keep me above degradation. My
motives are my own. If explained,in all probability

. Shey would be misunderstood. Let time show them.”

She walked away from him with angry carriage, and,
passing out of the door of the hut, satdown on a rock
among the trees, and gazed with tearful eyes at the bright
rising san,

Alton felt sorry for his remark, but still his pride was
auch hurt by her imperious manuer, and his old, pettish,
Doy-like feelings of rebellion came back toward the wo-
man to whom he had so lately poured out his tale of love
-and fealty.

Again the thoughts of the night before arose—thoughts
‘of wonder at the influence Miss Crofton possessed over
Hansard, and speculations as to how that power had
been acquired, and the nature of the intimacy which ex-
isted between them. This unpleasant train of meditation
-was succeeded by heavy-hearted thoughts of Norah Gienn
and her probable horrid fate. But his self-torturing was
eut short by the fitful Fanny reentering suddeniy and
Seating herself on the stool from which she had so lately
arisen, ‘

“Forgive me, Robert,’ she said, ‘‘for my inconsiderate
hharshuess. My miud has been taken up all night with
«this horrible subject, and, when I have set my heart on
-accomplishing anything, l canuot bear to be contradicted,
sas you ouglit to Know by this time.”’

There was a tone Of her pleasant raillery in the apology,
and Alton laughed feebly and squeezed the hand that held
his.

“That’s enough, Fanny,’ he said, ‘Z should make the
cexcuses, nol you. You know your Own wislies and pur-

poses best and shouldn’t be dictated to by a niuny like
Myself.”

“The terrible fate of my uncle and my. poor cousin,”
‘he said; mournfully, as if not heeding his last words, “‘is
enveloped in a mystery that I must.fathom, that I alone
can fathom. The pistol of John Lysaught and Looney’s
theory do not satisfy me. I must Kuow more. I am in-
terested in that poor girl, Norah, and her lover. She
-Must be found!”’

«‘Found!’’ cried Alton, gazing at her in surprise.

<‘Yes, Sheis not dead/ One person knows her where-
‘abouts, and [ must’ Know it, too.” ;

“And that one persou——?” said Alton, with a pang of
Wealousy in his heart and a shade of dispieasure on his
brow, for somehow it suddenly struck him that all this
generosity of Miss Crofton toward her rival in his affec-
tions, and her anxiety for the knowledge of that rival’s
whereabouts were induced by Miss Crofton's jealousy of
Herbert Hansard. ‘

~‘Hush! Hark!’ interrupted Miss Crofton, as the old
Avomau with a cry left the fire and sprang toward the
door, through which sounded a cry as of some one calling
‘for help or giving an alarm. Mrs, Lorton evidently took
‘At for the latter, for she began with eager hands to Close
“and bolt the door, when Cornuey Lafferty, who had been
Jying in one corner of the cave and smoking, sprang to
his feet with eager gesticulation, crying:

<“‘Hould yer hand! It’s Looney hisself, an’ it sounds
more like he’s wantin’ us to go to him than tellin’ us to
shut him out.?? ; '

Pulling aside, the bars and bolt the grotesque being
hurried forth, and in a few moments reappeared assisting
Looney to carry adisabled man into the shelter of the
hut.

“Gutek, mother, for the love of goodness some liquor!’’
-eried Looney. ‘it’s Con, poor Con, with barely a mo-
ment’s hould of his soul.”?

Exclamations of surprise followed the words as the eyes
-of the party fell upon the subjectof:the speech. Aud
«certainly wiout the announcement not even his own
mother would have recognized the good-looking Con
Conroy in the object before them,

: His clothes were burned and tattered, the tindered cloth
Yalling in black flakes ashe was half-carried across the
‘apartinent. His hair was scorched away, and his face
and hands begrimed and blood-clotted. His lips were
swollen, black, and drought-cracked like those of a pa-
tient in the last stage of typhus. From this discolored

countenance his eyes shone out wild and blood-shot.
fo answer tot ally*eager, pilying questions put to
shim he could only reply by motions. and half-syllabled
words. In this manner, after long endeavor, he explained
that he had been wounded in his attempt to rescue Norah
‘Gienn trom her abductors, and had narrowly escaped be-
ing roasted alivein the burning wood. At the meution of
‘Norah’s name the poor fellow shook his head, and the big
tears gatheredin hisred eyes. He had been insensible
until aroused by the intense pain caused by the ali-de-
stroying fire. He did not know what had become of the
girl All was black uncertainty—horrid doubt. The
mention of Hansard’s name sel the fires of vengeance
ablaze in his eyes, and he clenched his scorched hands in
the Air with an intensity of passion dreadful to see. He
shad,;managed to crawl to the streamlet that surrounded
the burning island, and by allowing himself to roll into
the water, extinguished his blazing clothes, and thus pre-
served liis life from the fire-flend at least, But man, the
worst enemy of man, was on: his track, mountain brow
and valley bottom were filled with the persons who were
“hunting for his life-blood.. To avoid them was even more
difficult than to escape the hot breath of the great de-
stroyer. But he accomplished even that by the daring
‘expedient of letting himself float recklessly with the wild
current of the valley stream until the light of fire and the
sound of pursuer were lost in the distance. Then, after
many fruitless attempts, he succeeded in gaining the
_rock-bound bank, exhausted and confused, and covered

_ from head to foot with bruises got by being dashed against
“the obstractions in the course of the wild stream. From
-this point he painfully dragged himself to seek for shelter
and care in the caye-hut of Looney Lorton.

The exertion of this commuuication exhausted him,
and he lay back on the pillow provided for him, gasping
painfully. Looney Lorton’s comments were low but
vengeful, and Alton was puzzled to read the varying ex-
pressions ef Fanny Crofton’s face as sire listened to the
recital. An angry light shone in her eyes, and a chang-
ing smile flitted upon her beautiful features. Did it indi-
cate pleasure or triumph over the death or disappearance
-of her ‘pak or earnest planning for action in the future?

    
  

va’

She 8 é little, but having watched » the old woman

ministering to the suffering refugee, and satisfied herself
that both patients were in good hands, she prepared si-
lently to leave the mountain retreat, which had beep so
suddenly turned into a hospitat, Alton broke the silence
by offering to. accompany ler at all hazards, but she
langled at the proposition as pr2posterous.
“The idea,’? she said, “of a crippled» valetudinarian
‘keeping pace with Fanny Crofton onthe mountains. Good-
by, Alton; I can take care of myself, never fear. You will
probably hear from me before you see me, and learn who
‘that person’ is,’?

 

To Alton’s ears there was an unpleasant roguisliness in
the laugh with which she concluded, but he hid his pique
as well as he could, and shook the little hand extended to
him with a sort of presentiment that it was for the last
time.

“Good-by, my lady,’ said the old woman, throwing her
arms around her and kissing her with tearful eyes. ‘‘May
sunshine light always on your path, and your golden heart
niver know sorrow.’?

Conroy’s feeble lips murmured an amen to the prayer,
and it was repeated by Corney and Lorton. The latter fol-
lowed her to the door, and was about to accompany her,
when she peremptorily refused to allow him to do so,

“How would ye dare the mountains alone, wy lady???
he pleaded. ‘The paths are rough and dangersome. We
live in a hidden, out of the way place here. Not many of
our men Can find the road without some guide. Betwixt
this and the level Jands there’s many a peak where death
dwells, and manya darksome gien where life never
moved or breathed, where one little slip o’ the foot,
my lady, would be destruction. Let me lead you, my
lady.”

“Nol? she answered, positively. ‘You shall not risk
your own safety for mine, If I must have a guide, let this
youth show me through the mountain passes. Once on
the level lands, I can find my way.’

At her first reference to Corney Lafferty that individual
sprang forward witha twirlof the stick and a pleased
grin on his face.

“Will you guide me?’ she asked.

“Yes, yer ladyship,’» he answered, with a bow, ‘as
faithfulas a blind man’s dog—to the door o’ the lord-
lieutenant, or the end o’ the worruld,’?

“Well, we will be off,’ she said, smiling at his mag-
nanimous offer, ‘Good-by once more, my friends!
Good-by, Mr. Alton. Don’t forget the reading of the em-
bers.”?

The screening blanket was drawn back from the hut
door, and Alton could see out into the grove through
which Corney Lafferty shambled, with his cawbeen cocked
on one side of his head more proudly than his wont, and
the graceful figure of ‘Ihe Lady of Highvale”’ tripping
lightly at his heels.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

“Now Rumor, with her thousand tongues, runs wild.”—SHAKE-
SPEARE.

It would be a fruitless task to endeavor to describe the
excitement caused by the tragical occurrences at the is-
land of the Sunken Chapel. The usual wordy exaggera-
tions which attend remarkable events followed this aud
lightened, if such a thing was possible, the horror which
hung around that night of conflagration and death. The
affair was surveyed in allits bearings, and the most as-
tounding theories and explanations retailed by people
who were totally ignorant even of the order of the inci-
dents reported.

Inthe course of human events, this, to be sure, is pro-
per and just, for it has ever been known that the most
fertile theorizer, the most generous giver of opinion and
information is the person most innocent of all knowledge
of the matter in hand. 3

The general public mind was bewildered in debate as
to the cause of the presence of the unfortunate squire
and his son, and other parties named, at the scene of the
tragedy. The presence of the yeomanry was accounted
for by that of Con Conroy. The authorities had discovered,
so the tale ran, that the political fugitive liad made a tryst
atthe ruined chapel with Norah Glenn, and they had
hastened men thither to secure him. Therest was @ mys-
tery, and formed food for popular speculation.

If Captain Hansard’s name was mentioned at all, it
was Only thought of a3 a corroboration of the old rumor
that he was in the secret service of the government—a
spy—an informer—and the detested words were hissed
Out with all the energy of contemptuous abhorreuce. Aud
many were the remarks of wonder that a gentleman
should descend to such baseness as to make traffic of his
countryman’s blood, for the poorest Irishinan of to-day
still adheres to the fine old idea that greatness of rank or
wealth should be accompanied by greatness of mind and
goodness of heart. If at length whispers did creep out
from Highvale farms about Hansard’s designs and repeat-
ed proposals to Noran Glenn, with hints at the possibility
of her seizure by him, they were overruled by what was
considered indisputable proof of the destruction of her-
self and her lover in the flames. This view of the matter
was corroborated by the captain’s appearance as usual in
the town and vicinity; but evil and threatening were the
looks that met him wherever he went, and it was notlong
until he withdrew from so dangerous a quarter.

Concerning John Lysaught aud his son, what was more
plausible than the assertion that the squire had gone to
the place in his official capacity as a magistrate attended
by the unfortunate young man. But all the theories and
suppositions ended in vacant head-shakings, for all were
assured that the unknown points of the affair were hid-
den forever in the ashes which covered tlie blackened
island.

The death of young Henry Lysaught was undoubted,
and the assertions of those of Norah and Conroy, and the
squire, were received just as unquestionedly. Whiat life
couid pass through that gulf of fire and endure? Some
charred human remains were found amid the ashes and
ciuders, and a corotier’s inquest held with the result to be
expected—a verdict elaborately worded and eminently
ty ag to leave things much darker than they were

efore.

Of course Con Conroy's friends were not coming for-
ward Lo proclaim his escape, aud thoughit came out on
the investigation that Looney Lorton had been seen to fly
from the fire, the finding of that eccentric wanderer was
so difficult a problem as to be dismissed as soon as thougiit
of. Besides he was looked upon more as an idiot than a
dangerous person.

But this startling knowledge was also elicited: Henry
Lysaught was killed before the commencement of the fire
—-killed by a pistol shot.

Who was the murderer?

This question started conflicting stories afresh. Han-
sard had been seen at the village inn in communication
with the soldiers who formed the ambuscade, aud after-
ward his carriage was met flying from the direction of
the glen. Could it have been his hand that fired the fatal
shot?

Squire Lysaught had been observed in the town on that
same night in a sort of disguise, and his actions were so
remarkable and unusual as to lead to the opiuion that he
was watching and dogging the footsteps of Hansard. He
had been seen standing beueath the window of the room
in which the captain and his friends were with a cocked
pistol in his hands, and he departed in the same direction
which Hansard’s carriage afterward took—the road to
the glen in which the Sunken Chapel stood, stopping at a
cottage window on his Way to examine his arms.

All this Was very mysterious, for if his duty as a magis-
trate might have drawn him to the glen, why did he not
co-operate with the others going there on the same mis-
sion? What did all his curious movements mean? His
son was not then with him, but might have met hin after-
ward by appointment. But why should the squire, who
doted on hig son, shoot him? Why, except by mistake?
Might not father and son, goaded by the terrorism which
since the Highvale evictious was known to be exercised
by Hansard over the squire, have taken this advautageous
opportunity of loneliness and tumult to attack their per-
secutor, aud what more likely than a mistake in the dark-
ness? Looney Lorton, had he been free to visit the bounds
of civilization, would have indorsed this theory, and pro-
duced Johu Lysaught’s pistol in corroboration. Not from
any desire of freeing Hansard from suspicion, or casting
the stigma of chiid-murder on the memory of the squire,
but to defend the character of his friend Con Conroy,
whose outlawry hindered him from defending himself.

The name of the young refugee of the mountains need-
ed defense, for a large class, among whom were many of
his own friends and well-wishers, believed that the young
man was shot by Con while endeavoring to obstruct liis
flight, and these latier persons defended the act as one of
necessity and perfectly justifiable.

Of course there were many little things that staggered
each and all of these theories, as, for instance, the fact
that young Lysaugit, instead of being adverse to Conroy,
or banded with his father against Hansard, had volun-
teered out of friendship and goodness of heart to relieve
the fears of Norah Glenn's mother by escorting the girl to
the fatal trysting-place. Some even went so far as to sug-
gest that Henry Lysaught was in love with Norah himsell,
that the tryst was on his own account, and that the father,
who was known to be a proud, passionate man, had fired
the fatal shot ina moment of anger.

Hansard was very reticent. When called before the in-
vestigating jury, he seemed loth to speak atall. He had
accompanied his friend Captain Starbuckle, he said, in
order to see a night arrest in the mountaius. Curiosity
mainly had led him thither. He was attacked in the dark-
ness by two or three men who were running from the di-
rection of the officers and their party, as if Lo escape. One
of these men he took to be Con Conroy. They were armed,
for shots were fired at him, and he heard a cry and a fall.
Oue of the bullets touk effect in his arm, and, fearing for
his life, as he had no weapons, he fled.

Butif I have found it difficuit to describe the public
surmising and theorizing, how would it be possible to
portray the distraction of the bereaved family at Lysaught
House, or the more humble but not less heart-rending
grief of the poor parents of Norah Glenn and Conroy?

The Widow Gienn, at the first outcry of horror which
the recital of the catastrophe caused, had hastened from
the side of her dead child to Lysaught House to vent her
grief, and prayers, and denunciation with all the wild vig-
or of childless frenzy; but the scene of despair that met
her in the wealthy mansion subdued her anger and soft-
ened her heart, and the poor woman and’ the rich shed
their unavailing tears upon each other’s bosqm.

To be sure Conroy, when sufficiently recovered to listen
to reports from the world from which he was banished,
found means to send a secret message to his parents of
his escape from the flery death which he was supposed to
have suffered, but no such happy assurance came to the
heart-broken Widow Glenn, and it Was not many weeks
uutil the grave which held poor Aileen was opened to re-
ceive the wasted remains of her stricken mother, who
died raving about her lost Norah.

Miss Crofton had made her.appearance at Lysaught
House only to condole with her afflicted relatives and de-
part, for she could give them noray of hope for the es-
cape of the missing husband and father, aud feared that
she might be called upon by the authorities to testify as to
her Knowledge of the affair. This, she knew, would en-
danger not only the lives of Lorton and Conroy, but prob-
ably the liberty at least of Robert Alton, so she fled the
chance of such a result,

Tue wonder raised by the occurrence lived longer than
the proverbial nine days. In that distant quarter blood-
thrilling sensations were less frequent than in more. thick-
ly inhabited localities, but at lastit began to die away,
and things were settling down once more to the hum-
drum, work-a-day style, when surprise and interest were

 

 

 

again aroused by a rumor of an organized secret society
in the mountains, of which Con Conroy was head.

The wonder at the dead man thus coming back to life
was very great, and great doubt was expressed of the
truthfulness of the report, but at last the secret of Con-
roy’s escape, which had been Kept so long leaked out,
and the consequence was that the government reward for
his Capture was renewed with an additional one from tlhe
local authorities and the lady of Lysaught House for
his arrest as the murderer of Henry Lysaught!

The impetus thus given to the offering of head-money
caused another proclamation to be posted side by side
with the foregoing, holding forth brilliant inducements to
the itchers after government gold to give up their legiti-
mate pursuits and join the human hunt of disaffected
persous in general, but particularly of those persous who
had participated in the murderous assault on the officers
While in the execution oftheir duty at the Suuken Chapel.
Several names of recognized assailants were given, and
prominent among them stood those of Looney Lorton and
Robert Alton with personal descriptions of both.

This last proclamation caused even more comment than
Con Conroy’s for that had been expected as a matter-of-
course, but this was a surprise. The young artist had
gained many friends among the people since his arrival,
and the general hope was that he might succeed in get-
ting out of the country before the emissaries of the gov-
ernment laid their hands upon him,

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

 

The Right to Dramatize this Story is Reserved by the Author,

THE SCALP-TAKER.

A STORY OF THE TEXAS BORDER.
By Ned Buuntline.

{“The eee was commenced in No. 33. Back Nos. can
be obtained from any News Deaier in the United States. }

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.

‘Doctor, how soon can we get out of here? I’m sick of lying
still,’ said Reddy Hamilton, one day, a week after the rangers
had returned to San Antonio. —

“Yes,” said Natchez Bill; “it’s as bad as death to be kept
nae up here so long. What’sto hinder our moving around a

ittle?’

“Nothing, if you are pote enough,’ said the surgeon. ‘But
Men who bled so nearly todeath as you did, scarcely ever get
strength in this short time to move around,”

“Dm going to try it, and I’llsun myself on the plaza this after
noon,” said Reddy.

“And I’m with you, pard,” said Natchez Bill. “I want to get
into a game once more.”

“What’s the stir over there among the rangers at their head-

quarters?” asked Reddy, seeing a crowd ot people in front of
the Moodie House.

“Buckskin Sam goes out in lead of an independent party
this morning,’’ said the doctor. ‘‘He is very impatient, and,
while the others wait for their pay, he has got permission to go
ona scout with half-a-dozen of their best men, ahead of the
main party, which will follow his trail after their money
comes.

“Good! The coast will be clear for us!” said Reddy, in alow
tone, to Natchez Bill. ‘If he ever comes back, his girl will not
be here to welcome him. We'll see to that.”

The doctor heard the words, though they did not know it, and
his face flushed, for he had boarded long enough in the Moodie
House to know whom they meant, as well, also, as to feel a deep
interest 1n the welfare of Fanny Dean.

She possessed one of those sweet and winning natures, which
even apart from her great beauty was calculated to win respect
and admiration from all manly and generous hearts.

He deemed it a duty to breathe a word of warning to the lady
when he returned to the hotel, telling her that her two enemies
were now well enough to think of moving about and to plot her
further injury.

