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J. W. ANDERSON, Editor and Proprietor ARAB LOVE SONG, TUe love fires glitter in the sky, The earth is filled with dreamy light. Ob, come to me, for I am nigh! Oh, come to me, my soul’s delight! The earth is filled with dreamy light. The night wind scatters odors sweet. Oh, come to me, my soul’s delight ! fio! I am waiting at thy feet 1 Tire night wind scatters odors sweet, It wakes the slumber-laden flowers. Lo 1 am waiting at thy feet— 01), leave thy jasmine-scented bowers ! It wakes the slumber-laden flowers, The nightingale breaks for th in song. Oh. leave thy jasmine-scented bowers! My heart, why tarriest thou so long ? The nightingale breaks forth in song, The roses sway above the gate. My heart, why tarriest thou so long? When they awake wilt thou still wait ? The roses sway above the gate, Thy sister blossoms, red and white. Winn they awake wilt thou still wait ? Oh, eomo to me, my soul's delight! ttYDNEV HeBBEET PlEIiSON. JOHN’S DAUGHTER. “Ton will care for my child? You will not let my little one suffer?” My old friend and college chum, John Harmon said this as ho wrung my hand hard. I repeated my promise that in my own homenest, where there was a nursery full of little ones, Susie Har¬ mon should hold a daughter’s place. We were standing upon the wharf waiting for the signal that it was time for my friend to step aboard an out¬ going California steamer. Ho had lost his wife within the year, aud soon after was beggared by a fire that totally de¬ stroyed the cotton mills in which he had held the position of superintendent for ten years. With his home desolate, his purse empty, he resolved, as many a man had done before him, to seek his fortune in the modern Ei Dorado, aud dig for gold in her mines. The only drawback to this scheme was the difficulty of taking his three year-old daughter, who had been in the caro of hired nurses since her mother died. I, who shared every thought of John’s mind, talked with my wife, and found her eagerly willing to take care of the little one. “I am sure I loved Mary as well as you loved John, she said, “and there is no one can have a stronger claim upon the child than we have.” Bo, sure of her cordial welcome in onr nursery, I made John the offer of a home for his little one, and it was ac¬ cepted as lovingly as it was offered. This care removed, my friend hastened his preparations for departure, and I ac¬ companied him to New York and saw him off. The next morning I returned home to find Susie almost inconsolable, crying perpetually for “papa to come to Susie.” My wife was distracted at the failure to comfort this childish sorrow, and our own three children looked on wonder ingly at -— “Naughty Susie, who cried and oried, after mamma told her to be quiet.” Fortunately, Susie was accustomed to see me, to snuggle iu my arms when I talked with John, to associate me with her father, and she allowed me to com fort her. In time this violent grief wore away, and the child became very happy in our care. My business, that of a hardware merchant, being very pros lercus, we did not feel the additional expense of the child’s support a burden; and as the years wore by, she was as dear to us as our own little ones. But she understood always that she was not our child, but had a dear fathei who loved her fondly, and was away from her only to make a fortune for her. As soon as she was old enough she had her father’s letters read to her, and hei first efforts at penmanship were letters to “Papa.” John wrote often for ten years, re counting his varying success, sometimes sending money to buy presents for Su¬ sie. Ho was winning fortune slowly not at the mines, where his health brokt down, but iu the employ of a San Frau cisco merchant, and some speculation/ in real estate. He was not a rich man, he wrote after an absence of ten years, but pros peril)g, when he purposed paying ns a visit. He wrote hopefully of seeing his child, perhaps of taking her home with him, setting no definite time, but lead¬ ing us to expect soon to see him. Then his letters ceased, and he did not come. J wrote again and again. Susie wrote. No answers came to either one or the ‘ ‘her. We did not know the name ol : ‘is employer, and after nearly two years more passed we sadly thought he must he dead. Tt might have seemed to many un¬ natural for Susie to grieve so deeply as ■ be did for a father almost unknown tc ber in reality, but she was a girl ol most sensitive feelings, with a tender, loving heart, aud we had always kept her father's name before her, striving to , uin him a place in her fondest affection. That we had succeeded only too web was shown by her sorrow, when week after week passed, and there was nc good news from