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THS C1T12«S: At Toy.: GA-i THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1889.
DON’T YOU CARE.
What are you crying about, little man?,
Yotrtiave a hard lesson, you say?
. Well, there! Don’t you care,
That’s no sad affair,
You are bound to have those in your day.
Be brave, little man, hard work is your plan,
You’ll come out all right, don’t you care.
What are you grumbling about, business
man?
Dame Fortune is frowning, you say?
Well, there! Don’t you care,
Just act on the square,
She’s sure to smile on you some day.
Repining, my man, is a very poor plan.
You’re going to succeed, don’t you care.
What are you sorrowing for, aged man?
Your end is approaching, you say?
Well, there! Don’t you care,
You have no time to spare,
Prepare for your journey away.
Have peace, weary man, ’tis part of God’s
plan,
* You are safe in His hand, don’t you care.
—Frank B. Welch, in Detroit Free Press.
THE FELON’S RETURN.
“Will you ask whether Mr. Graham
will see a stranger?”
The clerk thus spoken to nodded,
arose, and went into an inner office. The
stranger remained, leaning against the
walnut railings of the desk, his hand
trifling with the little door that shut
outsiders from the sanctum within. He
was a tall, fair man, of thirty, with close
cropped hair and beard. His shoulders
were broad, his features handsome, but
there was an old air about him that had
puzzled the clerk, and would have per
plexed any one. It was something that
could not be defined, but it pervaded the
whole man; a suppressed look, as of one
forced in some way to hide his feelings;
manner of standing and holding his
h^fc which had something- apologetic in
“Mr. Ghaham will see you, sir,” said
the clerk, returning and opening the little
railed door. . “In there—the office to the
right.”
The stranger passed into the room in
dicated, and closed the door behind him;
then standing with his back against it,
he fumbled with his hat in the same odd
manner in which he had handled it in the
outer office, and instead of speaking,
looked at the gentleman behind the desk
with eyes that had a measureless appeal
in them.
The other did not rise from his chair,
nor hold out his hand, nor even speak
for some moments; each looked at the
other, that was all. But it was the elder
one, at the desk, who broke the spell at
last.
“So,” he said, “it is you, James?”
“Yes, it is I,” said the other.
“Haven’t you a word for me, William?”
“I have a good many words that you
might not like to hear,” said William
Graham. ‘ ‘I really can’t say I’m glad to
to draw me back. You refused it.
Money! Why, look at these hands, these as
shoulders—look at me! I can earn money
somehow. And, by heaven! if this is all
your respectability and Christianity
amounts to, I don’t care if I don’t see no
more of it. There are plenty to welcome
me, and you have driven me to them.
Remember that, son of my mother!’
He thrust his hat upon his head, and
dashed out of the room, striding through
the outer office with no heed of any one
there, and clanging the-door as he de
parted.
* * * * * *
One dark night, a few weeks later,
James Graham, in full fellowship with a
gang of burglars, was receiving instruc
tions from a companion how to enter and
conceal himself in a house that had been
marked for robbery. The lesson was
given in front of the doomed house itself;
and after his companion had left him,
Graham muttered: “Yes, I belong to the
fraternity now. I am here to rob this
house. I have the mask and the pistol
in my pocket. I have my little dark
lantern, too. I’m a burglar, and burg
lars were the only men who welcomed
me back out of prison. My brother
turned his back on me. My brother—I
wonder what my mother would say if she
could see me now? If she knew—”
He stopped himself with an oath-
seemed, with a motion of his hand, to
cast away the thoughts that were upon
him—and in a moment more had mounted
to the window indicated by his comrade;
and finding that it opened easily, had
clambered in. His shoes were noisless.
He made no sound as he moved; and
guiding himself by the lantern’s light
looked for a place of concealment. It
soon presented itself. A long wardrobe,
with a door at either end. In this, be
hind a very curtain of suspended gar
ments, he hid himself.
He heard, after a while, a baby cry,
and in a minute more a step ran across
the entry, and a ray of light glanced
through the keyhole at one end of the
wardrobe.