‘Thank you, doctor,” she said, with asmile, on receiving the
information. “I am ever on my guard. They will be smarter
than lthink they are,if they can ever enter this housé, Mr.
Gibson knows them, and Mr. Hall has put him on his guard. For
my own part, I teel fully equal to Gefending myself against any
attack, for I am never without arms, which I well know how to
use |”

“Do not be too fearless,» he answered. ‘“Unscrupulous men
employ a!l kinds of agencies, and hesitate at nothing wnich will
help them to their ends. I shall deem if a duty myself to keep
an eye on all their movements. I have been in no hurry to de-
clare them convalescent, but they begin to feel strong and im-
patient to get out, and I can no longer persuade them that it is
necessary for them to remain in bed.”

Miss Dean smiled, but her attention was now drawn to a sight
on the plaza.

“Buckskin Sam ard his new command!” she cried, with eyes
sparkling with pride.

“Yes, and a noble set of boys are with him,” said the doctor.
“There is Old Rocky, Reckless Joe, Waco Bill, Colorado Hunter,
Texas Bill,Sam Scott, and three more that I don’t know; but
this I am sure—ten better men never rode ou: of San Antonio!”

“IT am glad to hear you say so, doctor, for Sam 1s going to run
a terrible risk, He is going into the very heart ot the Indian
Nation to carry out his romantic idea of rescuing the daughter
of Post Oak Bill. I do not believe he ever can, and I fear he
will lose his life in the vain attempt.” -

“Ten men can go further thana hundred,” said the doctor.
“They cau more easily conceal their trail, more easily escape
trom superior numbers, and are enough, with their repeating
arms, to engage and defeat a hundred of the best warriors in
the Comanche tribe.”

“Tam glad you think so well of them, doctor; but tome it
seems like madness, though Sam’ has,already won a great name
by his daring and. his suceess.~ gers call him the Scalp-
Taker, and he has indeed taken a great many for one so new in
Indian warfare.” .

“Well, Lhope he will take a thousand more. The red pests are
the scourge of the Texan Border, and never will there be peace

    
  
  
    

on that ntil the last one is exterm: é

“Itisa el thought, but I have heard it eXpressed more than
once,” sa = Dean, with a shudder. :

Ww Know how merciless they are, how cruel to their
ome uld feel little pity for them,” saiu the doctor.
ern ives are spared may well envy those who are
slain, ver spare the old, only the fairest women, and

an ihe fate they meet.’’
Sam _ had halted before the house to
and she ran down to the door.
lie, earnestly, ‘‘be on your guard, night and day,
gone. Isaw those wretches, dy Hamilton and

Netchez Bill, on the street just now!”

“Do not tear for me—take good care of yourself!’’ she said, in a
cheerful tone.

A moment more and he was gone.

 

vba es
CHAPTER XL. .

Natchez Bill and Reddy Hamilton, each taki stimulating
draught before starting for the street, left ic as soon as
the surgeon was out of sight. at

“I believe that doctor has been keeping us ro weeks longer

than there was any need!’ said Hamilton, as h6é moved out on
his crutch. ;

“Yes, flve dollars a visit was too good togive upina hurry.
But ’m done with him now!”* said Natchez Bili, in a joyful tone.
“The next time he comes in Dil pay his bill and let him slide!”

“Ditto here!’ said Hamilton. “I am strong enough to go a
mile even on my first attempt. He has been keeping us in to in-
crease his bill.”

“Bet your life on that. But comeon, old boy; I want to get
one square look at that infernal little Yank before he gets out of
town. [ want him to know we’re out. He’ll not sleep any, the
easier for it while he is away!”

“Maybe he’ll not go at all if he sees us out!” said the other.

‘“‘He’ll not back out from the scout. If he did all the rangers
would go back on him!” at

The two gamblers hobbled out on their eratches while they
talked, and got a position on the plaza near where the rangers
were preparing for their start. ak

After all was ready, and Sam_ had parted from Captain Burle-
son, who gave him much sound auvice, the young ranger mount-
ed Black Cloud, and called to his friends to take saddle at once.

They were soon mounted, and ten finer-iooking men never
threw leg over a horse—that is, taking them for service. Your
true ranger don’t “get up’ on his looks always, in a dandified
point of view, but you can read action in every movement of his
lithe and muscular limbs, nerve in his eye, and such courage in
his face as never counts odds, or hesitates when brought face to
face with danger.

Sam rode along the line as his men mounted and formed on
the plaza, and his young face beamed with joyous pride to think
that so early in ranger-life he could go out in command of an in-
dependent scout.

“Think, boys, before you start, if anything has been forgotten!
pine powder, lead orcaps. Don’t forget anything now!” he
cried.

“Treckon two mule loads of ammunition outside of what we
bring ourselves will stand us through!” cried old Rocky. “There
comes little Sampson with the mules!’ E

He pointed to a diminutive darkey, perched on the back of a
large mule, with two others hitclied, one on either side to the
first, which two he belabored with a large blackjack, bringing
all three animals up on the left of the line in a sweeping trot.

“Allrignt then!’ said Sam. “By two Lo the right—march!”

The little column at once moved through the plaza, heading
toward the Moodie House, where Sam wished to show his com-
mand, and pause to say farewell to Fanny Dean and Charley
Gibson.

On the first corner Sam saw two men standing, whose faces,
dark with hate, were only too familiar to him, On crutches,
pale and thin trom long suffering, Natches Bill and Reddy Hamil-
ton stood there glowering like two gaunt wolves, while Sam
rode carelessly by them, scanning them closely in reality,
although he had hardiy seemed to notice them.

But he did, and saw, too, that their looks spoke a hate only in-
creased by what they had gone through; therefore he spoke a
word of caution to Fanny Dean when he parted with the heroic
girl at the door of the hotel.

After this the rangers rode off at a lope, for they were mounted
on the best stock that could be found. Every one but Sam had
a fresh horse, and he could never bave found oug half so good
at Black Cloud, the truest and best animal of them all.

After leaving town, Sam headed due west, intending to strike
the Wichita nearly where they had struck it before, and if noth-
ing happened to make it impussible or imprudent, to pierce at
once into the very heart of the Comanche nation.

He felt, almost intuitively, that Julia bad been recaptured, and
he knew, if such was the case, the place to find her, it alive, was
in the village of the Phantom Chief.

Sampson, the dwarfish darkey, liad to keep his whip going to
keep his mules up to the pace, but he was used to the work and
rather liked it, forhe kept up a perp:tual grin while he thrashed
away right and left.

No hait was made until near night, when Colorado Turner,
who was on the right flank and a little ahead, shot a noble young
buck, and as wood and water were both close at hand Sam deci-
ded to camp for the night.

They had made a clear forty miles, late as they started, and
were already up among the hills of Bandera.

They pitched their camp under some oaks on a small branch of
the San Antonio, building a large and cheerful camp-fire, for
they were yet far from the Indian range.

Sampson’s mules were carefully unloaded and their packs
placed under tarpaulins, where no fire could reach them, and all
the animals were picketed out in the ricly grass to graze till night
set in, when even there they would be brought close into the vi
cinity of tie camp.

The saddle of the buck had been brought in, and now every
man helped himself to what he wished t» cook, for there was no
ceremony between them—bvrothers all, starting on ascou. from
which none might return,

Every. one cut his own steak and tcasting-fork, and soon the
gavory smell of venison filled the air, while pots of coffec boiled,
and the store of hard biscuit was laid out serving at once for
plate and food.

Even little Sampson was seen right in the hottest place to lee-
ward of the fire roasting a cliunk of meat almost as large as his
own head, and singing droll little catches as the meat sizzled and
Snapped in the red heat.

“Kat, drink, and be merry!’’ cried old Rocky.’ “That’s what
Kit Carson always said when we had anything to be merry on.
This is a nice beginning for our scout—a good start and a boss
supper to end the first day!”

“Ay,’? said Waco Bill, in his slow, droll way. “I wish we could
be sure of the same luck all through, The horses are faring as
well as we are, up to their backs in grass nearly. They’ll miss it
though when we cross the desert.” .

“TI shall bear away to the north of that, and keep in reach of
grass and water,” saidSam. ‘Our horses must be kept in good
order, for by-and-by our lives may depend on their condition.’

“Youre right there, Sam,” said Reckless Joe. “I’ve seen the

 

need of good horseflesh under me more than once, and good as
our arms are, true as the men themselves, if our horses weren’t
right ’'d not make much of a bid for what hair we'd carry back.
Hallo! what’s the matter with you, Sampson ?”*

‘‘Ki—massa, I jess took my coffee bilin’! Dat’s what’s de mat-
ter, sah!’ spluttered the little darkey, who was dancing around
as if a hornet had jumped down his throat.

“Swallow a chunk of raw meat then and cook it!” cried old
Rocky. “It'll take the fire out.’

All hands ate heartily, then pipes were lighted and the watch
set, for night had now set in, and Sam tollowed the example of
his old captain, Burleson, to keep guard from the start.

Though there were no Indians to be dreaded yet, there were
white uwesperadoes, all through that part of Texas, that were
ready to cut a half dozen throats tor as many horses any time.

“Turn in early, boys, we start with the morning star!” cried
Sam, an hour later, setting tne example by settling down in hig
blanket tor a sleep.

CHAPTER XLI.

Tt took the Indians three days to reach the yillage of the
Phantom Chief, for Big Foot was wounded so badly that his
warriors had to travel slow and rest often, And in all this time
though he would not allow the others to abuse or threaten her,
the Phantom Chief never spoke one word to the White Lily,
who had hitherto been so dear to him,

But when at times she looked toward him, she saw that his
eyes were more than once fixed upon her, but she looked in vain
to see the kindly glances which had formerly hghted up his face
but which now spoke nothing but doom for her, and she almost
wished it were over. When the shattered band reached
the village, and the squaws of the slain warriors, chiefs
and braves heard ot their loss, then  terribie cries
for vengeance rung through the village, and had not the
Phantom Chief had Julia conveyed at once within his own lodge
she would have been sacrificed in spite of hiscommands to spare
her until he was able to stand before the torture-post to superin-
tend her sufferings. Bur

Every other white captive in the village was slain and scalped
in the madness of the hour—they could not wait untii the tribe
could gather for torture, so intense was their bilterness.

But Big Foot kept the “‘White Lily,” as he still termed her
when he spoke to others, close to his own person, and forbade
even a threatening word to be spoken from other lips than his

Wi.

“Tt is enough that I have said she should die when I am ready!”
was his answer when the angry multitude demanded her life.
“Big Foot is not dead yet, and Ais will is your law!”

They murmured, but they dared not tear her away from un-
der his eye and the poor girl had her future yet to dread. On the
day after they had returned to the village, when she saw how
harsh and unskillfully one of, his old squaws dressed his wounds,
Julia, without speaking, took the gourd of warm water from
her hand, and with a soft rag torn from her own dress, bathed
his wounds, and then bandaged them with care.

The old chief was touched by the unlooked for-kindness for he
had neither said or done anything to invite it, and when his
squaws looked angrily upon her interference, he said:

“Det her alone. Her hand is lightand there is healing in it.
The White Lily returns good for evil, But she must die. The
Phantom Chief, has spoken, and he cannot eat his words!”’

Julia bowed her head. She had not asked her life—she would
not. But she meant before the hour of torture came to beg him
to slay her outright and not to expose her to the insults and
abuse of the fiends who would rejoice at every pang she suffered,
and do all they could to add to her agonies. She continued
daily to dress wounds thus actually hastening the hour of her
own doom, for he had said she should die when he was able to
stand at the place of torture.

And he grew better, day after day, untilshe began to wonder
why he did not go out and show himself to his people, for she was
sure that he was abic to leave his lodge.

But sullen and gloomy, he remained in the lodge, now demand-
ing that she should dress wounds that were almost healed, again
ordering that his food should be cooked by her hand, yet never
by sign or token given her any hope that her fate was to be other
than he had Lhreatened.

But his wives, the other squaws whose husbands had beenslain,
and the chief men of the tribe, began to murmur again, and to
call for her torture. The old chief grew more and more gloomy,
but said he was not well enough yet. He would soon name the
day. .

Julia, hopeless and wretched, had grown thin and less beauti-
ful, but the old chief never seemed to weary of looking upon her;
and often when she woke from slumber she would find his eyes
fixed upon her with the old look, and she knew that it was agony
to him to see her wasting away, that it would be harder
still to see her die, but that he dared not break his word. It had
been given to his tribe, and no matter how he felt, it must be
kept. Her dread was the torture, not death—she had looked for
it so long, its coming would almost be relief.

One day—it was nearly or quite three weeks after she had been
brought back to the village—the chief sat on the side of his couch,’
eating food which she had cooked. He was unusually gloomy,
for again his head warriors had demanded that he should set a
a “ae sacrifice of the White Lily, and again he had put
them off.

Suddenly there were terrible cries heard outside, the war-yell
of the tribe, guns were fired and several squaws rushed in to say
that the rangers were coming in to attack the village.

Ina second the old chief forgot his wounds and his apathy.
Seizing his lance, and shouting for them to bring his horse, he
rushed out among the warriors in front of his lodge, ready as of
yore to battle to the last with his terrible enemies.

But he found none there when he mounted the war-horse ready
saddled for his use. The alarm had been a well concocted and
better executed ruse to get him out of his lodge and to induce
him to show his strength.

_ Angered almost beyond reason when he discovered this, amid
the clamors of braves and squaws that the White Lily should
now be led to torture, he rushed back into the lodge, where sne
sat alternating between hope and fear, believing the alarm and
attack to be real.

_The chiet strode in and spoke to her abruptly, and yet not un-
kindly in look or tone.

“Will the White Lily be my wife? The men and women of my
tribe have made a fool of me to learn how well I am, and now
they ask her life at the torture post. If the White Lily will
promise to be my wife, I can save her life. Now she is a captive
—then she would be one of my family, and they would not dare
to ask for her life?”

It was a terrible alternative for that poor girl, but not for an
instant did she hesitate, though the yells and shrieks of the in-
iuriated demons outside rung in her ears.

“The Phantom Chief is good to try to save me,” she replied;
“but [ will not be his wife; I will die, and go to my father in the
Happy Hunting Grounds above.”

The old chieftain trembled with excitement.
yet_again.

“The White Litty srait rr, boa wife in Tice

Banse. She hall
alone in her own lodge, and be like a daugliter to Big Foot,” he
said, in alow, earnesttone. “Think until another sun comes
up; for if she will not then be his wife, Big Foot must give her
up to torture.”

“The Phantom Chief need not wait till then.
and I will not eat my words.” .

“Yet I will wait, for the Dream Spirit may come and whisper
wise words in the ear if the White Lily. Big Foot cannot forget,
even when he is mad, that he owes two lives to the White Lily.”

Julia bowed her head, but made no reply. Then Big Foot went
out, and she heard him harangue his people. He told them
about the adventure with the big bear of the Wichita—who killed
it and saved his life. He told about her transfixing the rattle-
gnake when its fangs were lifted to strike him down, and he bade
them remember that even when she sought to regain her liberty
she had fought like a warrior rather than a girl. She was fit to
be a wife to their chief, the mother of araceof bravesthat would
do more daring deeds than their oldest men had ever heard of.
He would take her as his wife, and spare her, if she would be
spared. If not, when the sun of another day rose he would him-
self lead her out to the torture-post, and they should see her
agonies,

There were many who murmured even at this delay, but the
chief was yet powerful enough to have his own way, and at his
angry command the murmurers slunk away, and Julia’s fate
was delayed yet a few hours.

“You heard what Big Foot spoke ?”
entered the lodge.

“Yes,” said the brave girl; “but I will never be your wife. I
have said it in my heart, and the Great Spirit has written it
down.”’

The old chief sighed. Hecould dono more. He dared notgo
back on his word, either, given in the face of his tribe.

He pected to his pipe, and Julia filled it with kinnakinnick,
and placed a Jive coal on the bow! from the smoldering camp-
fire. When she handed it to him, he lifted it toward the sky in
reverence to the Great Spirit, aud then smoked on in silence
until it was empty.

Then he went and stood with bared head in the frant of his
lodge, gazing at the stars as they came out to view in the dark-
ening night.

Suddenly a warrior, plumed and painted, rode furiously into
camp, and halted before the lodge of the Phantom Chief. The
laiter recognized him, by his dress and paint, as from another
tribe.

“Where has my Ute brother come from, and why does he ride
so fast ?” asked the chief, while, impelled by some strange feel-
ing, Julia rose, and stood where she could see the stranger.

“f will smoke with the great chief, and then I will tell him,”
said the stranger, dismounting from his horse, which stood mo-
tionless, without being. fastened.

Big Foot turned and led the way into his lodge, handing the
pipe to Julia to tillagain. She uoticed all the time, though
busied, that the strange Indian kept his eyes riveted on her
form;.and there was a look of intelligence in lis eyes which con-
trasted strangely with the savage lines on his painted face.

When the pipe was filled the chief raised it, as before, to the
Great Spirit, then took a whiff and handed it to the stranger,

: CHAPTER XLII.

The Ute took the pipe and turned gravely to the north, east,
west and south, then drew along whiff and sent it curling up-
ward toward the sky.

Twice his back was turned on the chief, and his face toward
Julia, and euch lime she saw that look of friendly intelligence
which had first attracted her attention.

Passing the pipe back to the chief, the Ute now sat down on
the ground and said:

“Tam hungry. WhenI have eaten I will talk to the great chief
of the Comanche.”

The chief was about to call his wives in to cook for the stran-
ger, but Juiia got another glance from that strange eye, and she
said:

“Get me cook meat for the warrior."’

The chief bowed his head, and throwing wood on the fire to
liven it ap, Julia went and cut a large elk steak from a haunch
and soon laid it nicely broiled and salted before the siranger on
a wooden platter.

The Ute, as he received the meat, managed to slip a paper into
the girl’s hand and she knew now that something or somebody
Was inoving ‘or ler deliverance.

While the stranger ate almost voraciously, as if he had fasted
long, the girl torew several more sticks of wood on the fire,
Causing a Cheerial blaze, and then, asif impressed with the
thought that the chief wished to talk alone with his visitor she
withdrew : +. *..aner lodge, leaving a bare crack open through
which si .wight get light euough to read the paper.

Trer:viing with excitement she read these words, written in a
bold, legible hand: é

“TO THE DAUGHTER OF PosT-OAK BILL:—Help is near—the
bearer is one of my party, disguised. It you can get out of the
Indian village while he holds the Indians in talk, do it, and steer
eust, by the stars, till you meet us or seeafire. If you cannot
he willcome back to us and we will arrange some means for
your release, Show no excitement in the presence of the bearer
—he speaks Ute, Kiowa, and Comanche as well as the natives,
and they will never find him ont. I promised your dying father
to save you, and 1 will, or die in the attempt.

“BUCKSKIN SAM, the Scalp-Taker.”’

It took Julia several minutes to calm herself after reading this
message of hope. She read it again, and now she had assurance
that her dear father wasindeed dead. The writer had promised
to her dying father to save her or perish in the attempt, and he
would doit. And she felt intuitively Lnat the man who rode
Black Cloud, her father’s old war-horse, was the writer of this
brief note.

When she became calm enough totrust herself in the presence
of the stranger, Julia went in the outer lodge and heard the pre-
tended Ute tell Big Foot that the buffalo were very scarce over
on the old hunting grounds of his tribe, and that a tate hunting

rity of Utes had halted a day’s journey to the west, and sent

im on to ask permission of the Comanches to hunt on their
grounds,

“IT will call a councilof my chiefs and warriors,” said Big
Foot, ‘‘and if they are of my mind, or give ear to my counsels,
my Ute brothers shall bunt buffalo on our plains, where they are

renty.

“It is well. Iwill wait to hear what is said in council. * Wil
the great chief sell that white captive? I lost my squaw three
moons gone by, and have no one now to cook my meat.”