California. “ ou we had really lost all hope, it 1 oeanie Susie’s great pleasure to sit be 'tde me and ask me again and again for ue stories I remembered of her father’s & m he Comnaton Star. boyhood and youth, his college life, our many excursions, and, above all, of liis marriage and the gentle wife and mother so early called to heaven. She dearly loved those talks, and no memories were more precious than my description of her father’s pain in part mg from her, and his desire to win money in California only for her. Tims softened Susie’s grief, and at eighteen she was one of the sweetest, most winning girls I ever saw. Without being a wonder of erudition, she was well educated, had a fair musical talent and a sweet, well-cultivated voice. She was tall and graceful, and when she was introduced to society with Joanna, my handsome, brunnette daughter, both be came popular. Albert and Will., my boys, were oldex than the girls; Albert in business with me, and Will at college, the winter when Joanna and Susie made their debut. It would take me quite too long to tell of the pleasures of the young folks during this winter, but Joanna was won from us by a Cuban gentleman, and Susie became, if possible, dearer than ever. Spring had come, when one evening Albert came into my library, where I was ploddingoverabook, having worked busily all day. He fussed about the books in a nervous way, quite unlike his usual quiet manner and finally said: “Father, yon have often said Susie is as dear to you as one of your own chil¬ dren.” I looked up amazed at this opening speech. “Well?” I asked. “Will you make her your daughter in fact by giviug her to me for a wife ?” Dear ! dear! To think I had been so blind. Susie had in truth become so much one of our children that I was as much astonished as if Albert had fallen in love with Joanna. But I soon found, when Snsie’s blush¬ ing face was hidden upon my breast, that she, too, had given away her heart, and I was only too well pleased that no stranger had won the precious gift. In September they were married, my son and the child of our adoption, and 1 gave them a house next our own for a home, having old-fashioned ideas about such matters, and believing it is better for young married people to live by themselves and assume housekeeping cares. The new home was a gem of neatness under Susie’s dainty fingers, and the spirit of perfect love kept it ever bright. Having been brother and sister for so many years, Albert and Susie thorough¬ ly understood each other’s dispositions imd I have never known domestic hap¬ piness more perfect than theirs. Susie's first child, named for her father, John Harmon, was two years old, when the mail brought me a letter in an unknown band from Cincinnati. 1 opened it, and upon a large sheet ol paper found written, in a scrawling, un¬ even hand, three lines: “Dear Sir: Will you come to me at 47 M--street without letting Snsie know. John Harmon.” At first I behoved it was a hoax. John had written a bold, clerk-like hand, clear as print. This was a scrawl, struggling all over the paper, uneven as the first penmanship of a little child. But the more I pondered over the matter the more I was inclined to obey the summons. So pleading business, saying nothing of the letter tc any one, I left home by the night train for Cin¬ cinnati No. 47 M-street I found to be a boarding house for the poorest classes, and in a shabby room, half furnished, 1 found au aged, worn man, perfectly blind, who rose to greet me, sobbing. “Fred, I knew you would come.” “Why, old friend,” I said, when sur¬ prise and emotion would let me speak, “how is this? We thought you were dead.” “Does Snsie think so ?” “Yes. We all gave you up.” “Do not undeceive her, Fred. 1 meant to come home to her rich, able to gratify every desire of her girlish heart. Do not let her know that only a blind, sick wreck is left for her to call father. Tell me of her, Fred. Is she well ? Is she happy ?" “She is both, John—a happy wife and mother.” “Married ! My little Susie ?” “Married to Albert, my son, of whom you may judge when I tell you folks say he is his father over again.” “I would ask no more for my child,” said John. Then, in answer to my anxious ques¬ tions, he told me the story i f the years of silence. He was preparing to pay ns his promised visit when a great fire broke out in San Francisco, that ruined his employer for the time, and swept awav a row of buildings uninsured, in Iota « to «.ed a)) Mb Worst of all, in trying to save the books of the firm, John was injured on the head by a falling beam, and lay for months in a hospital. When he so far reC overed as to be discharged, his mind wf £ still impaired, and he could not per form the duties of clerk or snperiutend