“Ada,” cried a lady’s voice, “come
here. Baby is wide awake and I can’t
leave him.”
Then another rustle, another step, and
there were two women very near him—
so that he could almost hear them breathe.
“I’m so glad you came to-day, Ada,”
said the other, “when I am all alone.
Charles was called away so unexpectedly
this morning! I declare the thought of
that accident makes me ill, and I am nerv
ous all alone in the house at night, dear.
Besides being always glad to see you, I
am so thankful to have you to-night!”
And I am never nervous, Jessie,” said
the other. “I am as good as a man
about the house, mamma says. I’ve
hunted imaginary burglars with a poker
many a night. Mamma is always imagin
ing burglars, dear soul!”
“Don’t speak of them,” said the ma
tron,who was evidenty quieting her child,
as only a mother can. * ‘This house would
more of *
that, you know.”
“I don’t expect any one to be glad,”
said the other. “I know I’ve disgraced
the family, butTve been punished for it.
Ten years, William—think of that!—
ten years of prison life, and prison fare,
and prison friends! I’d had given my
soul to undo what I did, even before it
was found out; and I never meant to
keep the money.”
“We all know the story,” said the
merchant. “You were in a position of
confidence; you betrayed it. It’s the old
affair. I’ve had it happen in my own
office. I can’t feel any sentimental pity
for a fellow like you. What brings you
here, James?”
Shifting his hat from hand to hand,
looking from under his eyebrows in an
abject fashion, pitiable to contemplate,
when one saw in what a gentlemanly
mould he had been cast, James Graham
answered, ‘ ‘I was twenty when I went
to prison. I’m thirty now. The outside
world has been a blank to me all these
years. I want work. I want you to give
it to me—any honest work, William.
I’m a good book keeper, but I’ll be a
porter, an errand man, anything.”
“O, no; not anything here,” said the
elder. “You’ve reckoned without your
host, James. You are no brother of
mine. I cast you off when you became a
felon. For the sake of the poor woman
who called you ‘son,’ I’ll give you some
money, enough to live on for a week or
two. I will never give you another pen
ny—don’t expect it. I will have you
turned out if you come here again.”
The prison taint was so strong upon
the other man that his pride was not
aroused yet; he fumbled with his hat,
ground himself against the door, looked
abjectly from under his eyebrows again,
and asked: “How is sister Jessie?”
“Well,” said the merchant.
“Can you tell me where she lives?”
asked his brother. >
“No,” said the merchant. “Jessie is
married, and has tried to forget the ter
rible grief you gave her. You are the
last person a respectable brother-in-law
would care to see.”
“I’ll ask you one more question,” said
James, in a faltering voice. “Ada Mus-
grove—what has become of her? Is she
living? Is she married?”
“I have no information for you,” said
the merchant, harshly. ‘ ‘Here are ten
pounds. If you are careful you will get
employment before it is gone. Remem
ber, you’ll not have another penny from
my hand. Take it and go, and don’t
come back again!”
He flung the money down upon the
table. But there was a spark of man
hood in his brother’s breast even yet; he
could not take a gift so proffered.
Suddenly the abject look upon his face
changed to one of wrath and hate.
Tall as he was, he seemed to grow a
head taller as he drew his shoulders back;
and, glaring at his brother, threw the
sovereigns that lay* before hitfi into his
brother’s face.
“Hang you, keep your money!” he
said - “I don’t want it. I don’t want
anything from you or any one. I came
for help, it is true; for help to be an
honest man. I’ve been among the out-
™?Z ld 80 lon S that I’ve lost
ah kinship with you decent folk; but I
JhQUght a brother might hold out a hand
e sracc wcuvra
' pounds in
t time to
here.
that safe, Ada. Charlie hadn’t time
^epdsit it in'ibtie liank. They telegraphed
that Mr. Bird might be dying.”
As she made this confession, the man,
concealed so near her, listened with his
very heart in his ears; but it was not to
the statement so well calculated to re
joice a burglar’s heart. That was for
gotten. He heard only the voices and
the names these two women called each
other by. Ada! That had been the name
of the girl he loved. Jessie! That was
his sister’s name. After all, what was it
to him? Like his brother, the latter had
cast him off, of course, and no doubt
Ada only remembered him with horror.