This question was asked carelessly by the stranger, with no
more than the usual interest one would show 1n anoffer ty buy
a horse or a gun,

The old chief sighed and said:

“The White Lily might have been the wife of Big Foot, but
she would not. To-morrow, when tne sun comes up, the torture-
sora be planted, and when the tribe gathers to see it she will

ie,
Tn spite of himself the Ute started and showed agitution. The

He would try

I have spoken,

he asked, when he re-

  

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3e=

 

 

ners came sudden, and the peril was near, But Big Foot did not
see this.

“She is handsome, and cooks meat well.’ I will give six horses
for her,” he said, gravely.

“My tribe would rather burn her than to receive a hunared
‘ood horses!’ said Big Foot. “She got away, and, when we fol-
owed her, we were met by the rangers and lost two hundred
warriors. If she will not be my wife, she must die!”

“The great chief knows what is best,” said the Ule, now com-
pletely self-possessed. ‘Will he call his council, so that I can
speak to them? I do not want to stay long here, for my people
wait an answer.”

“T will call them,” said the chief.

He rose, went to the front of the lodge, and uttered a shrill
gathering cry.

At that moment the stranger had a second alone in the preg-
ence of Julia. He improved it.

“While I am speaking to the council, spring on my horse and
ride off due east like the wind. You will find friends an hour's
ride away. Tell them to ride to the Black Gorge, and J will
meet them there. Not a word—J am safe—oBEy!”’

She could only reply by a look of thankful assent, as Big Foot
came back,

He had ordered a council fire lighted, and called his chiefs and
braves to come and hear the stranger’s talk.

“T will send your horse out where grass is plenty,’’ he said to

the Ute.

Let him stand where he is,’ said the Ute. “When the
sun was high and hot I rested, and he had plenty of feed. He
will not stir till I strike him with the rattlesnake whip that

hangs on my saddle-bow. Zhen he will run like a frightened an-_—

telope.” *

These last words had a significant meaning for Julia, and she
understood them well. Whenshe mounted the stranger’s horse
she would find the means to urge him to his wildest speed.

“We will not waste time in council,” continued the Ute, con-
veying a message to his own people in his words. ‘My people
will not sleep till they hear the result of my errand. They will
wait till they hear what the Comanches say.”

’ “Good! Come out, forthe councilfire is ablaze ied. Big
oot. ae

One encouraging friendly glance to Julia, and then the stran-

ger went out. geen

Julia looked around, and found a long, keen hu
which she had used in cutting meat. This she sl
girdle about her waist, murmuring as she did so:

“T will escape ordie! I will never be recaptured!’ os

Then she wrapped herself in a dark blanket, and went to
front opening of the lodge and looked out. No guards were t!
now—all the people were gathered about the great fire,
where the Ute stood, while the Phantom Ohief told Co-
manches who he was and what he had come for.

Julia saw the horse that stood near, and to her wonder she
recognized Black Cloud. Buckskin Sam had sent that animal
because he knewshe would recognize it, and believe the more
quickly in his messenger. Perhaps, too, he Lhongnt that Colora-
do Hunter, for he was the disguised Ute, might have a chance
to bring her off with him, and it was the strongest as well as the
fastest horse in the command,

Just when the stranger commenced to speak, drawing every
eye toward himself, Julia moved out, and laying her hand on
the withers of the dear old horse, whispered his name, as she
had done a thousand times before.

The horse recognized her touch and voice, and uttered a joyous
neigh of recognition. In a second the eyes of the Phantom Chief
were turned that way as well as those of a hundred more of
braves and squaws.

Julia saw her peril, and at a bound she was on the back of the
noble horse.

“Away—away for dear life!» she screamed; and the noble
horse bounded off at its wildest speed, while every Indian around
the council fire rushed forth to intercept the escape. _

They were all too late, for, with a wild cry of delight, Julia
dashed past them all and off into the depth of the night, out on
the free prairie, like a cloud betore the driving gale. Z

Big Foot, wild with anger, shouted for his horse and bade his
braves mount and follow as fast asthey could, and then he
turned to tell the Ute he should have another horse for the one
the captive girl had stolen. But the Ute was not there to receive
Big Foot’s apology or promise. He, too, had disappeared, and
no one had seen him go. a

Then the Phantom Chief began to understand the situation.
He had been deceived—the Ute was a spy from the white men
and he had come to rescue the girl. He had in some. way told
her what to do, and she had fied on his horse, while he had fol-
lowed on foot. Allseemed plain to him now. The rangerscould
not be far away, for their spy, without he left another horse near
by, must join them on foot.

The old chief began to think that caution was necessary, and
he bade all his warriors gather their arms, and a day’s provis-
ions, feed their best horses, and be ready to take the trail at day-
light. He would not rush out into ambush, as he feared he
might, in the darkness. '

Returning to liis lodge, he picked up the paper which had ad-
vised Julia how to act. He could not read it, aud every white
captive that could have doneso had been slain. Big Foot looked
it over and over, and then he tore the speaking paper into frag-
ments and crushed them under his feet, for he felt sure that by
this she had been told what to do.

Then he paced to and fro in angry impatience, till it was light
enough to see the trail of tie horse with iron shoes, which had
carried the WhiteLily beyond his power.

Then he mounted, with every brave that could bear arms, and
took the track.

It was easy to follow, for the horse was large and heavy, and
left a plain trail. But the girl had been gone many hours, and
was most likely now far away. The Phantom Chief cared not
for this; he vowed that he would not return until she was re-

captured. —
CHAPTER XLIII.

   

the

Little need had Julia to use the whip which hung at the gad-

dle bow, for Black Cloud knew the cry which he had heard many
a time before, and he almost flew over the ground as she
shouted:

“On, good old horse, on for freedom once more.”

Nobly he responded to her call, and betore an hour had pass-
ed, riding as nearly east as she could by the stars, she saw.a smail
fire almost ahead, which was put out as she came near, while a
we loud voice cried out:

“Halt! Who comes there ?’’

Black Cloud had heard such a challenge too often not to know
it, om he stopped without atouch ofthe rein, whileshe an-
swered:

“Tt you are friends to Post Oak Bill his child is here!”

“That's just what we are—ride right in, miss,” answered the
same voice.

And in a minute more Julia was surrounded by the rangers,
each anxious to grasp her little hand, and to give her joy at her
escape.

“Where did you leave Colorado Hunter ?”? asked Old Rocky,
whom sne nad recognized even ia thc din ctarlight.

“If you mean the :2an so welt
me he would be safe. I
and tell you all to meet him at the Black Gorge!”

“He thinks we’ll be followed in force. and he has chosen the
best fighting spot this side of the Big Rockies!” said Texas Bill.
“T know it well. Ben McCullough and me got corvaled there
once, and we two held our own ail day till the boys trailed the
reds that had us hemmed in, and took ’em in the rear. Nary red
got away that time.

“Can you lead the way there now ?” asked Buckskin Sam.

“Bet your head on it and win every time!” suid the ranger.

“Then you go ahead, for most likely the Comanches will follow
her up as fast as they can!” :

“Yes,” said Julia. “They will be terribly disappointed, for
they were to burn me at sunrise. They have killed and scalped
every other white captive inthe village. I would have been

me to say I would be his wife, But I chose rather to die!”

sacrificed before, but the Phantom Chief has been hoping to get

‘You've got your father’s grit, gal!” said Sam Scott. “I knew
him well when I drove the overland, and a better man never
lifted hair!” j

“That’s so!’? said Waco Bill.

“Is my father really dead ?” asked Julia, as the men mounted,
Sam taking the horse left by Colorado Hunter.

“Yes, miss!’ said Sam. “He died in my arms, and Iam now
keeping the promise I made to him before he died, to rescue you
ao the murder of your mother and the rest of the

amily v

“It was you whom Isaw on Black Cloud three or four weeks
ago, was it not ?”

“Yes, Texas Bill and I saw you, but the reds cut us off when we
het to getto you, andall we did that day was to save- our
hair!

“You forget, pard, how many we wiped out in that race for
life!’ said Bill, reproachfully,

“I don’t torget that, Bill, nor that we hadn’t a chance to take
their scalps!’ said Sam, “I only brag of killing when I cau show
hair to prove it.”

The party now rode on, bearing off south-west, riding rapidly,
Just before daylight they halted in the mouth of a dark and
narrow pass, so deep and gloomy that Sam decided to wait for
daylight before entering it.

They had not long to wait, merely his mounting to let their
horses breathe, and in a few minutes the gray of dawn enabled
them to see how things looked. $

Julia smiled, for she recognized the spotin aninstant. It wag
here she had come with Big Foot onthe bear hunt, here where
she had slain the Big Bear of the Wichita.

“There is a splendid cavern to camp in half way to the head of
the ravine, and plenty of water and wood, with good grass tor
the horses,” she said, as soon as she r nized the gorge,

“She is right there,” said Texas Bill. “‘Hereit is narrow, but
ahnndred yards further in we'll have to take the bed of the
stream and go in single file, itis sovery narrow. There is where
old Ben and me stood and fought the reds all day.”

“Why, didn’t they come in behind you?” asked Reckless Joe.

“When you get in there and look up them up-and-down-dicular
cliffs two thousand feet high, more or less, I reckon you'll won-
der where to get ladders for the climb,” said Bill, quietly. “And
redskins don’t like to drop where they can’t climb,”

“Colorado Hunter is pot here yet. How far had he to come ?’*
oq Sam, speaking to Julia, who knew the distance to the vil-

age.

‘A half-day’s good ride on an Indian horse.” ;

“Then if he is not hurt or captured, he will be here soon. Ahf
there he comes.”

True enough—with his Indian toggery still on, Hunter was now
seen coming in, and he soon arrived pretty well tired down.

“It is well Ll picked out this place fora halt,” he said, as soon
as he could breathe, after taking a draught of water. “All that
is left of Big Foot’s band, with the old heathen himself at their
head, took the trail of Black Cloud—I’ve watched near them half
the night to see what they’d do, andI tried to geta horse, but
they were too rascally smart, and I had to leg it my level best to
get here. I know they’.| file in on us here, and I sent you where
you could clean ’em out and not lose a man.”

“There never was a lovelier spot for a fight,’ cried Sam, in
enthusiasm. ‘How soon do — think they’ll be here ?”?

“By noon, sure, and you'll have plenty of time to kill some
meat and rig your camp inside of the canon, for two can watch
and guard the gateway to the gorge.” :

Sain now rode in, accompanied by. all the party except Waco
Billand one other man left on guard, and soon Julia showed
them the bones of the bears she kad killed, and of Big Foot’s
horse, all picked clean by wolves, coyotes and ravens. She also
pointed out the cavern where they had camped, and the ashes of
the fire where they had cooked their bear-meat.

As very little, if any, game could be found in the ravine, Sam
sent Texas Bill, Reckless Joe and Sam Scott out to Knock over a
buffalo or elk, so that it the Indians tried a siege, rather than a
fight, his party would not suffer from man’s worst enemy, hun-

ger.

The huntersgsoon found game, and in a little while a full week's
provision, toeven improvident men of their number, hung on
branches near the camp.

While the hunters were gone and Julia lay resting near where
Black Cloud fed, fam carefully explored the gorge to satisfy him-
self that it was unapproachable trom the rear, for like a true
commander he wished to feel secure from surprise.

As Colorade Hunter, now in his regular. roupet garb, had pre-
dicted. the sun was at meridian when the Indians were seen
cumming en masse on the trail.

Sam and lis men had long before thisso blocked the mouth of
the ravine with a breastwork of loose rocks, that it was impos-
sible for the enemy to charge in beyond. That, however, wasa
hundred yards back, at the short turn before spoken of, and
could not be seen uutilthose who approached were close up
to it,

Ths Phantom Chief seemed wild with anger when he saw
how secure a place of defense his enemies had found. Of course
he believed that the ‘White Lily” had led them there, and he de-
termined, even at a heavy loss, to at once charge and “wipe
them out,” so that he could wreak his vengeance on her.

Halting only long enough to breathe his horse and tell his war-
riors what to do, the Phantom Chief made ready tor the assaulé.

Sam had everyman so posted up and down the cliff, that
Wilhout being exposed, they could see the Indians as they came
up, and make every shot tell; and almost forcing Julia back
the brave gir! wanted to sce and share in the battle, he too
own post in the center, right behind the breastwork, with
less Joe by his side.

They had not more than got well posted before the battle yell
of old Big Foot was heard, and ten picked braves were sent-in
oo, mounted ou the best horses, while the main body followed
on foot,

“Let ’em get in close before you fire, and I’ll noose yu" 10 ex-
tra hosre 1” cried Colorado Hunter, who could throw a lasso “to

kill.
ae right. Save your fire, men, till my rife speaks,’ said

*

3

 

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sguised as an indian, he ee
Must take thehorse and ride to oe

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<=—aist THE NEW YORK WEEKL

 

 

 

On came the ten picked braves, their horses lashed into the
wildest speed, while the Indians, as they entered the gorge,
dropped till they lay level along the backs of the animals.
When almost upto the barrier, every Indian half rose and
drew an arrow tothe head on his bow

Sam heard the whiz of Hunter’s lariat over his head, and at
the same second sent a bullet through the head of the nearest
brave, while the other rangers, picking their men, sent death to
eight out of the ten who formed this forlorn hope.

The other two turned to ride back, but their hour had come;
for Sam covered one and Reckless Joe the other, and both went
down, while the air rung with the terrible yeils of the red fiends
whe tollowed on feot.

“Quick, Sam andJoe! Help me to get that horse over the bar-
rier! cried Hunter, for he had noosed anoble animal, one
which Julia knew well—it was the best racer and hunter in the
village. ‘

The three men had but an instant for the work, but rolling a
huge rock aside, they opened a passage and got the horse in—
nota moment toosoon, for the mouth of the gorge was now
filled with the yelling enemy.

‘Let ’em have it, men, as soon as they come in range!” said
Sam. “They are too many to play withor lose any time on.
Let’s make *em sick on the start!”

The click of cocking rifles was his answer, and in a few seconds
from the upper stations, where Sam Scott and Waco Bill were
— rung out the sharp crack which told that work was

zun

Then, as the Indians, in a wild mass, rushed on, the sharp
crack of the revolving rifles rolled into a continued roar, and
though the red fiends yet struggled on, many a high leap in the
airt of the death-shot.

On—on they struggled, till they were at the very face of the
barrier, and there, where they coulé not pass, where their foes
‘were hidden, a perfect shower of bullets from large revolving
pistols mowed them down in a heap,

it was more than even Indian stubbornness could stand. ll
who could, turned and fled, carrying back Big Foot with them,
an spite of his efforts to stay, for yet unwounded, he raged like a
madman and sought to reach his foes.

But drawn back out of rifie-range, astonished at his terrible
foss, Big Foot began to think more considerately of the little
force that he had expected to overwhelm by mere weight of
mumbers. If he could not kill them off, he could starve them
out. He knew that no game was likely to be in the ravine, ex-
cept, perhaps, a bear or two, since he and the White Lily had
killed those that had made it theirrange. He knew, too, that
there was but one route of ingress or egress, and that their horses
would not be long in eating away what forage could be found in
such narrow limits,

[To BE CONTINUED. |

 

 

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per annum to all, Particulars free. GIRARD

WIRE MILLS, Philadelphia, Pa.

 

A Cure Guaranteed.
State your case, and send with
25 cents to Dr. VAN DYKE, 1321
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Adddress
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sent free.

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{ I CURED without the knife
or pain, by
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345 Lexington Ay., N.Y.
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{EVEN AWAY! a handsome Chromo, a Plated Watch
MW Chain, Set of Studs, Ring, Collar Button and Set of Cuff
Buttons tor fifty (50) cents. Address
n J. T. ROGERS, Box 5745, N. Y.

4

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YT Abandsome and mysterious Pocket-book,
@ stamp. SOMMER M’F’G CO., Newark,N. J.

 FOWLE’S

PILE AND HUMOR CURE

The greatest and only Medicine ever discovered (and warranted)
Sor the perfect cure for au the worst forms of PILES, LEPROSY,
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cases of failure. H. D. FOWLE, Chemist, Boston. Sold every-
where, $labottle. Send for Circulars. w39-4eow

*ENOW THYSELF.’
That great educator, profound thinker, and vigorous writer,
Herbert Spencer, has wisely said: ‘‘As vigorous health and its
accompanying high spirits are larger elements of happiness than
any other things whatever, the teaching how to maintain them,
is a teaching that yields tono other whatever.” This is sound
sentiment, and one great want of the present age is the popular
ization of Physiological, Hygeniec and Medical science. No sub-

ject is more practical, none comes nearer home to every man
and woman than this. ‘‘The Peopie’s Common Sense Medical
Adviser, In Plain English, or Medicine Simplified,” by R. V.
Pierce, M. D., is a book weil calculated to supply a manifest want,
and wil) prove eminently useful to the masses. It contains about
mine hundred pages, is illustrated with about two hundred wood-
cuts and fine colored plates, is printed en good paper, and well
bound. Itis a complete compendium of anatomical, physiologi
wal, hygenic and medical science, and embodies the latest dis-
@moveries and improvements in each department. It has been the
muthor’s aim to make the work instructive to the masses, and
Thence the use of technical terms has been, as far as possible,
mvoided, and every subject brought within the easy comprehen
#ion of all. Anelevated moral tone pervades the entire book.
While it freely discusses, in a scientific manner, the origin, re
production and development of man, it does not cater to de-
»raved tastes, perverted passions or idle curiosity, but treats in
a@ chaste and thorough manner, all those delicate physiological
Subjects, a proper Knowledge of which acquaints us’ with the
mneans for preserving health, and furnishes incentives to a higher
zand nobler life, The author, who isalso the publisher of his work,
anticipating a very large sale for it, has issued twenty thousand
aopies for the first edition, and is thus enabled to offer it (post-
paid) at one dollar and fifty cents per copy—a price less than the
actual cost of so large a book, if published in only ordinary-sized
editions. The large number of subscribers received for it in ad-
wance of its publication, has very nearly exhausted the first
dition almost as soon as out, and those desiring a copy of it will
@o well to address:the author, at Buftalo, N. ¥., without delay.

free for
41-2

 

XN LASS CARDS, 12 for 18 cts; Repp. &c., 12 for 15 cts.
ot stamp for specimen, B. E. STRONG, Gerry, N, Y.

EE BRISTOL CAEDS, 5 tints, with name, 25 cts., or
oF 2 Blank Scroll Cards of Birds, 6 designs, 10 cts, Outfit
40 cts. Pogt-paid, by J, B, HUSTED, Nagsan, N. Y.

 

A GRAND OPPORTUNITY FOR

Prudent Persons of Moderate Means,
TO

Profit by the Millions of Capital

Now being Expended at the
N ‘ *tu
Famous Garden City
BY
Mr, A. T. STEWART, the Merchant Millionaire.

Necessity is said to be the Mother of Invention, and the
great and growing necessity that has caused thousands to
seek homes in the suburbs, away from the overcrowded tene-
ments and unhealthy apartments which they occupied in the
city, led us to adopt the plan of monthly payments, as a means to
induce the multitude to seek the pure and health-given atmos-
phere of the immediate suburbs. We were the first to offer the
facilities, and the thousands wno have patronized us can attest
the value of our plan, and its benefit to themselves.

While we are still largely engaged in the sale of finely-improved
property, at higher prices, nearer this city, we have decided, af-
ter much consideration, to offer the splendid property at

GARDEN Crry PARK
Those who Desire io Speculate,

AND TO THOSE

WHO DESIRE CHEAP HOMES,

AT THE VERY

small Outlay, $10 a Month

FOR EACH LOT PURCHASED.