ent, while kis health was too feeble for manual labor. “I struggled for daily bread alone, Fred,” he told me, “and when I re ceived yonr loving letters, and dear Su- COVINGTON, GEORGIA, > MARCH a 1885. fortune’s wheel. It never came, Fred. I left California three years ago, and came here, where I was promised the place of foreman in a great pork-packing house. I saved a little money and was hoping for better times when my health failed again, and this time with it my eye-sight. I hoped against hope, spending my sav¬ ings to have the best advice, and not until I was pronounced incurable would I write to you. I want you to take me to an asylum, Fred; and, as I must be a pauper patient, I must go to my own town. You will take me, Fred ?” “I will take you to an asylum, John,’ I promised. “Aud Snsie? You will keep my se cret. You will not disturb Susie’s hap¬ piness ?” “I will not trouble Susie’s happiness,” f said. Yet an hour later I was writing to Su¬ sie, and I delayed our departure from Cincinnati till an answer came. It was the answer I expected from the tender, loving heart, but I said nothing of it to John. Caring tenderly for his comfort, I took him on his way homeward. It was even¬ ing when we reached the railway depot of our own town, aud as we had been long cramped in the car-seats, I propost to walk home. “Is it not too far off?” John asked “I thought the asylum was a long wa from here.” “Oh, the whole place is changed from the little village you left 1” I answered; “We have a great town here now, and yonr asylum is not very far from here. ” He let me lead him then, willingly enough, and we were not long iu reach¬ ing Susie’s home. She was alone in the cheerful sitting-room as we entered, but obayed my motion for silence, as I placed John in a great arm chair, after removing his hat and coat. He looked wretchedly old and worn, and his clothes were shabby, yet Susie’s soft eyes, misty with tears, had only love in their expres¬ sion as she waited permission to speak, j “John,” I said to him, “if I had found you in a pleasant home, happy and prosperous, and I had known that Susie was poor, sick and blind, would it have been a kindly act for me to hide her misfortune from you, and passing by your home, to have placed her in the care of charit able strangers ?” “Fred., you would never have done that!” he said, much agitated. “Never !” I answered. “You are right. But you, John, ask me to take from Susie the happiness of knowing a father's love, the sweet duty of caring for a father’s affliction.” “No, no, Fred., T only ask you to put no burden upon her young life, to throw no cloud over her happiness. I am old and feeble; I shall trouble no one Ioug.” “And when you die, you would de¬ prive yonr only child of the satisfaction of ministering to your wants—take from her her father’s blessing." He turned his sightless eyes toward me, his whole face working convul¬ sively. “Where is she, Fred. ? Yon would not talk so if you did not know my child still loves her father.” “I am here, father,” Susie said; and I stole softly away, as John clasped his child in bis arms. Albert was in the dining-room with Johnnie, and I was ebattiug still with him, when I heard John calling: “Fred. ! Fred. !” I hurried to the room to find him struggling to rise, Susie vainly trying to calm him. “I want my child !” he cried, deliri¬ ously. “you promised me my child 1” I saw at a glance that the agitation of the evening had brought back the wan¬ dering mind, of which he had told me. Albert and I released Susie, who left us quickly. Some finer instinct than we possessed guided her, for she returned with Johu nie, and whispering him to be very good and kiss grandpapa, she put him in her father's arms. In a second his ex¬ citement was gone, and he fondled the curly head, while Johnnie obediently pressed his lips upon the withered cheek. So, in a little time, they fell asleep, Johnnie nestled in the feeble arms, and the withered face drooping upon the golden curls. We watched them silently, till we saw a shadow pass over John’s face, and a change settle there that comes hut once in life. Gently Albert lifted the sleeping chilit, and carried him to the nursery, while Susie and I sat beside the arm-chair. “Uncle Fred,” she whispered, “Al¬ bert will go for a doctor. But may I waken him ? Let him speak to me once more J” Even as she spoke John opened his eyes. All the wild look was gone from ! “1X1* "SXSS . . smile came upon the wasted lips, and he said softly, tenderly: “Susie, my own little child, Snsie.” Aud with the name on his lips John’s spirit went to seek an eternal asylum, in which there will be no more poverty, pain or blindness. To Make Them.