Still, how like the voices were. Could
it be? He stole forward, and knelt down
with an eye to the keyhole, but he could
only see part of a woman’s figure sway
ing to and fro, as she rocked her infant
on her bosom.
“Dear little fellow!” said the voice of
the other woman. “How sweet babies
window which he had entered he de P altct ]
as he had come, vowing to lead an hones
life, and, sometime—perhaps when
was dving—to see those two dear cveatv .res
once again. At least, always tbe mem-
orv of their looks and words would keep
his heart tender and life pure, lonely as
might be his lot. . , ,
With these thoughts in his mind he
stood on the ground, and remembered
with a pang who would arrive soon and
what their errand would be; and that,
while he scorned to betray them, he mus ■
stand between them on their purpose,
and save his sister’s home, perhaps her
life, from their hands. .
He felt in his bosom for his pistol. He
would not use it until the last, but he
must stand between those women and all
harm.
He knew well enough the unforgiving
ferocity of those with whom he had to
deal, and he muttered a little prayer for
aid—the first he had breathed for many
a year—as he heard soft footsteps ap
proaching.
f * * * * . * *
“He is opening his eyes,” said a voice.
James Graham heard it and wondered
what had happened and why he could
not turn himself and who spoke.
Then came the remembrance of a
quarrel, a conflict, and the report of a
pistol. He knew all now. His fellow
burglars had shot him and left him for
dead. But where was he now?
“Ada, dear,” said the voice, “I think
he is opening his eyes.”
Then they did open, and James Gra
ham saw two women bending over him.
“James,” said one, “do you know
sister Jessie?”
The other only burst into tears.
“Yes, I know you both,” said he,
faintly. “How did I come here? Iam
so full of wonder. How did you know
me?”
“We found you wounded—dead, we
thought—at our gate,” said Jessie. “It
was Ada knew you first.”
“Dear Jessie,” he said; “dear Ada!”
“We don’t know how it happened,”
she said. “When you are better, you
must tell us. Only we have you back,
and you shall never go again; never!”
He knew he never should. He knew
it did not matter whether he told them
how he had come to see them now. He
knew that in a little while he should
neither see their faces nor know their
voices; but he was very happy. A fore
taste of heaven was given to him.
“They have been terrible years,” he
said; “terrible years! All that while I
have never heard from you,but I have you
now. Come closer; I can’t see you very
well. There’s a mist before my eyes. I
want Jessie to kiss me.”
The sister threw her arms about his
neck, and kissed him over again. Then
he turned to Ada Musgrove.
* ‘If I were going to live, I should not
ask it,” he said; “but you used to kiss me
long ago, Ada. Will you kiss me now,
my dear, just once more?”
ShetoakjMBtnyM&flBttii ~
m
“more mercitul than man.
shall meet again,, darling.”
These were the last words he ever slid.
She came forward now and knelt
down, and he saw her profile. It was
Ada Musgrove—for he had left her a
girl of sixteen, and found her a woman
of twenty-six, but handsomer than ever.
“You love children so that I wonder
you don’t marry,” said the matron; and
now James Graham knew that it was his
sister who spoke. “I know William
wants you to have him. He always has
loved you. And, Ada, he can give you
all that makes life happy.”
James Graham’s cheeks flushed in the
darkness. He hated the world
than ever now. He hated his kinsfolk-
this cruel brother and sister of his most
of all.
“He cannot give me the one thing
necessary for wedded happiness—love for
him,” said Ada. “No, Jessie; I have
said this to you before, but I must say
it now. I loved poor James too well ever
to love any other man while I know'he
lives.”
“Ah, Ada,” cried Jessie, stooping
over, “it is a comfort to me to know you
still love my poor brother. I thought I
was the only living being who still loved
him.”
And then James Graham, listening on
the other side of the door, heard these
two women weeping together, and for
him.