—_

Having noticed the eagerness with which the thoughtless
and inexperienced buy at random uader the excitements of
auctions, and the foolish manner in which many are duped by
designing men, who offer lots which are inthe wilderness (and
might as well bein the moon so far as utility and value are
concerned) for ridiculous prices, which should warn instead of
alluring persons of medium sense. We take pleasure in pre-
senting our new plan, and calling attention to its features.
We do not deem it necessary to enter into a history of Mr.
Stewart’s laudable and gigantic enterprise, as the press has exten-
sively commented upon it. We assume that with his acknowl-
edged business tact, sagacity and capital, he has projected a
feasible, systematic undertaking which cannot fail. Already he
has added to his original purchases, at very large advances upon
first prices. Land near his improvements has increased several
hundreds per cent., and as his plans are developed the rise will
continue, until land contiguous will be increased almost incred-
ibly. We submit tharif any class of the community deserves to
be benefitted by that immense outlay, it is the industrious and
prudent, who manage tosave something of their small income.
We have placed the prices of our Garden City Park upon a basis
of fair value for to-day, and we propose to receive $10 per month
from purchasers, 80 that they can buy one or more lots, accord-
ing to their means. The land is excellent, and has been under
cultivation, and Is located in a well settled community.

As Mr. Stewart’s operations progress this property will be large-
ly benefitted by them. Very many persons engaged during: the
day in New York City, reside at a greater distance; and to those
who have work at home, this location being very healthful, pre-
sents an opportunity whereby they can live comfortably in a cozy
home at a small cost.

SECOND DISTRIBUTION
OF
TEN DWELLINCS »

AMONG THE

LOT OWNERS,

ON OCTOBER 30th, 1875.

NO EXTRA. CHARGE
BUT ALL
FREE GIFTS TO OUR PATRONS.

On last Christmas Eve we distributed among those who pur-
chased lots last season, ten newly built dwellings; (the fortunate
possessors of which are named below and to whom we with plea-
sure refer), and to still turther advance the interests of GARDEN
CITY PARK, we are now erecting ten more two story dwellings,
each containing five comfortable rooms, neatly finished inside
and well palnted outside, which, together with the lots they stand
on, designated on the Map as follows: Lots Nos. 96, 195, 226, 306,
358, 398, 597, 642, 712, 884, are to be given as

PRESENTS TO PURCHASERS

who buy between May 10th to October 30th, 1875, and shall have
paid one quarter of the amount of their purchase money pre-
vious to that date. Thus each purchaser will have an equal
chance with the others to receive a warranty deed for a house
and lot, and also will receive a warranty deed for the Jot orlots
he or she may have purchased as expressed in the contract issued
at time of purchasing. By this plan each of our patrons receives
full value for theirinvestment, and if they are awarded a House
and Lot in addition to what they pay for and receive, so much
the better for themselves. Each person selects one or more
lots as they may desire, and for each lot purcliased, achance will
be had in the distribution. There will be

NO POSTPONEMENT
under any circumstances, but the plan will be carried out as stated
above. To those who have never dealt with us and are therefore
not familiar with our mode of doing hustress, we Biye tue TOLOW
ing ropertof <

DISTRIBUTION OF DECEMBER 24, 1874.
(From N. ¥. News of Dec. 29th.)

The Christmas Presents and who Got them.

The great distribution 8f dwelling-houses took place on Christ-
mas Eve, according to previous announcement, at Real Estate
Hall, 355 Third Avenue, with the followiug resnits, viz:

E. H. Rowland, No. 96 Clermont Avenue, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No, 2,505,
la W. aa No. 29 Henry Street, N. Y¥., drew house and lot
No. 2,259.

James McAnespie, No. 158 West Fifty-third Street, N. Y., drew
house ond lot No. 2,350.

H. H. Heinrich, No. 8 John Street, N. Y., drew house and lot
No. 2,197.

Miss M. Sheridan, No. 496 First Avenue, N. Y,, drew house and
lot No, 2,238.

James M. Putnam, No. 61 Carondelet Street, New Orleans, drew
house and lot No. 2,113.

Miss M. Maloney, No. 68 Remson Street, Brooklyn, drew house
and lot No. 2,178,

Joseph Lawson, No. 140 West One Hundred and Twenty fourth
Street, N. Y., drew house and lot No. 2,417.

F. We Cobb, No. 182 High Street, Brooklyn, drew house and lot
No. 2,066.

R. S. Seabery, No, 48 East Fourteenth Street, N. Y., drew house
and lot No. 2,006.

PRICES OF THE LOTS.

Cyry TPOMLON A VONGO. ce fon oc. n ce cocacndsinenl $120 each $10 Monthly.
Cr WATS VOR os nich is dine siccee> ones LAR is ss 10

Orr Cemtr ei Rvenae ee. oe inne ccc ccp-cnee Ea 95 10 ie

On First Street and First Place........... te ede! 10 .

On Second Street.... W830. *>y; 10 “|

ar TIME BAT Behs «5. i ppavidails ohh ssmicdincacd ‘yee 10

Wik SF ORIE GED BAERODS. «0/4 bel i pihiewin wlsidia cial oli 5i36 100 4, 10

APIS BTECT BEROBS, . 0. 20-0 nonsense conn cmne vit mn 10 2

On Sixth Street ¢s 10

Ol Peventh Bureeks wis. a ea oe 10

Pilots at Special Terms. ALL CORNER LOTS
ARE FIF Y DOLLARS EXTRA,
On Jericho Boulevard........... ennhaeboad $250 each $10 Monthly
On Broadway........-.+- oS acmmescenene sans 300. ,, 10 on
On Dennis Street........... St shes hae tae 200 =, 10 ted
On Railroad Avenue..........--.eeeeeeees 200 =~, 10 «,
On Denton Avenue, and First, Second,
Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth and? 160 ,,
Seventh Avenues,
Ten Per Cent, Discount when all is paid at
of Purchase.
Send Stamp for Map and full Particulars,
SPECIAL NOTICE.
Garden City Park Lots are conveyed in every instance by full
covenant warranty deeds (free of all incumbrances) by the under
signed, who owns the property remaining unsold.

BENJ. W. HITCHCOCK,

MUSIC PUBLISHER,

STORE, 355 THIRD AVENUE, NEW YORK, COR. TWENTY
w32-9t SIXTH STREET.

”

10 9

time

 

Scovill’s Blood and Liver Syrup.—Scrofula,
Rheumatism, Pimples, Gout, and Kidney Disorders, and al! dis-
tempers which affect the external portions of the body indicate
an unclean condition of the venous fluid. SCOVILL’s BLOOD AND
LIVER SYRUP may be relied upon as a swift and certain remedy.
The concentrated extracts of Sarsap arilla, Stillingia, and other
invaluable antiseptic and alterative plantsand herbs form the
basis of this powerful remedy. Price $1 per bottle.

Edey's Carbolic Troches,—Among the various
remedies for coughsynone enjoy a higher reputation than EDEY’s
CARBOLIC TROCHES. This fact places them above the ordinary
list ot medicinal preparations. For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, and
as a disinfectant and preryentive against eontagious diseases they
are aspecific. Invaluable to Singers and public speakers, Sold
everywhere, Price 25 cents per box.

The Great American Consumption Remedy.
Dr. WM. HALL’S BALSAM FOR THE LUNGS cures the worst cases
of Couglis, Colds, and all the diseases of the Lungs, Throat and
Chest. For Whooping Cough and Croup it is a certain specific
The most obstinate cases surely yield to Hall’s Balsam, when
used perseveringly. Stauds at the head of all cough preparations.
Sold everywhere. Price $1 per bottle.

Dr. Mott’s Liver Pills,—it is easy enough to
make apill, butto make a good pill, ah! that’s the difficulty
There are cheap, harsh, drastic pills, that are of even less yalue
than a dose of salts. But a good medicine, like DR. MorT’s LivER
PILLS, which penetrates to the seat of disease, is a desideratum
indeed, Will positively cure all diseases of the liver. Sold every-
where, Price 25 cents per box.

About Bitters,—At certain periods of life a tonic
Ig a necessity; but there is danger in using stimulants that injure
the organs of digestion while giving temporary relief. To obviate
this ana present to the public a tonic free from Alcoholic poison,
Dr. GREENE prepared the OXYGENATED BITTERS, asure cure for
Dyspepsia and all kindred complaints. Sold everywhere. Price
$1 per bottle. —

Henry’s Carbolic Salve.—This article is so well
known that it is only necessary to caution the public against
imitations. Remember that it requires a particular proportion
and a careful admixture of the carbolic acid with other ingre
dients to produce a salve that may be relied upon. The genuine
only guaranteed. See that it bears the fac-simile signature and
private proprietary stamp of John F. Henry. Sold everywhere.
Price 25 cents per box,

Townsley’s Toothache Anodyne.—A sure cure,
33-39t

TRY

THE OLDEST CARD HGUSE IN
AMERICA.

50 Bristol Cards, assorted Tints, with your name neatiy printed ;

sent for 25 cents. 50 Snowflake or Marble Cards, 50 cents. Agents
ror JOHN L, FRENCH, 391 Main street, Brockton, Mass,

ONLY $10 MONTHLY, |

 

: é
43-4-eow.

CHALLEN’S DIME | Post-paid on receipt of 10c.
Arabian Nights. | H. CHALLEN, Publisher, Phila.
4 E FAMILY PHYSICIAN and HOUSEHOLD

FRIEND. A valuable book of information and choice
Receipts. Just what Father, Mother, Sister and Brother shoula
read. Send 25cents for this cheap book. HOME PUBLISHING
CoMPANY, Broadway & Union Square, New York. 43-4,

LL PERSONS AFFLICTED with Ingrowing Nails should
Zz send 20 cts. to A. REED, Brockton, Mass., for the OLD
INDIAN REMEDY that cures without pain

OUR NAME primted on 12‘ RANSPARENT VISITING CARDS

in splended Style, and sent for 25cents. Each card con-

tains a scene which is not visible until held toward the light.

Nothing like them ever before offered in America. Big Induce-

ments to agents. Address Novelty Printing Co., AAP a, ee
3-4,

A DAY guaranteed using our Well Auger
& Drilis. $100 a month paid to good agents.
Auger Book free

JILZ AUGER CO., 8t. Louis, Mo.

 

JANTED, AGEN'I'S, to sell my Patent to make
APPLE BUTTER, without apples or cider. It costs only
six cents per quart, and can be made in thirty minutes. Family
right sent to agents free, for 10 cents.
G. W. GEHR,

Address
43-4, Shermansdale, Pa.

~ HOW TO MAKE MONEY!

Read the Home Journal of Health, June or July numbers. Send
10 cts. for specimen copy, to HOME PUBLISHING Co,, Broadway &

 

 

Union Square, N.Y. 43-4

 

6) ™& CENTS i PACK OF MAGIC TRICK CARDS for Per-
forming Wonderful Tricks.

THE MATRIMONIAL PROGRAMME, with

tures, 1 PACK TRANSPARENT Visiting Cards.

THE MAGIC BIRD, for Imitating Birds, Beasts, &c.

14 Tableau Pic-
Lots of

Fun.

THE VANISHING CARTE DE VISITE, and Prof. HELLER’S
CELEBRATED TRICK CARDS. All the above Six Articles Sent
Free on receipt of only 25 CTS. Address ;

MAJOR & CO.,
305 BROADWAY, P. VU. BOX 4217, New York.

SENT FREE! Our new Iilustrated Catalogue of Novelties
KS and Wonders. NewaRK NOVELTY Co., Newark, N. J.

 

 

 

 

Pleasant Paragraphs.

Enid.

A bootblack possessing a literary turn of mind is a rare
character to meet, but we are acquainted with one of that
sort. Though not of a refined nature, he is a literary cor-
morant, and devours everything in the shape of mental
pabulum which falisin his way. We asked him the other
day if he had ever read any of Tennyson’s productions,
He replied in the negative, but expressed a desire to do
80, Whereupon we presented him with a copy of Tenny-
son’s “Enid,” and requested him to read it carefully and
give us his opinion of it. Some few days subsequently
he came to us, and, witha look of triumph gleaming in
his eyes, said: ‘‘Mister, I’ve read that ’ere book you gave
me, and I don’t think much of it. Tennyson’s a snoozer!
He don’t know how totella story! I cando it better my-
self! After 1 had read ‘Enid’ through, I took and went to
work and rit itasI think it ought to have beenrit. And
here itis, and if you wantit you can publish it!” Ashe
spoke, he handed us aroll of dirty MS.and departed.
Here is what he left with us, but we are certain that only
those who have read the poet laureate’s work will appre-
ciate the bootblack’s ‘“Euid:”

Wunst upon a time there was a bully buffer name Jerry
Halt, who struck out from the shoulder orful, and was al-
ways a-lickin’ somebody. He had a wife named Enid
that he was very 8weet onto. Heloved her harder’na
horse could kick, and he got so spooney onto her at last
that he did northin’ but hang around her and lallygag.
Well, Enid she loved him all to pieces, too, but she didn’t
like to see him gettin’ off of his muscle, because it sot all
the other buffers to fifin’ about him and sayin’ that he
was played out. This kind o’ chin-music made Enid orful
sick, and she went around lookin’ like a stale codfish
with the corners of his mouth drawed down.

Jerry Halt didn’t know what wus the matter with his
sweety, but he thought she was a-goin’ back onto him
in favor of some other feller, so he made up his mind to
lick every buffer he could come across, and he made Enid
go with him, but told her that he didn’t want any slack
out of her, and that she must keep her fly-trap shut. This
was rough onto Enid. One day she heard a whole lot of
buffers puttin’ up a lob on Jerry Halt, so she thought
she’d orter put him onto his guard, and she went and
told him that there was alot of galloots around the cor-
ner who was a-goin’ to take and double-bank him.

Well, you'd jist orter seen Jerry Halt get away with that
crowd. He laid one of ’em out witha sockdolager in the
snoot; he sent another to grass with @ Smack on the tater-
trap, and he leveled another with a rattler on the listener.
Then he took and went through ’em, and got everything
they had about ’em, and made Enid carry the swag.

Well, Jerry went around on his muscle this way all
over the country, tillone day a fellerlaid him out coid
with a slung-shot. Enid thought he had ereaked, aud
had him carried to a house; but he was only a-playin’
possum, So after they got inter the house, there was a
loafer there that began to talk sweet to Enid, but she
told him that he needn’t waste any flattery onto her, for
she didn’t love anybody but Jerry. So wher she told him
that, the big sucker drawed off and give her a punch fu
the bugle. But he had no sooner did it than Jerry Halt
jumped to his feet and went forhim. He didn’t strike
him but once, but'that was enough. Hejist knocked the
stuffin’ out of him, and he never come Lo time agin after-
ward,

Havin! fixed off the loafer, Jerry Halt went for Enid.
He caught her into his arms, glued his lips to. hers, and
give her a kiss that sounded like the rap of an old brogue
agin a barn door, and said~he’d never go back onto her
aby more, and, he didn’t, and that’s all.

BILLY THE BOOTBLACK.
A Question.
If a man who writes with versatility,
And changes his style with quick facility,
Can he, by any rule of propriety,
Be called a Turn-Stile in society ?
Two Chances.

It is refreshing to get a story like this at this season of sport.
We have it from one who is ‘‘doing”’ a few weeks among the
Catskills, and tells it anent a friend of his up there: “Tom Som-
ers has been here several years, and has won a pretty good repu-
tation asasportsman. He hasafinerifie, which is an object of
universal admiration, and he puts.on airs enough to make the
rustics believe that old Nimrod himself could not surpass him.
The other day he went down the hill a piece, to a pond usually
abounding with game, and, to his great mortification, after
spending the entire day, shot nothing. His game-bag was empty
as his stomaeh when he returned. He stopped to speak to old
Jo Chessman, at the cross mountain roads, who sat airing him-
self, in his shirt-sleeves. Old Jo was a firm believer in Tom’s
prowess. ‘Mighty smart fellow, he said. ‘Killed anything,
squire ?’ he asked, as Tom came along. ‘No,’ was the reply, ‘not
ahooter. By the way, Chess, what will you let me fire among
that flock of ducks for?’ ‘Shan’t doit,’ said the old man; ‘you
shouldn’t kill the pretty dears for anything.’ ‘Well, well,’ replied
fom, indifferently; ‘just take care of that gun afew minutes,
will you? and he strolled down to take a nearer view of the
ducks. As soon as Tom was out of the way, the old man, with
much adroitness, extracted the shot from Tom’s gun, ‘and re-
placed the weapon in the corner, As Tom came back, the old
man, with a graye face, said: ‘Wal, squire, I don’t know what
sort of a shot you be, but say, now, what’ll you give me to let you
fire among my ducks’ Idon’t like to have you, either, but you
seem to feel bad ’cause you haven’t any game. Now, what do
you say ? ‘I’ll give you a dollar,’ replied Tom, promptly. ‘Done,
then,’ said the old man, as he fobbed the money, chuckling to
think how nicely he had taken in Tom. Tom took a good look,
and blazed away, bringing down nine of the flock. The old man
tore his hair. ‘How’n thunder is this? saidhe. ‘I drawed the
shot out of yer gun.’ ‘I knew you would,’ replied Tom, ‘and so
I went double-charged.’ It is but justice to Tom tosay that he
paid Chessman a, fair price for the ducks, and the old man now
swears by Tom.”

Energy.

Old Dr. H., of ‘The Hub,”’ whose Jife went back almost to Rev-
olutionary times, had a very terse and vigorous way of expressing
himself, Some people called him “rough,” and were not much
to be blamed, especially if the old Drug had any especial feeling
toward them. He would dash into them as bitterly as aloes, and
they had nothing to say. Onenight, a rather mean man, who
lived in his vicinity, had some ailment, and came into the doc-
tor’s place with a prescription. The doctor did not like him, and
be knew it. When the potion was being compounded,’ he, with
a simper, said: ‘‘Now, mind, doctor, give me my full money’s
worth.” The doctor rested on his mortar pestle, and looked at
his customer over his specks. ‘‘Sir,’’ said he, almost flercely, “if
I should give you a sixteenth part of a grain more than is called
for by the recipe, you’d be in h—— in five minutes!” The man
said no more 8.

An Astonished Aunt.

My little niece, Ettie, isa bright little lassof four summers.
She is an only child, and in consequence somewhat spoiled. Her
parents live in a beautiful place of their own, on the Hudson. A
few weeks ago, while on a visit to my niece’s parents, I received
an invitation to take tea at a neighbor’s, and my sister not being
well enough to attend, I took upon myself the charge of: Miss
Ettie. Seated at the supper-table, the young laiy called fora
cup of tea, and although it was something she scarcely ever had
at home, l was unwilling to raise a disturbance by refusing her,
as she has always been remarkable for having a strong will of her
own, Returning home in the evening, sie suddenly exclaimed:
“Aunty, doyou love my mother?” “Of course, I do, Ettie,” I
replied, wondering somewhat at the question, and the sudden-
ness with which it had been put. ‘Well, then,” said little miss,
‘all I have to say is that if you loved my mother half as well as
you do Satan you wouldn’t have let her only daughter havea
cup of strong tea.”’? This wes my thanks, L. M. H.

Brevities,

— Our man Friday was told of a supper at which goblets of ice,
formed by evaporation, were used irom which to drink wine.
Friday heard the story through, and then quietly exclaimed;
“Well, ice ware !”’