— One of the surest recipes for making hard times, says au exchange, is to talk hard times and keep up the chatter. MWH IN A COAL MINE. j HOW SIINERS CAN DU! BRAVEI.T Calmly VVrilinjc MeMnset lo fioved Utica Willie Deuth Creeps Upon Then, Sixteen years ago there was a terrible colliery explosion in Saxony, by which a iarge number of miners lost their lives. Of that disaster an old miner in Scran¬ ton has preserved a most remarkable record in a series of manuscript copies, translated iuto English, of messages written to their friends by such of the doomed Saxon miners as were not killed outright by the explosion, but were pre¬ served for the no less sure and more ter¬ rible death by suffocation, as the poi¬ soned gases slowly destroyed tho pure air that remained in the mine. These messages were found in note-books and on scraps of paper on the dead bodies of the poor men when they were at last re¬ covered. The manuscript copies of these touching notes were made in Cornwall by a relative of the old miner, and were sent to him shortly aRer the disaster. They are interesting outside of their pathos, as answering tho fre¬ quently asked question, How do men feel when about to die—not after being wasted and weakened by disease, or when the blood is heated by the strife of battle, but when they see inevitable death slowly but certainly approaching them, and kuow that in exactly so many minutes it will seize upon them ? Do they rage and struggle against their fate, or do they meet it with calmness and resignation? These messages show that the poor miners awaited the com¬ ing of death with singular calmness and resignation. Not one word in the whole reoord reveals a feeling of bitterness against the fata they eould not avert. There is a curious pathos in some ol the lines scrawled by these death-be¬ sieged men in the gloom of their nar¬ row prison. A young man, Janetz by name, had pinned to his coat a leaf from a note-hook. On it were written his last words to his sweetheart: “Darling Rika—My last thought was of thee. Thy name will be the last word my lips shall speak. Farewell,” The miner Reiehe, when his body was found, clutched iu his hand a scrap of paper. “Dear sister,” it read, “Meyer, in the village, owes me ten thalers. It is yours. I hope my face will not be dis¬ torted when they find us. I might have been better to yon. Good-by.” Reiehe, according to the old Scranton jniuer, who seem3 to have the histories of all the unfortunate Saxon miners at his tongue’s end, was a severe man, and though just to his sister, who was his only relative, gave her no liberties. The thought that he had not done right evi¬ dently haunted him in his death hour. The absence of all selfishness, all re pinings on account of themselves, is touchingly apparent in all the messages. “My dear relations,” wrote the miner Schmidt, “while seeing death before me I remember you. Farewell until we meet again in happiness. ” Lying next to young Janefz, whose message to his sweetheart is quoted above, a miner named Moretz was found. On a paper in his cap was written: “Janefz has just died. Reiehe is dying and says, ‘Tell my family I leave them with God.’ Farewell, dear wife. Farewell, dear children. May God keep you.” The miners who died by suffocation had evi¬ dently been driven from one place o. refuge to auotber, according to the fol¬ lowing, found in the note book of a miner named Bahr: “This is the last place where we havo taken refuge. I have given up all hope, because the ventila¬ tion has been destroyed in three separate places. May God take myself and rela¬ tives, and dear friends who must die with me, as well as our families, under His protection.” “Dear wife,” writes Moller, “take good care of Mary. In a book in tbe bedroom you wilt Had a thaler. Fare¬ well, dear mother, till we meet again.” Mary was the miner’s only child, who was blind. A miner named Jahue or Jaehn wrote to bis brother, who was a miner, but had been unable to work that day “Thank God for his goodness, brother You are safe. ” “No more toil in darkness,” wrote another. The uniform spirit of piety that marked all the messages of the dying men was explained by the custodian of these touching records, He said the miners of Saxony are aft fleared in a strict religious school, and that on enter¬ ing the miues they all petition Heaven for protection through the day, and on leaving the mines return thanks to God for guarding them and bringing them safely through the dangers or their toil. “I never read the simple messages of those poor men without moistened eyes,” said the old miner, and his eyes were certainly more than moist as he spoke. “I can picture to myself the scene of the rough-handed but soft-hearted men, spending their last moments not in wild .