“Yes, Ada,” said his sister; and
though poor James is so sadly disgraced,
still when he returns I will be glad to see
him, and this shall be his home if he
will, and my husband will help him to
win back the place among good men that
he lost so long ago. William is cruel to
him, but then we women are softer.
When he- is free again I trust he will
come straight to us. I fear William would
hurt him by some reproachful speech. He
will be free very soon, Ada.”
The man who had stolen into the
house to rob it—the man 1 , of whom they
Good Roads and Public Economy.
The experienced traveler who finds
himself at the beginning of a newly
mended road will betake himself to the
nearest house and learn how far the iin-
provement extends; if for the distaice
of ten miles, he will then inquire by wlat
circuit, not exceeding fifteen miles in
length, he can escape from the dang<r of
the repairs. After a time nature mends
the damage done by the process of recon
struction, and the journeyer may find
once again a way tolerable, save where
the hill-sides are steep or the grounqwet.
In the winter season such roads, atueast
in the counties where the soil is of a clayey
nature, are often practically impassable.
In such regions, after a distressing Expe
rience of some decades, the people find
themselves willing to turn over to j cor
poration the precious privilege of con-
troling their highways. A little k owl-
edge as to the art of road-making, i i ex
penditure of not more labor tl n is
normally given to the annual rep ir of
the roads, would in most cases ha e se
cured to the community about as good
roads as they obtain by the constri stioq
of turnpikes. In other words, oui sys
tem of ignorant mismanagement i i the
construction and maintenance of rural
ways leads to a vast and purposele s ex
penditure. If we take the misaj plied
expenses of our country ways, if we :ount
at the same time the mere social a Ivan-
more tages which they bring to the people, it
is probable that the sum of the ro5d-tax
in this country is greater than that of
our ordinary taxation. From some data
which I have gathered in my personal
experience with roads, I am inclined to
think that even, m New England the cost
to the publics arising .from ineffective
roadways, as well as from the waste of
money.expended on them, amounts to not
less than an average of $10 a year on each
household. In this reckoning I have in
cluded the loss of time and of. transport
ing power of vehicles, the wear and tear
of wagons, carriages, and the beasts
which draw them. It is probable that
the expenditure in this direction is
greater than that which is incurred foi
schools or any other single element of
public interest. I am inclined, indeed,
to think that it comes near the sum of
all our State and Federal taxation to
gether.—Scribner.
spoke—could bear no mo:
softened asit had not bi
little child. It was as
spoken to him.
Then he rememberei
and kneeling and
lay between him and
who had saved him fi
crept away, and fin
; his heart was
since he was a
;he angels had
he was there;
the door that
dear women
esperation, he
way-to-the
Lost tlie Card.
There is a tailor in London who does
not entertain the highest opinion of
American perspicacity. A week or two
ago the Mayor of a Southern city called
uppn Consul-General New with a letter
of introduction from the State Depart
ment and asked him for the address of a
good tailor. New recommended the art
ist whom he had himself: employed, and
wrote the Southern gentleman’s name on
the consular card* The Southerner pro
ceeded to lose the card, and another man
found it. This person saw its value and
personated the Southern Mayor, obtain
ing clothes to the value of $1200, which
the tailor would like New to pav for ——
New York Sun.
POPULAR SCIENCE.
Foreign scientists have discovered
minute diamonds in meteorites round m
Siberia. .
An electric launch in England recently
made sixty miles without recharging e
accumulator.
Cable messages are sent from New
York to Liverpool not by the ordinary
method of dots and dashes, but by elec
tric flashes. ,
Some electric railways will be laid
along the rivers of northern Russia,
where the extreme cold endures during
a great part of the year.
The new apparatus for feeding the fires
of electric light plants does away entirely
with the necessity of handling coal after
it has been dumped in the fuel room.
To add to our knowledge of terrestrial
magnetism it is suggested that regular
magnetic observatories be established at
Cape of Good Hope and in South
America.
Miss Bruce, of New York city, has
oiven $50,000 to the Astronomical Ob
servatory of Harvard, to be devoted Jo
the purchase of a telescope for celestial
photography.