— Congress Water!) read Pat on a Broadway apothecary’s
shop window; ‘“‘what’s that do ye suppose, Mike ?” “Why, you
fool,” answered his companion, looking very wise, “that’s what
they spout down in Washington.”

— Lightbody camein smiling to-day, and says he wonders
how far off the papers will get by and by. They keep announc-
ing “Further trom Europe, ‘‘Further from China.’? We’d like to
know where they will bring up ?

— Here’s the natural history of consumption in a nut-shell.
Two thin shoes make one cold—two colds an attack of the bron-
chitis—two attacks of the bronchitis one mahogany box.

— A New Jersey editor has been shown “one of those singular
but not unprecedented productions—a double hen’s egg.”? Now
will some clever person slow that man asingle hen’s double
egg? No hurry.

— Listening to a lady who was pouring out a stream of talk,
Douglas Jerrold whispered to the person silting next to him:
“She will be coughing soon, and then we can get a word in edge-
ways,

Here’s another of Jerrold’s. The supper is sheep’s heads. One
of the party is enthusiastic, and as he throws down his knife and
fork exclaims; ‘'Well, sheep’s heads forever, sayI!” ‘‘There’s
egotism!” says Jerrold,

— In the way of definition we may say that a dram, generally
speaking, isa small quantity taken in large quantities by those
who have few grains of sobriety and no scruples of conscience.

 

— You see, young Sawbones wanted to kiss his cousin. But
she snatched her tace away in a hurry, saying, ‘‘Manners, sir.
Don’t thrust your doctor’s bill in my face,”

— Acorrespondent of an agricultural paper finds a great deal
of fault because farmers generally build no better fences. Why
not establish a fencing academy for their benefit ?

— ‘Pray, don’t attempt to darn your cobwebs,” said Dean
Swift to a gentleman of strong imagination and of weak memory,
who was laboriously explaining himself. Pretty sarcastic hint
that.

— Wewill be frank and acknowledge that we don’t know ex-
actly what “the height of ambition” really 1s, but certain it is
that we have seen many fussy little specimens of it not more
than five feet high.

>-@~

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

“Mrs. G. T. Y.”.—Kither brown or white straw will be
pretty for your little girl. Select a hat with a slightly
rolled rim, which droops prettily at the back and front.
Bind and trim with gros grain ribbon or black velvet, aud
a cluster of flowers upon one side. Make the skirtof the
suit of plaid de bege, cut by pattern No. 3,066, price 20
cts. This is four-gored, and fits the figure at the front
and sides, and, while not too wide at the back, is full
enough to be graceful. It can be trimmed with flounces
or ruffies of the material, orcutin figures and bound.
The overskirt has a deep side-gore, which 1s faced with
silk and turned back for revers under pretty buttons,
The front is rather short, but the back is deeper, and is
oval in shape. The number is 3,271, price 25 cts. The
waist is cut with a slightly full postilion back, and is
closed its depth with buttons and button-holes. The sides
and front are short and round, and the neck is cut
square, but is not low enough for an underwaist unless
the weather is very cool. The coat sleeve is open a little
way at the outside seam. This is No. 3,268, price 25 cts.

‘Mrs. Morgan.’’—The ‘‘Manual of Etiquette” is the best
book upon the subject we know of. Yes, we can send it
to you—price 75 cts. No. 3,816, price 15 cts., is a very
pretty little dress for children of from two to six years of
age. The skirt is circular in shape, while the waist is
laid in a couple of plaits at each side of frontand back.
The bottom js finished with a belt and sewed to the skirt.
Collar and cutis may trim the neck and sleeves, and the
back Can be closed With buttons and button-holes. While
the dress is pretty made in wash fabrics, it is just as suit-
able for woolen goods of any description.

“Fancy Fair.’’—Perhaps the following item may prove a sug-
gestion to you, in making a selection of a masque ball costume,
The idea ia certainly a novelty: “The most violent manifesta-
tion of the mother-ot-pearl that is yet on record is a dress that
was worn at the Grand Prix. The lady evidently meant to repre-
sent a mermaid ora siren, and had clothed herself in marine-
blue silk, with short, tight sleeves and low-neck, finished with a
cable of unbleached silk. Over this was worn a net of un-
bleached silk, filled with tiny fishes of pearl and silver; this
formed a double skirt and was then drawn from the left side of
the waist tothe right shoulder, where it was fastened. Two
smaller nets occupied the place of lace flounces on the sleeves,
and another floated from the blue straw bonnet and served as a
vail.”

“Miss Bella R.””—For making up cambrics, calicoes, percales or
muslins, the skirt and sacque only are needed. For skirt use pat-
tern No. 3.308; price 30 cents, which hangs in soft folds, and just
touches the ground in the back. It is gathered to the belt at the
top of the back-breadth, while the front and sides are left plain.
The flounces which should trim the skirt need not be full, and
a deep Spanish flounce may be used to advgntage. The over-
garment is a sacque No. 3,985; price 25 cents. It is very long,
reaching nearly to the middle of the skirt, and is half fitted by a
hollowing seam at the center of the back, and under-arm seams
so far back as to take the place of side-back seams. The front is
loose, and the garment may be trimmed with ruffles or plaits of
the material, or with Hamburgh embroidery.

“Mother.”—A neat pattern of a gored dress for a child aged
from six months to five years old is No, 3,598; price 15 cents,
Each side of the front is fitted by a side-front gored to the shoul-
der, and the side-backs are disposed in the same manner. The
dress can be either ruffled with the materiai, trimmed with edg-
ing, or slashed and bound. The pattern is most used for wash
fabrics, but itis just as pretty when made in merinoes, plaids, and
other wool fabrics.

“A. L. G.,” and others.—In reply to correspondents who de-
sire to know the latest styles of hair dressing, we give one or two
methods of arranging woman’s chief ornament. Wave the
front hair loosely, and if your back hair is not thick enough add
a switch, and twine altogether in a neat, round coil, or in a mas-
sive plait, low on the head. Finish with a comb of some sort
worn in the back hair. The most popular combs are of tortoise-
shell, Which can be found in various devices; some have tall, flo-
riated backs, twisted and scrolled backs, and finished with a row
of highly-polished balls. With these come side-combs to match,
which are used to gather back the softly-waved front hair, and
worn stuck quite against the coil. Another style also has the
waved front, while the back is concealed in a knot under, or is
plaited in with the chatelaine braid, brought straight up the back
of the head, and confined on the top an inch or two beyond the
crown. A beautiful finish to this arrangement is one of the new
style of combs, which has a plain, square, gold-chased back, set
on to the teeth by asmal! silver hinge, and to render the dress-
ing of the hair very elegant at the sides may be worn one or two
of the beautiful tortoise pins, now made to simulate some pretty
flower—a pansy, a daisy, or arose. Or if shell combs cannot be
afforded, a pretty jet-backed comb, or a ribbon bow, may be sub-
stituted. This arrangement of the hair gives fine opportunity
for the display of jeweled pins; the braid can be studded with
diamond stars, or a glittering spray, or coronet can be worn.

“Mrs. J. B. L.”—We have already expressed our views upon
the subject in the Work-Box, but as you desire more informa-
tion, we give you the notesofahigh authority in the world of
fashion, which merely gives you in perhaps different words an idea
of how much depends upon the toilet accessories, to be fashionably
costumed. Among the trifles that make up the sum of fashion
in dress are neckties of black tulle, edged with plaiting lace or
fringe. These are tied outside the frills that finish the neck of
muslin and cambric dresses. A barbeof black Chantilly lace
makes the prettiest throat bow for more elaborate white toitets.
Flesh-colored silk gloves, long-wristed aud fastened by three
puttons, are worn with dressy summer costumes, and deeper
pink shades are not objectionable. Gray, buff or clear white
gloves of lisie thread, fashioned like kid, are worn with plain
morning suits. They are fastened by three or four buttons.
Black lace mittens are gradually coming into fashion. They
were the choice Jast summer with people who thought most of
comfort; they are now adopted by others who have discovered
how well they display white hands. Dealers predict they will be
the height of fashion before the summer ends. Those, with long
ruffled gauntlets, are most liked. Renaissance ribbons brocaded
color upon color are preferred for sashes for summer GCresses.
Bows ala Renaissance have many curves, like fluted shells.
French dressmakers are revising the arrangement of plaids and
plain stuffs in costumes. They now make the sleeves and lower
skirt of plaid, with basque and tunic of plain goods. Wide heavy
fringes, very richly woven, and matching the colors of the fabric,
are fashionable for trimming overdresses. Ruffles and plaitings,
and all self-trimmungs, have been worn for so many years that
invention is exhausted in their arrangement and can devise
nothing new.

“Neta.”—Why not get the ‘‘Shepherdess?” It is a broad cir-

cular sheet of Manilla straw, woven in a coarse braid. It islight
as a feather, and can be lightly and prettily trimmed with tulle
ruching and fiowers, or with a gauze scarf twisted round the
crown, and a plaiting of gauze under the edgeof thebrim. Very
pretty shade hats, also, are constructed of white mull, drawn
upon a frame of wire, and trimmed with black velvet and roses,
or any pretty wild flowers. Hats of straw and Panama may now
be found, bound, and simply trimmed with band and bow ready
for wear like those of the men. They are very convenient for
the country, or for hack hats at home. Flowers are still very
much worn, and the most stylish summer hats are shapeless and
indescribable, save that they are wildernesses of flowers, smoth-
ered in lace.
@‘‘Medora L.\—The guipure overdresses are very much in fayor
and are really exceedingly effective. They are either black or
unbleached that is ecru. We find some polonaises of this fabric,
but the basques and oversdirts seem to be prefeired. The latter
garments are simply aprons, with shirred finished backs, fasten-
ed together with bows. The basques may be tight-fitting or
loose jackets, slightly fitted to the form; they should be
trimmed with lace to match the material, and can be worn over
silk poplin or silk skirts. There is greater variety in the color of
these skirts than formerly, when black alone prevailed. Now,
prune, blue, and brown silk are used, and the same colors are
seen in velvet skirts. An ecru guipure overdress, with plum-col-
ored velvet skirt, is very elegant, and the yelyet is not oppres-
sive at the seaside. A very handsome costume is a bottle-green
velvet skirt with an ecru overdress. Black guipure is tastefully
used over gray silk, with loops and bows of blue or flame-colored
ribbon, but is most popular with sleeves and skirt of biack vel-
vet. Belted sacques of ecru guipure are worn with black or
colored silk skirts by those who prefer a quiet toilet,

“oO, A, B,’—The little capes, fichus or mantelets are the new
feature of the summer costumes, and are often made of the
same material as the entire suit. However, those who desire in
dependent garments can use cashmere, silk, or any desirable
fabric, and can then wear the wrap with each and every suit.
They are very dressy if made of organdie muslin, and trimmed
with lace and ornamented with ribbon bows, a spray and cluster
of flowers.

“Philosopher.’—You are right; we do not dress to please our
selyes. Dr. Franklin says: ‘The eyes of other people are the
eyes thatruin us. If all but myself were blind, I should neither
want a fine house nor fine furniture,’ and if he had been a
woman, the great doctor would have added: *‘Nor fine clothes,”’

> @ 4 -
Our Knowledge Box.

A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING.

QUESTIONS ANS'VERED AND INFORMATION WANTED.—
T. J. K.—We cannot aid you...... Big Geo.—1. We cannot serve
you. 2. The whites of eggs and powdered quicklime make a
good cement...... Taffee Candy.—\, Take castor oil occasionally,
2. No recipe of that kind...... Mountain Tom.—For i’ new recipe
for KALSOMINING, see No.1 of volume 30...... Fanny Clyde and
Modeler.—No..... A Ten Years’ Reader.—Prepared chalk is a
good dentrifice. Use a little every day. If your teeth are very
black use the best quality of powdered charcoal twice a week...
Andreadel Surto.—We have not the space to oblige you. Write
to the New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency for a work on the
subject....Semper Parvatus.—1. We cannot advise you. 2. Yes....

Printer.—No recipe that we can vouch for.....H. C. H.—A solu-
tion of permanganate of potassa will purify the breath........4 A
Youthful Subscriber.—Sleep at least seven hours out of the twenty-
four, ancl commit something to memory every day....W. B. H.—
1. We heve not the space for a full description of the process.
There are works on the subject. Write to the N. Y. WEKKLY Pur
chasing Agency. 2. You will find a new recipe for Kalsomining in
No. 1 of volume 30...... Chickty Pop.—We know nothing concern-
ing it. Dick’s Cyclopedia, containing over six thousand recipes,
is an excellent work. The New YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency will send it to you for $5...... Chief of O. G.—1, It is as
good as most trades at the present time. 2 About $2.50 per day,
according to skill and experience. 3. We cannot tell you. It
would not be safe to go there till winter. The trip is made in five
or six days. Fare about $40. 4. Ship carpentering is a good
trade, if you can get plenty of work......Afack.—Rise early.....,
J. W. H.—No recipe....-......+ Uncle Sam.—POLISH FOR PATENT
LEATHER.—Molasses or sugar, half a pound; gum-arabic, one
ounce; ivory black, two pounds. Boil well ‘together, cool, settle,
and bottle off... ... Charley Gale.—Try glycerine soap...... Walter.
—We cannottell yor...... Silvia A.—We cannot recommend hair
dyes. They areall injuriousto the hair, if not to the health of
the person using them. Let them alone....... G, F, D.—We can-
not help you.........4 A. Singleton.—l. Try hot chlorine water. 2.
Temperate living and regular habits. 3: Hard cider. Drink a
class or two every day. 4. To destroy INSECTS ON PLANTS, take
of quassia chips, tiree and a half ounces, larkspur seed, five
drams; boil these together in seven pints of water until the de-
coction is reduced to five pints. Cool, strain, and use with water-
ing pot or syringe...... G. S. S. S.—We cannot inform you.,.....,
Mollie L.—Take a dose of castor oil occasionally, and avoid very
salt, fat or greasy food of any kind...... Pet.—Rusty nail water

or pow dered niter will remove freckles in time...... Well-Wisher,*

Sealp-Taker, C. M. E., J. B. H., C. E. O., H. H. H., 8. R., R. Rs;
Pauline, J., William Taylor, Cincinnatus No. 2, Arthur G, Lang-
sley, Constantinople, S. V. Garnee, Constant Reader. Your Jet-
ters have been received, and will be answered as soon as possible,

MEDICAL DEPARTMENT.

H. F., Phila.—For DYSPEPSIA, see No, 12 of yolume 30.

Thorn, Anxiety and Anzxious.—We cannot aid you.

B.—l. We think not. 2. Take them on alternate weeks. .

A. P.. Old Reader and “In Distress.”.—Consult a regular physi-
cian who can give you his personal attention.

J. G. H.—Yes.

‘A Person, Fool, Pump Box, Shakespeare's Ghost, D. W., of New
York.—See No. 32 of volume 30,

 

Hans, R. R., H. Lb. A. and Mrs. D. C. C._—We know nothing, per-
sonally, concerning him or them.

Banditti.—l. Yes. 2. No. 3. See No. 32 of volume 30.

T. R. and A. W.—Castor oil.

Socrates Miffin.—l. Yes, if unattended to.
but not probable. 4. Yes, in time.

B. L. J.—DYSPEPSIA.—AS you desire it, we again publish our
thoughts on dyspepsia, which is a malady very difficult to cure
when of long standing. Those afflicted with it must practice
great self-denial in eating, both in regard to what they fancy
and the quantity they eat. Asa general rule certain meats are
more easily digested than vegetables, unless the latter are wel!
cooked. Mutton and boiled rice are both capital articles for
dyspeptics, but the first should be very nicely roasted, and the
latter boiled till very soft. Avoid gravies and pastry. Use but
ter sparingly. Never touch apickel. Rare rvast beef, if tender
and juicy, isamong meats the next best thing to mutton if we
except venison. Baked apples are relished by most dys
petics. Drugs will never curedyspepsia. The more medicine
you take the worse off you will be. One thing you must avoid,
and that is overeating. Endeavor to rise from the table not quite
satisfied, and in a quarter of an hour orso you will thank your
self for not eating more. Masticate your food well; take your
time at every meal; and, above all, have company, if it be pos-
sible, at the table. Cheerful conversation is a capital assistant to
good digestion. It is, of course, utterly impossible to Jay duwn
rules forall persons to follow with corresponding results. Some
food which agrees with one dyspeptic will disagree with another;
but by closely watching what we eat, and its effects, we can soon
ascertain what is good for us and what isnot. Take all the out-
door exercise you can. If compelled to remain indoors, use dumb-
bells. Bathe in tepid water when you immerse the entire person;
ordinarily, use cold water.

Rebecca, F, F., Deformed, Timbuctoo, James, An Anxious
Father, “Dick Talbot,” Ed. §., Unfortunate, Democritus, Brick
Top.—Your letters have been received, and will be answered as
goon as possible.

—————-_ > 6~+_____—_

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

kas GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.—

Constant Reader.—lst. The first newspaper printed in the
United States was issued in Boston, September 25, 1690, by Ben
jamin Harris. The colonial legislature declared that its publica-
tion was contrary to Jaw, and it contained “reflections of a high
nature,” and forbade “anything in print, without license first
obtained from those appointed by the government to grant the
same.” This killed the publication, only one copy of which is
known to be in existence. It is in the State paper office in Lon-
don, and is a small quarto of four pages, one of which is blank.
In 1696 a copy of. the London Gazette was reprinted by William
Bradford, in this city, but it was not intended as an American
newspaper, and there was no second issue. On the 24th of ApriP,
1704, the first number of the Boston News Letier was issued. It
was printed sometimes on a sheet foolscap size, and oftener on a
halt-sheet, with two columns on a page. It was published and
edited by John Campbell, the postmaster, and continued to be
issued weekly until 1776. 2d. The first daily newspaper published
in the United States was the American Daily Advertiser, It was
issued ia Philadelphia, in 1784, by Benjamin Franklin Bache. I
changed hands in 1802, and was called Poulson’s Advertiser after
the name of its new proprietor, who continued its publication
until 1839, when it was sold to the publishers of the North Ameré&
can, into which it was merged. 3d. Joseph Addison wus born at
Milton, Wiltshire, England, May 1, 1672, and died at Kensington,
June 17, 1719. His political lite extends through the period of
Queen Anne’s and the first three years of George I.’s reign.

R. A. B.—Stock transactions are attended with too much risk
- be engaged in by an inexperienced person. Better leave them
aione,.

Delecartie.—The subscriplion price to the New YORK WEEKLY,
to be sent to Sweden, is $4.04, the postage on each copy—two
cents—being paid in advance.

J. C. Packard,—\st. Brigham Young was born at Whittingham,
Vt., June 1, 1801, and was the son of a farmer who had served in
the Revolutionary war. He joined the Mormons at Rutland,
Ohio, about 1832, was made an elder soon after, and in 1835 was
appointed one of the twelve apostles sent out to preach the new
doctrine. He succeeded Joseph Smith, as the head of the sect,
in 1844, the latter having been killed by a mob, while in jail at
Carthage, Mo. 2d. ‘‘Mountain Tom” will cost 84 cents.

C. J. O0.—We do not know the party’s address.

Snail.—ist. Parents are entitled to the services or wages of mi-
nor chiliiren, but are bound to provide all necessaries, such as
food, clothing, etc. 2d. Money deposited in the bank in your
name and belonging to you, cannot be seized by your father’s
creditors to satisfy a judgment against him, unless it can be
proved that it was placed there by him for the purpose of swin-
dling his creditors. To avoid trouble, you can get him to give
you arelease of his claim against such portion of your wages as
you deposit from time to time.