•ries for mercy and screams of remorse, nor in repinings against their cruel fate, out in sending these farewell messages to their loved ones, who wire even then I tiewailing them as dead. While my heart bleeds over the picture, I thank j God that, tfce’v humble miners though they 1 were, showed the world how bravely ' and nobly they could die.' ««.«*« Uurd WorU by Day and Jolly Times at Nigltt iu the For, tug of iUalue. Bespits the unprofitable year just past in the lumber business, the woods¬ men have gone in swarms from Bangor, as usual, this winter, to cut spruce and piue on the upper Penobscot. One in¬ ducement to the lumbermen to operate is the low cost of provisions, it being possible to board a crew of men 20 to 25 per cent, cheaper than a year ago. ' Labor also is low, as the Prince Edward Island boys have poured into Bangor by | (he hundred this season looking for em- | ployment, and they have put wages down and kept them there. Think of a stout young man swinging an ax all winter for $10 to $15 a month and his board. These are the wages accepted by many of the Prince Edward Island loggers. There was a time in the days of big pines, near by, when a woodsman was looked upon as a man who had learned a trade. Many people have queer ideas of how loggers iive in the woods. They buiid a camp immediately, if there is not one already near the scene of their work, and are seldom more than a day about it. The camp is simply a log house, with low sides and steep-pitched roof. The chinks of the walls are filled in with mud, moss, and leaves, and a high bank¬ ing of earth or snow reaches almost to the eaves outside. The entrance is iu one end, aud the only window is iu the opposite end. The cook and his as¬ sistant have a sort of panfy partitioned off at the window end, and there are wood and provision storerooms on either side of the entrance. The remainder of the building forms one room. On one side is a long conch made of boughs, hay or straw, covered with heavy quilts and blankets, on which the men sleep in a row. On the opposite side is a long table, made of small logs, hewn smooth on top, on which the food is served. In front of it is a big log hewn out for a settee, and called the deacon seat. The men, when done eating, have only to turn around in their seat .to toast their shins at a big fire of logs, which glows like a small vocanol in the midst of all, and sends its smoke and sparks through a hole in the roof, six feet square, the draft being aided by a roof-tree. The fare is plain and monotonous, but wholesome and substantial. Pork and beans, bread and molasses, aud pork fat, the latter used for butter, make up a breakfast at suurise. Then the crew go to work, and, if near by the camp, they come back at 12 o’clock for dinner, which is beans and pork, with perk scraps and doughnuts. The men work until it is too dark to tell a hem¬ lock from a spruce, and then come back to eat a supper of the same viands, varied with dried apple-sauce. Fish is served ones or twice a week. The bev¬ erage is cheap tea. Evenings and Sundays are passed in telling wonderful yarns, singing ear splitting songs, and smoking. In some camps the men play cards, and gamble for tobacco, clothing, and even wages. The woods beans are the best of all naked beans, and pat Boston in tho shade. They are cooked in an iron pot placed in a pit surrounded by live coals and covered tightly with earth over night. In the morning they are done to a turn. No range can compete with the bean hole of the woods. The woodsmen range iu ago from 16 to 65. dress iu heavy woolen or knit un¬ derwear, cheap ready-made clothes, cloth or knitted caps, moccasins, and many socks and mittens. They work on an average four months,. come out as fat as bears, and with from 850 to $150 due them. They spend the money, and then are ready to work on the river or go driving. He is in Troublo. The Arizona editor has got into trou ble. He explains it thus : “We edit our paper this week from the jail, where wo are living for the present. We have been put in the jug for a month because we resented au insult offered us by the pin-feather journalist who tries to run an opposition paper in this town. But if he thinks he will muzzle the press in this way he is mistaken. Like Edmund Yates, we shall come out of jail stronger than ever, aud shall take our place iu the world with renewed vigor and A month is not a long time to a man with a good conscience, which onr case. We would reqnest our to turn in all items of news to the jailer, who wiJl give them us.” A Farmer Lord. A Sioux City correspondent says that F. Sagden, a member of the English in Arlington, twenty miles east of place, has lieen notified from Eng¬ of his acoesaion to the baronetcy of Leonard through the death of Lord Leonard, who fignred in