It has been satisfactorily demonstrated
that the arsenites are effective against the
codling moth, that in their use there is
no danger to the fruit of the tree upon
which they are used.
In experiments on the solubility of
glass in water plumbiferous flint glass
was found to be the least soluble, and
the relative resistance of glasses was dif
ferent toward hot and cold water.
The opinion seems to be gaining
ground among scientific men, concerning
the formation of petroleum, that it is in
all cases due to the decomposition of
vegetable matter contained in the rocks
where it is produced.
The latest improvement in the manu
facture of filaments for incandescent
lamps consists in heating them to a high
temperature by burning fluid fuel in a
suitable furnace, and- at the conclusion of
the operation raising the temperature to.
a still higher degree for a short period by
the introduction of a blast of oxygen.
Take two eggs of equal size. Care
fully dissolve the shell of one with dilute
hydrochloric acid, and immerse it in pure
water. In the course of a day or two
enough water will pass through the out
side membrane to cause it to nearly double
its volume, as may be shown by com
parison with the second egg, which is
used as a standard. *
An instantaneous photographic appara
tus is proposed to take the place of the
judge at the winning-posts in race-courses.
Its value is seen in very close races, when
the judges can not decide accurately, and
in what are called “dead heats,” when
two, or three horses appear’ to reach the
g-post at exactly the same time.
>hotograph will show one of the
i to be an inch or so ahead, and de
in his favor. v./\ . ‘ T'-.
■g-'BPpip^
Howard, a female doctor, gives statisti
cal proof that the mortality from. dipth-
theria is rapidly increasing. Twenty
years ago in France this mortality was
between thirty-six and forty-five deaths
in every 100,000 inhabitants; now it
amounts to 110 to 120 in every 100,000.
In England the deaths in eveiy 100,000
number twenty-two; in America, sixty
to ninety, and in Germany 140 to 155.
The true scientific attitude of the day,
as expressed by the President of the
British Association, Professor Flower, is
“a suspended judgment.” Professor
Flower indorses Sir John Lubbock’s idea
that the field of inquiry is limitless, and
that there may be “fifty other senses as
different from ours as sound is from sight;
and even within the boundaries of our
own senses there may be endless sounds
which we .cannot hear, and colors as dif
ferent as red from green, of which we
have no conception. These and a thou
sand other questions remain for solution.
The familiar world which, surrounds us
may be a totally different place to other
animals. To them it may be full, of
music which we cannot hear, of color
which we cannot see, of sensations which
we cannot conceive.”
Wliat Causes Thunder ?
Ask this question to twenty persons
chosen at random, and probably no two
answers will be alike in any important
particular. The general idea on the sub
ject will be found to be vague and un
certain. One of the most terse and con
cise descriptions of the natural phenome
non is that given by Mr. Him. He
says:
The sound which is known as thunder
is due simply to the fact that the air
traversed by an electric spark—that is, a
flash of lightning—is suddenly raised to
a very high temperature, and has its vol
ume considerably increased. The col
umn of gas thus suddenly heated and
expanded is sometimes several miles long,
and as the duration of the flash is not
even a millionth of a second, it follows
that the noise bursts forth at once from
the whole column, though, for an ob
server in any one place, it commences
where the lightning is at the least dis-
ctance.
In precise terms, according to M.
Ilim, the beginning of the thunder dap
gives us the minimum distance of the
lightning, and the length of the thunder
clap gives us the length of the column.
He also remarks that when a flash of
lightning strikes the ground, it is'not
necessarily from the place struck that the
first noise is heard. Again, he points out
that a bullet whistles in traversing
the air, so that we can, to a certain ex
tent, follow its flight, the same thing also
happening with a falling meteorite just
before striking the earth. The noise
actually heard has been compared to the
sound produced when one tears linen. It
is due really to the fact that the air rap
idly pushed on one side in front of the
projectile, wnether bullet or meteorite,
quickly rushes back -to fill the gap left in
the rear.
IRS‘1
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We begin the new year by thanking our to
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FWIR/lsriTITIR/Ej!
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