Phantom Chief.—“ Buffalo Bill” is out of print.

Banjo Rim.—Consult the manager of a yariety troupe.

Peter Turnipseed.—ist. The slang phrase ‘‘kicking the bucket’?
is said to have its origin in the death of a suicide who adjusted
the rope to his neck while standing on a pail or bucket, and then
stepped off, kicking the bucket from him. Another version ie
that it comes from the way in which a slaughtered pig is hung
up, a piece of wood called the ‘‘bucket” being passed behind the
tendons of the hind legs, from which the carcass is suspended.
Neither of these explanations, we may Say, are very satisfac
tory, and are probably only surmise. 2d. The gentlemen are not&
related. 3d. We have no biographical sketch of the lady. 4th.
Jennie Van Zandt (maiden name Blitz) is the daughter of Signor
Blitz, the magician. She made her debut at the Brooklyn Acad-
emy of Music, Nov. 4, 1863.

W. M.—lst. Robert Bruce defeated and routed the English
army at Bannockburn, June 25, 1314, with a much imterior force
of Scots. The war, on the part of England, was one of subjuga-
tion, and onthe part of Scotland a struggle for independence,
the principal nobility and clergy having in the latter part of the
previous century acknowledged Edward I. of England as feudat
superior of Scotland. The war continued fourteen years after
the battle of Bannockburn, England being twelve times invaded
with fire and sword, until her rulers were finally compelled to
acknowledge the independence of Scotland. 2d. England and
Scotland were united under one head in 1603, by the aecession to
the throne of James VI. (James I. of England), son of Mary,
Queen of Scots, and heir tothe throne of England on the death
of Queen Elizabeth, by his descent from Margaret Tudor. 3@,
Scotland was overrun by William the Conqueror in 1072, to
whom Malcolm III. surrendered, and again in 1174, when WiE
liam the Lion was captured by Henry II. of England, and to se
cure his release surrendered the independence of Scotland,
agreeing to receive English garrisons in the important places.
This continued fifteen years, when Richard Coeur de Lion agree@
to renounce English supremacy in Scotland for the sum of 10,000
marks. 4th. Scotland, by express stipulationsin the articles of
union, has a separate judiciary, and forms of law and church
government. 5th. In 1171, Henry Il. of England landed in Ire-
land, and many of the native princes give in their adherence fo
him. He appointed his son John Lord of Ireland, and in 1216
King John wholly subdued the country, and English laws and
customs were introduced. The country has been more or less
the scene of turmoil ever since,many attempts having been
made to shake off English rule. The legislative union of the two
countries was finally concluded and went into effect Jan. 1, 1801.

E. L. D. and C. Clark.—We do not wish to make any new en
gagements of contributors, nor purchase any MSS.

John S., C. T. Westbrook, and Cash Boy.—None of the names
given are in the City Directory.

Old Vet.—Write tothe Second Auditor, Treasury Department,
Washington, D. C.

T. M. C.—\ist. A letter addressed to the New YoRK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency, 29 Rose street, N. Y., or P. O. Box 4896, will
reach us. Money should be sent in a registered letter or by P. O.
money order. 2d. No charge is made for answering letters in the
various departments of the NEw YORK WEEKLY. 3d, The glass
will cost $5.

Tronsides.—Send full address, and we will forward catalogue of

plays, and name and price of books with games of all Kinds for
indoor and outdoor amusement.
Lehigh.—1st. Address a letter to the president of the institu-
tion. Itis not necessary that the name should be given. 2d.
There is not the slightest probability of your securing a cadet-
ship at West Point.

W. Calington, C. P.—ist. A lunatic or idiot is entitled to a share
in the father’s estate, to be expended for his support, under the
direction of a guardian or trustee. 2d. We cannot undertake to
say what would be the result if the case should be brought before
the courts. Ifno provisions have been made for the party’s sup-
port, the State or county authorities will probably hold the estate
responsible.

Looney Lorton.—Large mercantile houses of nearly all kinds
employ traveling salesmen, or “drummers,” as they are usually
called.

B. J. F.—The quartermaster of aship isa petty officer who
attends to the helm, binnacle, sails, etc., under direction of the
master. The salary varies.

Aminadab Slek.—A Washington cent of 1791, in good condition,
is worth about $5; fine proof, about $10.

Jedwood Justice.—lst. We have never read the work, conse-
quently can give noopinion as to its merits. 2d. None that we
know of. 3d. Consult a teacher of vocal music. 4th. Both lan-
guages could be mastered in a year, and both would be of assis
tance to you inthe pursuits of literature as well as in business.
5th. We do not wish to purchase any MSS, at present.

Judy.—The sketch is but an average production, and similar
plots have been used by other sketch writers. We could not
publish it with the idea of purchasing future contributions.

Charlie and Ernest.—‘' Wollen sie mich kuessen ?? means “Will
you kiss me ?”

Snakes.—1st. Read standard geological works, 2d. No.

Sophia.—The mountain ash is a hardy tree, and requires no
extra care to preserve it during the winter. We have had one in
the garden for several years, and never took the precaution even
to mulch it, and still it thrives.

J. J. Woodruf.—The U. 8. Government does not furnsh trans-
portation to emigrants from this country to foreign ports nor
trom point to point within its own jurisdiction.

M. J. C.—A policeman, when making an arrest
clothes, must show his authority.

J. Obverfalder.—Your brother's brother-in-law and sister-in-law
are not related to you, and only to him by marriage.

Robespierre.—Ist. See ‘‘Knowledge-Box.”’ 2d. Until is spelled
with one]. 3d. Were is used asthe plural form of was, and in
the imperfect tense of the subjunctive mood, as ‘lf I were.”

Well- Wisher, Pittsburgh.—We do not publish MSS. sent to us
anonymously. They must be accompanied by the address of the
author, not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of
good faith on the part of the writer.

The following MSS. have been accepted for the Mammoth
Monthly Reader: ‘A Double Tragedy,” “The Wanderer’s Return,’?

The following are respecttully declined: “A Dream,”
“*Boarded by Pirates,” “Cheerfulness,” “The Beautiful,’ ‘“Tem-
pest-Tossed,” ‘‘fThe Land of God,” “Jennie’s First Falsehood,”
“The Silver Brook,” ‘The Evening Star,’’ ‘‘Thoughts of Home,’
“The Convict’s Story,” “Rainy Sundays,” ‘‘Andrie’s Adven-
tures,” “Words,” “The Scramble for Fame,” ‘The Demon of
Feather Cliff.’ ““Think of Me.”

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Capitola.—A physician is usually addressed as Doctor, butif you
are un intimate friend or Jover there is no impropriety in your ad
dressing him by his Christian name. Mr. isseldom used in speak
ing to or of a physician, yet it is notimproper. ,

A Backwoods Reader.—lst. You appear to imagine yourself ina
strait, when we can see no real cause for it. The young lady whom
you are to meet you have notseen forseveral years. You write
thatshe isin love with you, but that you are in love with another
lady. Then why can you not meet her the same as you would any
friend oracquaintance? We see no possible cause for embarrass-
ment from your letter, unless you have at some time led her to
believe you were in love with heralso. In that case you owe her
an explanation, which you should make at the earliest opportu-
nity. 2d. An open hand would be pretty engraven on a pin,
or two hearts united. 3d. There is no harm in walking or
spending an evening with a lady acquaintance, providing your
betrothed does not object. Under all cirenmstances she should
peconsulted. 4th. Penmanship good. 5th. Price of book, $1.75.
Eolian harps, from $8 to $20. 13f. San

Somebody.—Ist. A lady, if she wishes to accept the invitation
to partake of ice-cream with the young gentleman, may thank
him, and add, if she chooses, that it will afford her much pleas-
ure, or that she should enjoy the cream; any simple way of ac-
cepling the invitation isgenerally the best. On entering the
saloon the gentleman usually precedesthe lady. 2d. If a lady
wishes to refuse an invitation, she may do so without rudeness
onher part. All that is necessary is to ask to be excused, stating
that it is inconvenient to accept the invitation. 3d. A lady,
when walking with a gentleman, does not take his arm unless
engaged, or he isa relative, except in the evening. 4th. Itis
optional with the lady whether she tells her age. If a gentie-
man asks the question, there is nothing improper in answering
itif she chooses to do so. 5th. By merely inclining your head in
recog nition of the compliment. 6th. ‘‘Keep thy friend under thine
own life key,” is to keep the confidence of your friend sacred, as
if belonging to yourself.

3. C.—Ist. Ege cups or glasses are used. 2d. To peel an
orange with aspoon issimple. The bowl of the spoon answers
the purpose of a knife, and is used in the same manner. 3a.
The initials of the bride’s maiden name are engraved upon the
presents.

H. F. B.—The practice of kissing the bride is not so common as
formerly, and in regard to this, the taste of the bridegroom may
be consulted, as the rest of the company follow the example of
the groor sman; but the parents and very near relatives of the
parties o. course act as affection prompts them, 2d, It is not
necessary. > have areception.

4. Yes.

2. Yes. 3. Possible

in citizen’s

J.S.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

LAY UP A LITTLE.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Yes, lay up a little, my brother,

Each day as you journey along,
Not only a little of wisdom

And knowledge to keep you from wrong,
But a few extra dollars as strongholds,

To keep out the enemy’s throng.

Begin with the pioneer pennies,

The fractional scrip and the dimes,
Keeping on with as great a momentum

As agrees with your purse and the times,
And you'll soon have a friend like no other—

A friend in all lands and all climes.

Yes, lay up a little in season,
Against the traditional day,

When the floodgates of heaven shall be opened,
And rain, rain, envelope your way;

For ’tis best while the sun shines the brightest
To be raking and making your hay.

When the dimes and the dollars forsake you
Your neighbors will soon follow suit,

“For a tree that is bared of its branches,”
They argue, “will never bear fruit;”

And very few friends care to labor
Or dig for the sap at the root.

Then lay up a little, my brother,
Each day as you journey along,
Not only a little of wisdom
And knowledge to keep you from wrong,
tt a few extra dollars as strongholds
To keep out the enemy’s throng.

A NIGHT OF DREAD.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“But 1 am afraid!’ said Mrs. Hesketh, piteously.

She stood clinging to the side of the coach door, with
her blue eyes dilated, and her face as white as the crimp-
ed widow’s cap that surrounded it, @ governess on her
way toa new situation among the lovely Adirondack
hilis; and, just as she approached the termination of her
journey, the only passenger in a clumsy old stage-coach
that jolted along as if it had traveled these roads for a
quarter of a century, which was very probably the fact, it
must need break down in a solitary gorge of the most
solitary hills! Poor Ada Hesketh! she had a horror of ad-
veutures, and it seemed as if she were always meeting
them.

“Lawk, ma’am,’? said the stage-driver, looking down
at her as a very tall ostrich might look down ata plump
young pigeon, “there ain’t nothin’ to be afeared on! Id
go myself, but I can’t leave these ’ere ’osses. It ain’t but a
step just acrossthe medder, and through the hemlock
Swamp, and the stage to-morrow evenin’ ’ll pick you up
as neal as a whistle.’

“Bat I ought to go on to-night.”

Jehiel Dimond shook his head.

“We can’t allers do as we’d ought to, ma’am, and this
Stage sartinly can’t go on three wheels. I told the cap’en
that are rear linch-pin looked kind o’ curious, but cap’en
he thinks nobody don’t know nothin’ but himself But
tain’t no use your standin’ here, and it’s growin’ darker
every minute. Job Pearsall’s folks’ll take you in, I bet a,
cookey, when you tell ’em jest how it happened, and how
Dimond, the stage-driver, sent you there.’

And Mrs. Hesketh saw no other alternative than to
obey.

Job Pearsall’s farm-house was a Curious-looking old
liouse, With eaves that nearly touched the tops of the
Sscrubby-lookiug lilac bushes in the yard, shutters that
swung creakiug to and fro in the evening wind, and one
light shining out into the gathering twilight like the bale-
ful gleam of an evil eye—at least so Ada thought as she
picked her way through the highest grass, with her silk
umbrella aud carpet bagin her hand.

A high-shouldered old man, with scanty gray hair and
a@ beard that glistened like hoar frost on his chin, answer-
ed her meek knock. To him she stated her mishap, ask-
ing for a night’s hospitality.

“| am willing to pay for it,’? she added, as she saw, or
imagined that sie saw, symptoms of reluctance in the
dull, hazel eyes.

“T dunno nothin’ ’bout it!’ Job Pearsall answered in
the subdued tone common to those who suffer under the
affliction Of deafness. ‘‘Mother! here!??

And a crooked little old woman hobbled forward, look-
ing, as Ada fancied, exactly like one of those witches of
ancient lore who lie in wait to insnare unwary travelers.

“We don’t keep a tavern,’’ said this old woman; ‘but
of course if ye want a night’s lodgin’, an@ are ready to
pay for it, 16 wouldn’t be a Christian business to turn ye
out oO’ doors. So Dimond‘s old rattle-box broke down, did
it? Was there any other passengers?”

‘N .)

“All the better forthem. Sit down and I'll get ye some
supper.”’

Mrs. Hesketh obeyed, looking half fearfully about the
room, with its deep-throated stove chimney, aud the
gloomy shadows that lurked in every corner.

“] feel just as if something were going to happen,’ she
thought, with a nervous shudder thrilling through her
veins, ‘I wish the night were over. Oh, what is that?”

Mrs. Pearsall answered the last words which were
spoken aloud in accents of extreme terror.

*’Taint nothin’ but a screech-owl down by Bloody Lake.
There is lots on ’em there.’

“Bloody Lakel”’

“That’s what folks callit. You see there was a scrim-
mage among the Indians there in old times.”

**Is it far???

“Only a quarter of a mile down the hill.”

Mrs. Hesketh shuddered, and wished more than ever that
the linch-pin of Jehiel Dimond’s coach wheel had been a
trifle or so stronger!

She went to bed, however, in & musty-smelling little
bedroom, where the mice held high carnival, and a settle-
ment of swallows in the chimney effectually precluded all
idea of sleep.

*] will sit up all night,” she thought, wrapping her
shawl round her, and arranging the pillows in a sort of
invalid chair, wiriclh was the only easy article of furniture
in the room, so as to afford a sort of impromptu couch.
And then, inspite of her resolutions to the contrary, she
fell fast asleep, and dreamed of screech-owls fighting on
the ensanguined shores of Bloody Lake! Nor was the illu-
sion at all dispelled by a huge stuffel owl with green glass
eyes and moth-eaten feathers which occupied a wooden
shelf on top ofthe chest of drawers—a natural curiosity
which Mrs. Pearsall had told her was an heir-loom in the
family.

ew long she had been asleep she did not know, when
she was waked by a yoice seeming to sound close to her
ears.

**Where is it??? was asked.

And now she discovered that the speaker was under
her window, where the rain was now beating a brisk
tattoo on the ancient clusters of lilac bushes. And an-
Other voice, that of the old hostess, answered:

“On the table, close to the bed-head. I saw her put it
there.”?

Ada Hesketh’s heart gave a great leap as she remem-
bered thatshe had placed her purse there. Was she
about to be robbed—perhaps murdered? Ail the legends
she had ever heard or read of lomely traveiers decoyed
into solitary dens of thieves rushed into her mind now.
She felt herself tremble all over and then grow still, as if
her frame were chilled into ice.

“Oan we get at it without waking herup?’? asked the
other voice.

“Try, at least.

“Well?

‘She will be easily quieted—I’]1 answer for that.
the time is passing!’

Ada sat motionless; she felt that she could not have
stirred had her life depended upon it, while a ladder was
softly put up against the side of the house, and a shadow
momentarily darkened the iittle casement under the
eaves. ‘Quieted!’’ What did they mean? Was human
life held as cheap as all this? Her heart throbbed like
the muffied biows of a trip-hammer, as she heard the fall
of stealthy footsteps across the floor, the instantaneous
pause at the table, and then the retreating rustle of some
tall, dark figure.

Only a second, and then it wasall over. She was alone
once more with the twitter of the swallows in the chim-
ney ana the patter of the fast falling rain among the lilac
bushes, and her heart sent up a secret, silent prayer of
thanksgiving that her life was saved.

All the money she had inthe world wasin her little
brown pocket-book, but what ofthat? Life, at least, was
spared to her, and she resolved that with the first dawn of
morning she would rise and make her escape to the high
road, thence to the nearest village, to lodge a complaint
before some magistrate against this den of robbers, as
well as the stage-driver, who was, no doubt, in collusion
with them,

But, while she was pondering upon these things, poor,
outwearied nature claimed her ransom, and Mrs, Hesketh
fell asleep again.

When she waked for the second time, the ruddy autumn
sun was shining fullinto the room, turning to around
circiet of gold—what? Nothing more nor less than the
clasp of her little brown pocket-book, which lay on the
table just where she had placed it the night before.

Mrs. Hesketh stared at it—then rubbed her eyes and
stared again—then yerified the testimony of sight by
taking it up and feeling it. There it was, money and all.

Had she been bewitched, or had she been dreaming?
And there, as if to confirm the wavering doubts that beset
her, was an incontrovertible proof—the marks of a muddy
footprint close to the table,

“What does it all mean?” she gasped aloud, and at this
moment the latch of the door was stealthily lifted, and
old Mrs. Pearsall stood before her with the little brown
silk umbrella in her hand.

‘Wal, now,’? said the ancient dame, “I cale’lated to
come in witnout disturbing ye, but ye’re an early bird.
Here’s your umberil.”

“My umbrella! How——»” ;

“Weil,” said Mrs, Pearsall, lowering her voice, confi-
dentially, ‘“‘our Joel he come over from Pinkertown las’
night—Joel teaches deestrict school over there—and it
comes on to rain like all possessed, and Joel he’s delicate,
and there wan’t no umbril' in the house, and I thought it
wouldu’t be no harm jest to borrow yourn, for Mark Har-

And if we wake her——"?

Quick,

ris he was a-comin’ back in his ox-cart afore daybreak,
and Joel knowed he could send it. So here it air, and
I’m much obleeged t’ye, 1’m sure!’

Mrs. Hesketh accepted the wrientloan with a little hys-
terical laugh. Her ‘“‘adventure”’ had subsided with the
most matter-of-fact occurrence in the world.

“But the next time you wish to borrow an umbrella,
Mrs. Pearsall,’”? she said, ‘please knock at the door and
ask for it, instead of climbing into the window like a bur-

lar.”?

’ “Well, therel’? said Mrs. Pearsall. ‘‘But we reckoned
we hadn’t disturbed ye. Breakfast’ll be ready d’reckly.”

Aud Mrs. Hesketh ate and drank witha hearty appetite,
and went on in the stage that evening, according to the
before-established programme,

‘But for all that,’ she says, whenever she tells the
story, “I feit, for about five minutes, just as people do just
beforethey are murdered. And it isn’tat alla pleasant
sensation!’?

THE HAUNTED TRAPPER.

BY JOSEPH E. BADGER, JR.

One afternoon in June, 1864, I was walking down Sec-
ond street, in St. Joseph, Missouri, on my way to the post-
office. When opposite arather notorious building known
as the *“Rosebud,’’—since destroyed by fire—I heard a
door slam violently, and naturally glanced in that direc-
tion. I wasjustin time to seeadark figure leap upon
the man who had just emerged from the building, a mo-
mentary gleam of swiftly-descending steel, a cry of sur-
prise and pain, a brief struggle, then a sharp report, al-
most drowned by a terrible scream of agony, as the writh-
ing figures separated, one staggering back against the
door, the Other reeling out into the street, then falling at
fulllength, with the dull, peculiar thud that only a dead
body can give.