the courts a year ago on a charge of at- | violence on the person of a do- i iu the residence of a gentleman ho was visiting. Mr. Sagden, or Bug,” as he was familiarly called the other colonists, made no preten to being anything more than a farmer. He always comes to town a lumber wagon, and is popular in circled. VOL. XI, NO IT. THE GUT FAWKES PLOT. Tlio Infninoiss Conspiracy to Blow Uptbe House of fiords Uecitlled. The exp’osions in the English House of Parliament recall the infamous “gun¬ powder plot,” of 1605, for which Guy Fawkes was executed in London, Janu¬ ary 30, 1606. The event has already boon a memorable one in the history of Eugland, aud November 5, the day of the disclosure, was set apart as a day of thanksgiving, 'The and is religiously observed in England. historical features of the affair may be told briefly. Guy Fawkes was an adventurer, who, at the time the plot of blowing up the House cf Parliament, and thus destroying tho King, Lords and Commons, was con¬ ceived, was serving in the Spanish army in the Netherlands. Upon the accession of James I., the severe penal lipvs of Elizabeth against Romanists were again put into execu¬ tion, contrary to the expectations of the followers of that faith. The plot was conceived by Robert Catesby, a Homan Catholic of ! ancient family, who au vowed vengeance against the English rulers for the severity of the penal laws. Guy Fawkes was the fourth person ad¬ mitted into the conspiracy. He with the others took the oath of secrecy, aud the sacrament was administered by a Jesuit priost. Among the other con¬ spirators was Thomas Winter, who se¬ lected Fawkes to visit Spain aud solicit the intervention of the King iu behalf of - the English Catholics. Fawkes re¬ turned to England in 1604, haviug been unsuccessful in his mission. Shortly afterward-Thomas Peroy, another one of the conspirators, rented a house ad¬ joining the one in which Parliament was to assemble, and Fawkes, who was un¬ known in London, took possession of it under the assumed name of Johnson. Parliament adjourned until Feb. 7,1605, and on Dee. 11 following, the conspira¬ tors held a secret meoting in the house. The work of exoavatuig a mine was be¬ gun and seven men were engaged iu this labor until Christmas Eve. They never appeared in the upper part of tho house, where Fawkes kept a constant watch. When Parliament reassembled the work was abandoned, bat finally completed betwee n February and May following. About this time Fawkes hired a vault beneath the House of Lords, which had been vacated by a dealer in coal. At night thirty-six bar¬ rels of gunpowder were carried into the vault aud covered with faggots. The conspirators then adjourned to hold a consultation. A number of wealthy men were taken into the plot, among whom were Sir Everard Digby, Ambrose Rjokwood and Francis Tresh am. Parliament was to meet again on November 5, and Fawkes was appointed to fire the mine with a slow match. Some of the new men who had been ad¬ mitted into the conspiracy, desired to save their Catholic friends in the two houses. Lord Mouteagle, a Roman Catholic peer, received au anonymous i note cautioning him against attending 1 I he meeting of Parliament. The matter was laid before King James, and at mid¬ night, November 4, a search was ma lo of the neighboring houses and cellars, which resulted in the capture of Guy Fawkes as he was coming from the cel¬ lar. Matches and torchwood were found iu his pockets. Although put to torture, he refused to' disclose the names of his confederates. A meeting of the con¬ spirators was convened, and in the ex- J citement that followed they were ail either killed or captured. Guy Fawkes an 1 eight others were tried, after which they were drawn, hanged and quartered Alleged Penitentiary Abuses. CHARGES OF INHUMANITY WHICH HAVE CAUSED A SENSATION IN TENNESSEE. A few days ago the Nashville Bannet published a report of Dr. E. D. Sim, chairman of the Committee ou Prisons aud State Board of Health of Tennessee, making a severe criticism on the present penitentiary system. The Banner in¬ dulged in some strong editorial com¬ ments upon the system as represented iu Sim’s report and was sued for $60,000 for an alleged libel, and two of its pro¬ prietors indicted by the Grand Jury. The Banner insists that its assertions can be sustained by proof, and publishes j an interview with Dr. J. W. Reed, rep resentative from Campbell county. Dr. Reed said the convicts at the coal mines have been cruelly treated; that he and Drs. Smith aud Britton hail die sected the l>ody of a convict four hours after death; that it was customary to j furnish physicians with dead convicts, and that he never knew the body of a convict to be buried. He also says the convicts are whipped