A policeman, who was. near, sounded his whistle, and
as is usual in such cases quite a crowd was soon collected
around the spot. The man who had falleu in the street
was found to be a full-blooded Indian, though at the time
he wore pants, blouse, and hat. He was quite dead. A
revolver bullet had passed Lhrough and through his body,
piercing the heart.

The other was a white man, tolerably well dressed, yet
one who had lived in the West could easily see that he
was more familiar with mountain life than the cities. He
Was wounded in the jJeft shoulder. The Indian had struck
him from behind, but had overreaclied his blow, and in-
stead of burrying the long blade above the collar-bone, as
intended, his point had glanced upon it, then tore down-
ward along the man’s breast until checked by the hand of
the assassin striking his intended victim’s shoulder. It
was an ugly wound, for the knife—a twelve-inch blade,
double-edged, and sliarp as a razor—had gashed the flesh
frightfully, but the only real danger was from loss of
blood.

I explained to the policeman what I had seen—that the
Indian had sprang around the corner of the building and
struck the man first, who then fired in self-defense; and
though the stranger was taken to the station-house, it
was only that his hurt might be attended to. Among the
crowd that had collected was old Pierre Lajoie, a veteran
trapper, who had left the profession he had grown too
aged to follow longer. We walked down the street toge-
ther, and something he said aroused my curiosity.

“That man’s got more lives than a cat, but he’s bound
to go under with his boots on. He’sa marked man, and
sooner or later they’il lift his hair. You’re a great hand
for yarns, Joe, and that fellow—Pere Brown, his name is
—can tell you one as strange as auy of tlie lies old Black
Harris used to spin.’”

I called upon the wounded man that same night, and
found him doing very well, though somewhat weak from
loss of blood. He recognized me at once, and when I
mentioned what Lajoie had told me he readily consented
to gratify my curiosity.

“The fact is, slranger,’? began Brown, “Im a ha’nted
man. You needn’t smile—I don’t mean ’t I’m ha’nted by
ghosts, spooks, an’ sech like, for | don’t b’lieve in none
sech. lLon’y wish it wasthem kind, an’ no wuss. But
thar—I see you think l’m Kinder out o’ my head, so Vl
begin from the fust.

‘Leven years come next snow, I was trappin’ in the
No’the Park ‘long 0’ some o’ Fitzpatrick’s brigade. We
had fa’r luck, an’ was countin’ big ou the high times we’d
hey at Laramie, when we sold our pelts. So fur we hedn’t
bin troubled wi’ the redskins, but that wasn’t to last
much longer. Oue day a gang o’ Blackfeet kem down on
us an’ keeled over Wichita Dave ‘fore we knowed what
was up. Wetuck for a plumbresh thicket, an’ driv’em
back when they charged. 1 made my coup that time, an’?
row’d two others. Then the varmints played snake on
us, an’ tried a thousand tricks, but we was old hands at
sech biz, au’ they soon weakened. Takin’ thar dead In’
there, they puckacheed.*

“We knowed this warn’t the last o’ them, an’ ’cluded
to pull upstakes. Wetraveled all that night, then cached
fer the day, thinkin’ they’d give it up fer a bad job, when
they found we’d puckacheed, ef they sho’d return wi’
more men.

“That night, while I was watchin’, I sighted a red nig-
ger snoopin’ round, an’ let him have a blue pill that
throwed ’im cold. Thinkin’ thar was more around, we
straddled our critters an’ lit out lively; but we didn’t hey
no more bother that night.

“The season war well nigh over, anyhow, an’ as the
reds ’peard to be gittin’ ruther rambunctious, we ’cluded
to make fer Laramie ’thout any more delay. We did,
an? ’riv thar all hunkey.

“We war the fust in, an’ so got the top prices. In
course we set in feraspree. The boys was just more’n
spreadin’ themselves on whisky an’ keerds, which I didn’t
care much fer either. My weakness war fer wimmen
critters—’mong them I was a little airthquake on wheels,
The very week we arriv’ a lot o’ Cheyennues camped nigh
the fort. *Mong ’em was @ pert lookin’, soople jinted
young squaw that tuk my eye from the fust. I strutted
myself afore her oncet or twicet, an’ giv her a few beads,
some ribbons, an’ sech like doin’s. She could jabber a
little o’ my talk, an’ 1 knowed a smatterin’ 6’ Cheyenne,
so we got along fust rate, by sorter mixin’ ’em both up.

“One day Suke—which was the pet name I’d giy’ her—
noticed my rifle. *Twas a smaller bore then is gin’ally
used out thar—bein’ ninety to the pound—but dead center.
She axed to see the bullets I used, an’ I showed her. They
war marked wi’ a smail cross; not that I’m Catholic, but
I won the rifle and fixins from a Vide Poche Frenchman,
who was.

“Then Suke told me her people was huntin’ me high
an’ low. The Injun I shet at our camp, a’ter the muss wi’
the Blackfeet, was a Cheyenne. He war found, two days
a’terwards, an’ my bullet war dug out o’ his karkidge. He
b’longed to a band of braves led by one Mo-he-nes-to,
which means, in our talk, ‘The elk that calls.’ When she
told me this, 1 knowed what was up. I’d hearn tell o’
this gang afore.

“They was all lations, both by blood an’ oath. Ef one
o’ thar number was rubbed out, the rest was bound to
take no rest ontil the feller what killed him was murdered.
No matter whar he went or who he war, he war to be fol.
lered until he died. The oldest members o’ the band war
to try {ust an’ on’y stop when he was killed; then the
next war to take his place, an’ so on.

“T war purty tol’ble drank when Suke told me this—ye
see both she ’nd I Kinder sellerbrated our hitchin’—but it
sobered me off mighty quick. I went an’ told the boys
what war up, but they war too drunk tounderstan’. The
agent ’vyised me to keep clost to the post, an’ he wouldn’t
‘iow none o’ the varmiuts inside, Yet that same night,
as I was goin’ to my lodge, I got a good three inches 0’
cold steelin my side. 1 whirled ’round an’ made cold
meat o’ the pizen varmint. It warone o’ the band, named
Atunne (the Crow.)

“This dig laid me up for nigh two weeks. Suke ’tended
me night an’ day, ontil one nightshe didn’t come. Next
day some o’ the hunters o’ the fort found all’t was left o’
her down by the river. I reckon the varmints thought
She’d split on ’em.

‘‘Ithin the monthI was shot at twicet. OncelI war
missed; t/other bullet made this scar on my cheek. Both
times I laid the devils cold afore they could pull on me
the second time.

‘By this time most o’ the brigade had got in from the
grounds, and when I told my story [ didn’t hey much
trouble in raisin’ a party to try an’ rub out Mohenesto’s
band. I had all thar names, which 1 got from Suke afore
they wiped her out.

‘We started—a round dozen onus. For two days we
follered thar trail, and then fell intoan ambush which
they laid. Thar fust volley throwed al) but three o’ us,
We each quilled up one o’ the varmints, then turned crit-
ters to puchachee. Tom Campbell was picked off, but
Zack Wheeler an’ me got safe to Laramie. He was not
left long, though; a Cheyenne picked him off wi’ a
pizened arrer the second day a’ter we got to the Post.

“By this time the fellers got to look on me as a doomed
man, asit was unlucky for to hev anything to do wi’, an’
I soon see they tried to keep out 0’ my way. I hed kep’a
stiff upper lip ontel then, but that got me. When I seed
the ones i’d looked on as fri’nds for so long a shunnin’
me like I’d got the smallpox, itjest broke me down. For
Dearly @ monthI wason my back. Sometimes I ’most
Wish’t they’d a? let me died then, when it’d a’ bin so easy.
But a’ter all astout feller clings to life,even when it
*pears like he’d make money by dyin’.

“The agent he give out ’at | was dead, an’ hed some 0’
the boys bury a log o’ wood in acoffin. The Injins
‘peared to b’lieve it, an’ so I was fitted out wi’ hoss an’
weepins, an’ started for the settlements. At Indepen-
dence I larnt from a feller who kem down clost a’ter me,
that the grave was opened one night, an’ the cheat found
out. That very nighta iInjin broke into my room an’
tried to kill me. He made some noise in gittin’-in, an’
woke me jestin time. I rubbed him out. ‘Twar one 0’
the band.

“I tuck the next boat for St. Louey, makin’ sure thar
was none Oo’ the reptyles on board. Three nights a’ter I
reached the city, l was struck dow bya Injin, but a
p’liceman seed him, an’ collared him in time to save my
ha’r. WhenI got well, I went to Orleans—they follered
me thar—to New York, then back to St. Louey; from thar
to Frisco. I’ve rubbed out seventeen o’ the band, but as
you kin see, they’re a’ter me yit. I reckon they’ll corral
me some time—I don’t much keer how soon. I can’t stan’
this lifelong. It’s killin’ me by inches. I’m afraid ma
ha’nted man,” gioomily concluded Brown.

The next day he disappeared, nor did
upon him again.
extract:

‘In Marysville, Kansas, on Tuesday last, a well-known
mountain man and trapper, named Pere Brown, was
stabbed and killed by an Indian. As he fell Brown shot

his assassin, and both died at nearly the same moment.
The Cause of this unprovoked attack is not fully known,

I ever set eyes
Six months later I read the following

 

 

* Puckacheed—equivalent to skedaddle.

though there is some rumor about a grudge of years’
Standing.”

Aud this was the manner in which the haunted trapper
met his death.

SHOOTING ON SIGHT.

BY CHANDOS FULTON.

In San Francisco and elsewhere on the Pacific Slope, in
days gone by, when a man desired that satisfaction of an-
other that is obtained by deliberately firing at him witha
pistol, with sanguinary if not fatal intent, ie sent word to
him that he would shoot him on sight, so thatit would be
his own fault if he were not prepared for the encounter,
which was inevitable when they next met. This was in
the spirit of, but not exactly in accordance with, the duel-
ing code; it was more direct, and did not involve friends
as seconds, and there was no loophole in the challenge to
get outof the meetingin the way ofan apology. The
man that received the message kuew that the next time
the other saw him he would shoot him if hecould, and
the best he could do was to beprepared for him and try
to shoot first. One or the other generally shot first, as it
was seldom tliat they met on such favorable ground as
the top of a hill, and discovered each other simultaneous-
ly, and at thesame time whipped out their pistols and
fired instantaneously. If one was killed, the other simply
made himself ‘scarce’ in the neighborhood for a few
days until the affair passed away from the popular mind,
and then hereturned and went about his business as
usual. It very often happened that innocent strangers
were hit, and killed or injured, as when once two antago-
nists eucountered each other near a corner, one coming
one way and the other the other, and a gentleman pass-
ing out of the cross street was so unfortunate as to re-
ceive the leaden messengers of both. Fortunately, how-
ever, his injuries were confined to rents in his hat and coat-
tails, and he was abie to join the combatants in their sub-
sequent merry-making, though that they remunerated
him for their damages to his attire I have not heard. It
was generally argued, I believe, in such cases, thatit was
entirely the passer-by’s Own fauit that he received the
bullet or bullets intended for anotiier.

 

“Ym k-K-kil-killed!”? he exclaimed. ‘*Th-th-that m-man
—or h-his gh-gh-gh-gh-ghost!”’

“Oh, you are all right,’? said Thompson, scarcely able
to repress his merriment,

‘*He’ll p-p-p-pass ou-out and sh-sh-sh-shoot me!’ con-
tinued Tanglefoot, glancing suspiciously around.

He hastened away to his hotel, having lost all interest in
the performance.

Thompson began searching for Biff, and found that he
had escaped through the private door to the region afi
the Curtain, and thence he had passed out through the
stage door.

Thompson followed him to his lodging-place, and found
him in a state of nervous excitemeut pitiable to behold.

“T won’t stand this any longer!’ Biff exclaimed, des-
perately. ‘‘It’s a living death! Life is not a pleasure, but
a terror—a terror, sir! Vl take the boatin the morning
for San José! ll remain there until this human tiger re-
turns East. 1 saw the stock of a pistol sticking out of his
vest. Iteil you [did. I thought he would shoot at me
across the stagel??

Thompson now sought Tanglefoot. He found him lying
on a sofa, completely exhausted from the effects of his
great scare. He warmly congratulated him on his sound
discretion and good sense in leaving the theater so soon—
a moment later the infuriated Biff would have found him.

‘‘He’s ar-rual-ruffian, a c-cold b-b-bl-bl-blood-ed m-m-m-
mur-de-murderer; he 1-l-looks li-like o-one!’? Tanglefoot
asserted, despondingly, and further spoke of abandoing
his business and returning to New York.

Thompson meekly suggested a trip on the boat in the
morning to San Matteo, and Tanglefoot cheerfully assent-
ed. Biff wasa dilatory man, and generally late every-
where, and by having Tanglefoot on board very early,
they would not meet until after the boat had started; aud
neither ofthem being armed no harm could result from
the encounter, Thompson argued.

His scheme succeeded. Tanglefoot was on board early,
Biff just in time not to be left. They did not meet till at
table at the midday dinuer, neither having obtained any
satisfactory rest during the night. Both had immediately
on coming aboard retired to their state-rooms for a few
hours’ balmy repose, now comparatively easy in conscious-
ness of peace and securily which each experienced since
he thought himself beyoud the reach of his murderous an-
tagonist.

 

My friend Tanglefoot once had some misunderstanding
with Biff, a San Franciscan youth, and the next morning
had his appetite suddenly spoiled, while at breakfast, by}
receiving a message from Biff that he would shoot him
on sight.

Tanglefoot had recently arrived from New York, being}
the agent of a large wholesale dry goods house, and he
was blissiully iguorant of the customs of the country. Re-
covering from the shock caused by the announcement, he
concluded that either Biff was insane or merely joking,
and wished he had finished his breakfast instead of leay-
ing the table and retiring to the privacy of his own room,
lest his trepidation—which, judging from his emotions,
must be very perceptible—should occasion remark.

He sought a friend, in an adjoining room, and commn-
nicated the message to him.

“Y—ou—you do—do—don’t 1—l—lau—laugh,’” he re-
marked, stuttering more than usual, for he stuttered fear-
fully.

“No.” And thereupon his friend proceeded to inform
him. that it was no joke at all, but-a very serious affair;
nothing short, indeed, of the probability of lis being shot
by Biff the next time they met, unless he was quick enough
to shoot Biff first.

*Q-o-oh! th-th-this is ter-terri-b-terrible! . I ne-nev-er-
never shot a pistol in my li-li-life!’? exclaimed Tanglefoot,
in alarm.

Thompson, the confidential friend, knew that if Tangle-
foot had not been a stranger, Biff would never have chal-
lenged him; for he was notoriously a coward, and would
not have sent the message to any Californian with the
possibility of its being understood. Biff was evidently
seeking to gain a reputation for pluck at Tanglefoot’s
expense; he supposed, as Thompson shrewdly surmised,
that that gentleman would seek and make an explanation.
Now, Thompson was much given to practical joking, and
decided to turn this affair into a joke; though to the last
the principals sould be made to regard it as the most
serious event in the whole course of their lives.

He told Tanglefoot that Biff was a dead-shot, and de-
plored that he should have been so indiscreet as to iucur
his enmity.

Tanglefoot, thoroughly alarmed, suggested and im-
plored that he, as their mutual friend, should seek Biff at
once, and before there was any possibility of a fatal meet-
ing, intercede in his behalf, and explain matters.

Thompson finally consented, but impressed upon Tan.
glefoot’s mina the fact that he must not leave the hotel,
and must be careful to use his eyesin going about the
corridors, lest Biff should shoot him on sight before he
could see him.

“I—]] go to b-be-bed!’? exclaimed Tanglefoot, quickly,
and much pleased at the turn the affair had taken.
“He'll n-not dare to m-mu-mur-murder me in c-col-cold
bl-bl-ood, if he f-f-fi-finds me in b-b-bed, will he?’’

“No, you will be safe there,’? hig friend replied; and
after seeing him snugly ensconced in his bed, he left him
to seek and scare the would-be fiery Biff, whom he found
after considerable trouble in the back office of the count-
ing-house in which he was employed, sitting so near toa
door that Thompson thought that his chances of escape,
if Tanglefoot were to appear, would be very good.

“You MUSt Ve urazy to have sent that message to Tangle-
foot!”? exclaimed Thompson On entering.

“Why ???

‘Why, because he is an experienced duelist—a dead
shot!’

“Oh, myl’? groaned Biff, beginning to tremble violently.

‘He declares he will shoot you so nicely through the
heart that you never willknow what hurt you, you will
die so suddenly!’ said the unfeeling Thompson, quietly
enjoying the other’s agitation.

“Can't you settle it between us?’ Biff tremblingly and
piteously suggested.

“No. Ihave tried that, but he is aroused and implac-
able.”?

“Ol, what isto be done?” exclaimed Biff, piteously.
“Oh, what shall I do?” ;

“I feel for you, my friend,’? said Thompson, “but you |
have brought it on yourself, and must take the conse-
quences.”?

“Advise me! Advise mel’?

Thompson was meditatively silent for a few moments.

“Keep shady for a few days,’ hesaid at length, thought-
fully.

“Yes! yes!’?

‘Remain in here allday; come and go hence by side
streets; come early and leave late; avoid meeting any
one; in fact, keep shady and outof the way of meeting
him, and meanwhile Ill see if I cannot appease him.”

*“T will! I will! Oh, thank you! thank youl’ exclaimed
Biff, brightening. “Oh, whatafool I’ve been! But it
shall be a lesson to me.”

Thompson returned to Tanglefoot, whom he found still
abed, endeavoring to become interestedinanoyel, He
gravely informed him that he had found Biff in a back
yard practicing with his pistol on a target in the shape of
aman, which he hit plumb inthe region of the heart
every time, and he ferociously refused to listen to any ex-
planation. ;

Tanglefoot’s groans of dismay might have been heard
in the adjoining room, if any one had been listening.
‘*H-h-he’ll K-K-kill me s-s-surel’”? he exclaimed.

& g-g-go-ner!”?

Thompson meekly ventured to suggest that he should
prepare himself for the encounter,

“Nol no! Is-sa-say n-o; i-if he w-wa-wants to sh-sh-
sh-sh-oot-shoot me he m-ma-y!’? responded Tanglefoot,
resignedly.

In vain the heartless Thompson endeayored to excite
in his friend’s breast a spirit of defiauce.. He would not
even consent to carry a pistol which Thompson obligingly
offered to loan him. No; if the sanguinary Bifl wanted
to kill him he might do so; but he should: not attempt to
kill Biff.

“But surely you will not stand and be shot down like a
dog ?”? indignantly inquired Thompson.

“Nol? responded Tanglefoot, quickly.
W-W-wou-would fr-r-run-run!””

“What; would you cut and run?”’

“Yy-y-yes, Dll rr-r-rr-run!” Tanglefoot replied, “Tl
Ir-rr-run for my 1-li-life, Ill be s-s-sh-shot if I. d-d-don’t!’

Tanglefoot remained within the protecting walls of his
hotel for some days without venturing out once, the
equally scared Biff dodged to and from business, often
startled by his own shadow; and I am satisfied that if
they had met, both would either have turned and run or
have fainted on the spot.

Thompson endeavored to persuade them to promenade
on Montgomery street, as he was anxious to witness their
meeting, but neither would listen to him; and he began
to despair of ever getting his heroes together.