unmercifully. Sick or well, if any fail to complete the task i for them they are whipped. He continued: “I have known some be so sick that they could not com¬ their task, and -others have Volun¬ to help them out to keep them having the lash applied to them, remember that not long ago the bank forced some convicts to go into a when it was suspected to be on fire. refused to go himself, but pushed j convicts iu and two of them were j One was blown seventy yards I crushed to death. There has not j a single charge brought against the ; 1 system that cannot he i STRAY BITS OF HUMOR FOUND IN.Til IS UlIJHOUOl/S COLUMNS OF OUU EXCHANGES. Not too Fresh—Where interest Censed-A /Sober Indian—The Sleigh Bells— Ou » Car. Etc. NOT TO BE OUTDONE. At Potaluma, a small milk-can station on the Napa road, a fervent appeal was made last Sunday by the pastor of the proposed church there for funds to build h aid edifice. Not a cow-puncher moved. The entire congregation of teat-squeezers seemed wrapped in slumber. As the minister gazed mournfnlly around a hen suddenly flew out of the old ping hat used as a contribution box, making a terrific cackling. The pastor approached the hat and beheld a new-laid egg. Holding up tho hen fruit, he exclaimed sarcastically: “She has contributed her all. Will you allow yourselves to be outdone by a hen?” The effect was electrical! In less than twenty minutes there was over forty-five cents in the pool.— Sar Francisco Post. THE MOTHER’S ADVICE. “What do you think of Mr. Thomp¬ son, ma?” “He seems to be very nice; but I would not encourage him if I were you.” “Why, mamma?” “He has red hair, and red-headed men aro always deceitful.” “But pa has red hair.” “Well, not quite red, child- It’s quite red enough, though.” TOO FRESH. A young gentleman who was pledgee to take a young lady to a party, re¬ marked on the afternoon previous to the event that ho was going home to take r sleep in order to be fresh. “That’s right," she replied, “but dr not sleep too long.” “Why ?” he asked. “Because,” she answered, “I do not want vou to be too fresh.”— Schenectady Union. DAVE WAS ERECTED. “Well, Dave, you got elected, after all, didn’t yon?” “Yes, I did.” “It was a mighty tight squeeze, though, wasn’t it ?” “It was, for a fact.” “Took a heap of hard work, didn’t it?” ‘ No, not such an awful sight, but it took just oceans of behaving. "—Chicago Ledger. A BLACK EYE. “Johnnie, have you been fighting?’ gravely inquired Mrs. Muggins. “No, ma’am,” promptly answered the heir of the Mugginses. “John Muggins; how dare you tell me an untiuth 1” exclaimed his mother. “Where did you get that black eye,sir ?" “I traded another boy two front teeth and a broken nose for it,” replied John nie as lie crossed the woodpile.— St. Louis Post. A FOLLOWER. An American strolled into a fashion able church just before the services be¬ gan. The sexton followed him up, anti tapping him on the shoulder, and point¬ ing to a small cur that had followed him into the sacred edifice, said : “Dogs are not admitted.” “That’s not my dog,” replied the visitor, “But he follows you.” “Well, so do you.” The sexton growled, and removed th« dog with unnecessary violence. THE SLEIGH BELLS. The sleigh bolls tinkle merrily, The moon shim s cold and bright, And ClariheU’B laugh cheerily Rings out upon the night. The grind and crackle of the snow Is music to her ear, She only thinks “How fast we go I” Nor l;as she caro nor fear; Happy behind the flying «pan i She sits beside her Will, l Who thinks “I wonder if I can Get trusted for the bill?" —Boston Post. NOT HIS NAME. Oat in Xenia, Ohio, there is a bright lawyer. There is a score of them in faet, but this bright particular legal star is Heury Warrington. I call him Henry Warrington because that is not his name, His real name appears oh the playbills of “Youth.” Well, the Second Advent ists came to Xenia one time and the preacher did a lot of street preaching, One day Lawyer Warrington stopped to listen to him just at the time when he was wanted in eourt, and a bailiff came to the window to call him. Thepreachei was just shrieking: “And who will be damned ? Who will be damned ?’ Roared out the stentorian tones of the bailiff over the way: “Henry Warring ton ! Henry Warrington 1” And Henry only said he would be, if he was. Only he didn’t say it just that way.— Bub DETTE. A MATTER OF INTFREST. “Oh, Mr. Smith,” said a young lady at a church fair, “I want your help for / moment” “Certainly,” replied Mr. Smith “what can I do for yon?” “I have just sold a tidy for $15 tha cost fifteen cents, and I want you to tel me what percentage that is.” “A transaction of that kind, my deal Muss B.,” said Mr. Smith, who is a law yer, “gets out of percentage and into 1 aroeny, "—Dra’-e’s Magazine^