Biff wanted to go to the theater, and on Thompson's
assuring him that Tanglefoot’s engagements that evening
would positively prevent his attending, decided to go.
He would take a private box and hide himself behind the
drapery. He secured the manager’s private box; that
gentleman was a friend of his.

Thompson obtained the opposite box and prevailed on
Tanglefoot to occupy it, assuring him that Biff’s engage-
ments would detain him elsewhere, and telling him he
could hide himself behind the folds of upholstery. Themp-
son accompanied him to the box, and. assisted him to
properly adjust the curtain. Tanglefoot could see the
stage but not the audience, nor any one inthe opposite
box, unless he craned his.neck. None except those on
the stage could see anything of him but a portion of his
body.

Thompson repaired to the front of the house and met
Biff, who was encouraged by the assurance thatthere was
no possibility of Tanglefoot’s coming. He obtained a
seat in the parquette, and devoted himself to watching
his friends, who both similarly concealed, did not discover
each other.

Both remained concealed until the end of the second
act, and then becoming inquisitive and weary of remain-
ing so long in one position, first the confident Tanglefoot
ventured to peep out upon the audience, and then the
equally confident Biff peered from behind the drapery,
both quickly drawing their heads in like snapping turtles
at imaginary danger.

‘“Phey’ll soon discover each now,’? soliloquized Thomp-
son; and the next time they happened to look out simul-
taneously, and recognized each other,

Both instantaneously turned deadly pale—they trembled
perceptibly. They immediately arose, and, with eyes riv-
eted on one another, each backed to the door and hastily
left.

Thompson hastened to the vestibule to meet his friends,
as he was anxious to be present at their meeting. Tangle-
foot emerged from the hail leading to the box, and rushed
through the auditorium to the vestibule, and would have
continued on out of the theaterhad he not been inter-

“I'm

“7 th-th-think I

 

Tanglefoot was at the table first, enjoying the meal; in
fact he was’in the act of lifting a juicy piece of steak to
his mouth, when he perceived Biif taking a seat a few
chairs below on the opposite side. Biff in his hurry did
not look to the right nor to the left, and so failed to dis-
cover him first. he sight sent terror into the heart of
Tanglefoot, and momentarily paralyzed him; his arm
came toa stand-still midway between the table and his
face, while his mouth stood wide open, and he felt as if he
eo glued to tlie clair, incapable of a physical or mental
effort.

Poor Biff! It was with asharp appetite and anticipa-
tions of a feast that he approached the table; both were
gone now. But for his presence of mind he, too, would
have been overwhelmed by fear. He turned and precipi-
tately retreated to his rooin, and Tanglefoot, imagining
he had gone for his revolver, immediately fled to his. Both
remained in seclusion an hour or more, and both were
thrown into the greatest alarm by a footstep near their
doors, each imagining it was that of the prowling, mur-
derous other.

Tanglefoot at length summoned sufficient courage to
open the door, and call out to a passing waiter to send
the captain—that he was sick.

“There is a doctor aboard,” said the waitr.

‘“W-w-we-well, any one!’ replied Tanglefoot; but find-
ing the captain first, the waiter told him, and he said he
would look in upon the gentleman.

In passing Bitf’s room tife captain had occasion to give

an order, and recognizing his voice, Biff hastily opened
the door and called him in, and proceeded to teil him that
there was a gentleman on board with murderous intent
toward himself, and that le must be disarmed by a com-
mittee of safety selected from the passengers,
The captain, promising to look into the matter, left him
and went to Tanylefoot’s door. He found some difficulty
in gaining admission here, for the occupant hesitated to
believe his friendly assurances. Tanglefoot told his story
insisting that Biff must be put into irons.

At first the captain was much puzzled by these conflict-
ing statements, aud reasonably began to think one or the
other of the gentlemen,’ perhaps both, must be insane.
In a cross-examination, however, he learned of Thomp-
son’s part in the affair, and aware of that gentleman’s
joking proclivities, soon discovered the game he had been
playing. He communicated his theory to the respective
parties, and endeavored to bring them together; but
neither would consent to this until he had obtained from
the other, through the captain, a written explanation and
declaration of peace. They were fast friends when they
returned to San Francisco, but could not find it in their
hearts to cherish a grudge against such a good fellow as
Thompson, who has grown fat laughing over this and
other stories that he tells.

THINGS GENERALLY.

BY MAX ADELER.

THE REFORMED METHOD OF STUDY-
ING HISTORY.

— Barnes, our schoolmaster, reaa i wie mawouttonur

Monthly that boys could be taught history better than in
any other way by letting each boy in the class represent
some historical character, aud relate the acts of that char-
acter as if he had done them himself. This struck Barnes
as being a mighty good idea, and he resd@ved to try it on.
Yhe school had then progressed so far in its study of the
history of Rome as the Punic wars, and Mr. Barnes im-
mediately divided the boys into two parties, one Romans,
and the other Carthagenians, and certain of the boys
were named after the leaders upon both sides. All the
boys thought it was a big thing, and Barnes noticed that
they were so anxious to get to the history lesson that they
could hardly say their other lessons properly. When the
time came, Barnes ranged the Romans upon one side of
the room, and the Carthagenians on the other. The re-
citation was very spirited, each party telling about its
deeds with extraordinary unction. After a while Barnes
asked @ Roman to describe the battle of Canna. Where-
upon the Romans heaved their copies of Wayland’s Moral
Science atthe enemy. Then the Carthagenians made a
battering ram out of a bench and jammed it in among the
Rumans, who retaliated with a volley of books, slates, and
chewed paper balis. Barnes concluded that the battle of
Canne had been sufficiently illustrated, and he tried to
stop it; but the warriors considered it too good a thing to
let drop, and accordingly the Carthagenians sailed over
to the Romans with another battering ram and thumped
@ couple of them in the stomach.
Then the Romans turned in and the fight became gen-
eral. A Carthagenian would grasp a Roman by the hair
and hustle him around over tle desks in a manner that
was simply frightful to behold, and a Roman would give
a fiendish whoop and knock a Carthagenian over tlie
head with Greenleaf’s Arithmetic. Hannibal got the head
of Scipio Africanus under his arm, and Scipio, io his ef-
forts to break away, stuinbled, and the two generals fell
and had a rough-and-tumble fight under the blackboard.
Caius Gracchus tackled Hamilcar with a ruler, and the
latter in his struggles to get loose fell against the stove
and knocked down about 30 feet of stove pipe. There-
upon the Romans made a grand rally, and in five minutes
they ran the entire Carthagenian army out of.the school-
room and Barnes along with it, and then they locked the
door and began to hunt up the apples and lunch in the
desks of the enenly.

After consuming the supplies they went to the windows
and made disagreeable remarks to the Carthagenians
who were standing in the yard, and dared old Barnes to
bring the foe once more into battle array. Then Barnes
went for a policeman, and when he knocked at the door it
was opened, and all the Romans were found busy studying
their lessons, When Barnes camein with the defeated
troops he went for Scipio Africanus, and pulling him out
of his seat by the ear he thrashed that great military ge-
nius with a rattan, until Scipio began to cry, whereupon
Barnes dropped him and beganto paddle Caius Grac-
chus. Then things settled down in the old way, and next
morning Barnes announced that history in the future
would be studied as it always had been; and he wrote a
note to the Hducational Monthly to say that in his opinion
the man who suggested the new system ought to be led
out andshot. The boys do not now take as much interest
in Roman history as they did on that day.

WHY THEY DIDN’T STRIKE WATER.

— They have been boring an Artesian well out at the
iron foundry, and for some time the work seemed to go
along very nicely. The boring was done Witla two-inch
auger fixed in the end of an iron rod, which was twisted
around by a wheel worked by two men. One day, after
they had gone down a good many feet, they tried to pull
the rod out, butit would not come. They were afraid to
use much force lest the auger should come off and stay in
the hole, and so as the boring went along well enough
they concluded to keep on turning, and to trust to the
force of the water, when they struck it, to drive the loose
dirt up from the hole. When they had gone down about
three hundred and fifty feet, they began so think it queer
that there were no signs of water; but they bored a hun-
dred feet further, and one day, just as they were begin-
ning on another hundred, there was an excitement in at
Murphy’s.

Murphy lives next door to the foundry, and on the day
in question, his boy came running into the house and told
him to come into the garden quick for there was some
kind of an extraordinary animal with a sharp nose bur-
rowing up out of the grouud. Murphy concluded that it
must be either a potato bug or a grasshopper that had
been hatched in the spring, and he took out a bottle of
bug-poison to drop on it when it came up. When Murphy
reacted the spot there certainly was some kind of a crea-
ture slowly pushing its way up through the sod. It’s nose
seemed to resemble a sharp point like steel. Murphy
dropped some poison on it, but it didn’t appear to mind
the stuff, but kept slowly creeping up from the ground.
Then Murphy felt it, and was astonished to find that it felt
exactly like the end of a fork prong. He sent the boy in
to Call Perkins and the rest of the neighbors, Pretty soon
a large crowd collected, and by this time the animal had
emerged to the extent of a couple of inches.

Everybody was amazed to see that it looked exactly
like the end of a large auger, and two or three timid men
were so scared at the idea of such a thing actually grow-
ing out of the earth that they suddenly got over thie fence
and left. Perkins couldn’t account for it, but he suggest-
ed that maybe somebody might have planted a gimlet
there, and it had taken root and blossomed out #jto an
auger; but he admitted that he never heard of gach a

 

cepted by Thompson.

thing before. ‘a

Murphy said that if that kind of thing would work, he
probably might go into the business regularly, and raise
axes by planting hatchelts, aud guus by sowing pistols,
The excitement increased so that the men who were
boring the Artesian well Knocked off and came over to
see the phenomenon. It was noticed that as soon as they
Stopped work the auger Ceased to grow, aud when they
meen they looked at it fora minute, and one of them
said:

“Bill, do you recognize that auger ???

“I think I do,” said Bill.

“Well, Bill, you go and unhitch that wheel from the
other end of the rod.””

Bill did so; and then the other man asked the crowd to
take hold of the auger and pull. They did, and out came
four hundred and fifty feet of ironrod. That auger had
slid off to the side, turned upward, and come to the sur-
face in Murphy’s garden. Then the Artesian well was
abandoned, aud Brown, the foundry man, bought asteam
pump aud began to get water from the river.

MRS. BUTTERWICKH’S FAILING.

— “Yes, sir,’? said Butterwick to me, the other day, in
alluding to his wife, “she’s an uncommon fine woman
about most things; loves her children, makes splendid
pies, don’t fool any with any of those fan-dangling ways
women have of fixing their hair, and she’san angel for
temper; but she’s the awfulest woman for going to auc-
tions Lever see. I pledge youmy word she’s filled my
house with the wildest mess of truck you ever came
across outside a museum of natural curiosities, and spent
more money for old dilapidated wrecks that wouldn’t be
allowed in the cellar of a poor-house than’d pay the na-
tional debt. It’s a positive fact.

“Why, you know Bloomfields that sold out the other
day? Well, sir, she went to that sale, and just bid away
as reckless as if she was buying diamonds, Absolutely
came home witha wagon-load of things—from German
Silver teapots without any lids or handles, the front posts
of a bedstead and three slats, a couple of churns, and
fourteen second-hand sunbonuets, and a lot more mourn-
fui refuse like that. Said she didn’t intend to buy, but
she bid on it to run it up to help Mrs. Bloomfield, and the
auctioneer knocked it down to her quicker'n a wink. Said
it was ‘‘Lot 27,” and she had to take it all. And she said she
thought maybe she could cut up those sunbonnets into
bibs for the twins, and use the teapots for preserves. She
thouglit maybe she might make a pretty fair bedstead out
of the posts by propping the other end up on a chair; and
she said it was a lucky thing she was so forehanded as to
get those churns, because some timeshe might havea
cow knocked down toher,and then she would be all
ready for it. More’n likely she’ll buy up some old steer,
and fetch him home under the impression it’s a cow. You
can’t count on her when she’s got the fever on her.
“Why, when Paxtons had their sale, in May, she was
around there, of course, and came home after dinner with
the usual dismembered furniture, and wien I said to her,
‘Louisa, Why under heaven did you bidin that mua-
dredge and a sausage-stuffer?’ she said she thought the
sausage-stuffer would do for a cannon for the boys on the
Fourth of July, and there was no telling whether Charley
wouldn’t want to beacivil engineer when he grew up,
and maybe he’d get a contract for deepening the channel
in the river, and then he’d rise up and bless the mother
whose prudent foresight had bought a mud-dredge for
two dollars and saved it up for him. I sold that scoop on
Wednesday, for old iron, for fifteen cents, and Ill bang
the head off of Charley if he ever goes to dredging mud
or playing cannon with the sausage-stuffer. I won’thave
my boys carrying on like she does,

“Over there at Partridge’s sale, I believe she’d a bid on
the whole concernif 1 hadn’t ¢omein whileshe wasa
going it. Aud asit wasshe bought an aneroid barome-
ler, eight dozen iron skewers, @ sacking bottom, and four
volumes of Eliza Cook’s poeins. Said she thought those
poems were some kind of cookery books, or she wouldn’t
a bid on them, and the barometer ’d be valuable to tell us
Which was north. MWorth, mind you! She thought a bar-
ometer was to tell the points of the compass. And yet
they want to let women vote. i threw in those skewers
along with the mud-dredge, and she’s used the sacking
bottom twice to patch Charley’s pants, aud that’s ali the
good we ever got out of that auction.

**But she don’t care for utility. It’s simply a mania for
buying things. Why we haven’t a stovein the house
since the furnaces were putin, and yet what does she do
at Murphy’s sale but bid on sixty-four feet and tliree el-
bows ol the rustiest stovepipe you ever saw, and Cart it
home with four debilitated gingham umbrellas with half
the ribs lame and only two handles in the lot; actually
brought them home, and then had the face to argue with
me that the umbrellas were a bargain, because by putting
on new covers and handles, and a few extra ribs, we
could give them as Christmas presents to her aunts; aud
the stovepipe could be put around the peach trees to keep
the cows off. How in thunder sie was ever going to get
it round a peach tree never crossed her mind. Just as
impracticable as a baby!

“I know when Bailey had the auction at his insurance
office she was there, of course, and bidding away at every-
thing. So, sure enough, what did she come booming
home with that afternoon but Bailey’s pall-parrot, a cir-
cular saw, an accordion that had the bowels out, so it
wouldn’t play, and eight boxes of envelopes with direc-
tions printed on the back to ‘A. O. Murchison, Cincin-
nati.’ It amused me. She wanted to use that. circular
saw a8 a dinner gong, but it was cracked, and now she
uses itasa griddle for muffins. That poll-parrot Bailey
had taught toswear, so that I was afraid it ’d demoralize
the twins, 80} @on’t mina vemug you in confidence that I
killed it by putting bug-poison in a water cracker; and
when J growled about those envelopes she began to cry,
and asked me how I knew Charley wouldn’t fall in love
with some girl in Cincinnati named A. O. Murchison, and
want to write to her frequently, and then those envelopes
would come into play. I thinkshe was rather in favor of
shipping Charley off to Ohio to hunt up some girl of that
name, so’s he really could fall in love with her and utilize
those envelopes. But she abandoned the idea finally. O!
she’s phenomenal,

“Now Isee there’s an auction advertised for Friday at
Peters’s; and Peters has got a pyramid of old tomato cans
piled upin his back yard. Now yousee if that woman
don’t bid on those cans till she runs them up toa dollar
apiece, and then come lugging them around to our house
with some extraordinary idea about loading them up with
gunpowder and selling them to the government during
the next war as bombshells. If she does—if she buys
those cans, mind you, l’in going to resign. I’m going to
quit before I’m bankrupt. I’m a good-vatured man, but
no woman shall bring home . vv toinato cans to my house
and retain a claim upon my affections.’

HOW HE REFORMED.

— When the Rev. Isaiah Latimer first went out asa
missionary to the Fiji Islands, his preaching made a very
deep impression upona prominent chieftain named Foc
Loo, and the chieftain told the missionary that he believed
he would give up idolatry and come into thechurch. Be-
fore accepting him finally Mr. Latimer made some inquiry
concerning his domestic habits, and he was pained to find
that Foo Loo had three wives. Mr. Latimer went to him
and had some conversation about it. He told him that
that sort of thing would never do, and that there was no
use of his trying to become a convert until he had gotten
rid of twoofhis wives. This was on Wednesday. On the
following Friday, Foo Loo sent for My. Latimer to come
around to dine with him. When the missionary arrived
the chieftain told him, with a smile, that he had the thing
fixed allright now; that he had reduced the partnership
to himself and one wife, aud that now he expected to be
both good and happy.

Mr. Latimer was just about toask him what had be-
come of the other two women, when Foo Loo asked him
to walk out to dinner. He went, and ashe entered the
dining-room he cast hiseye upon the table. There lay
Mrs. Foo Loo No, 2, dished up in akind of a fricassee, and
by her side Mrs. Foo Loo No. 8, roasted whole. Both
were nicely decorated with bunches of cut paper stuck
upon their toes, and they were trimmed around with pars-
ley, aud slices of beets and lemons, and No. 8 was stuffed
with bread fruit and onions, and she hada baked applein
her mouth; while No, 2 was dished up with gravy and mint
sauce. The chieftain smiled at Mr. Latimer as he waved
him to a seat at the festive board, and asked him if he did
not now believe that his convert was in real earnest. Mr.
Latimer turned pale and felt around for his hat. Grasping
it, and holding his umbrella firmly in his hand, he went for
the door, and hungry as he was, he left the banquet be-
hind him, and started on a bee-line for home, leaying the
convert in a condition of pained surprise. That night he
packed up his sermons and his clothes, put his trunk ina
canoe, and paddled off to a whaling vessel which lay in
the harbor. As he sailed away Foo Loo stood looking
after him, and wondering if he would be back in time to
have some of the meat cut down cold.

After waiting for amonth be became disgusted, and
bought a new idol and changed his views. Mr. Latimer
sailed for America, and when he got home he complained
to his friends that the climate unsettled his stomach.
Since then he has been tending to the heathen in his own
neighborhood, and he often thinks how much nicer it is
than to be where he probably would be now if he had
stayed in the interior of Foo Loo and his family.

“It would be cheaper than a cemetery lotand an under-
taker’s services,” he says to himself; ‘tout I would rather
sacrifice a little something and pay the difference.”’

CHARITY.

“Qharity covers & multitude of sins.’ To be charitable
to others, in all their failings, feel for their sorrows and
afflictions, do for others as we would wish them to do
for us—this is charity. How often have we felt in our in-
most heart, how much better it was to give than receive.
“Qast thy bread upon the waters and after many days it
shall return.”? How often do we see this promise verified.
We know not how our lot may be cast in this life. Though
everything may be prosperous, the time may come when
we ourselves may have need of charity. Then let us be
charitable in all our dealings with one another. If all
were charitable how much better and happier our lives
would be. Have charity in argument, in everything
where there is need of this virtue. My heart has ached
with anguish when I have witnessed the woes and sor-
rows of those I felt for but could not alleviate. I could
only pray to the great Father to relieve them, And those
who reside in cities, how much of suffering do they see.
Our hearts bleed as it were for them. Ihave wished, oh,
so fervently, that I might have the wherewith to seek out
the poor and needy and relieve their necessity. Then let
us be charitable. and obey our Heavenly Father’s com-
mands, seek to do good in this life that we may inherit
the kingdom of Heaven, Christ has told us, ‘*The pocr
you have always with you.’? With charity in our hearts
we.May with our hands dispense its blessings, EH. A. M.