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VOLUME \!•
THE CANDIDATE;
■ r.tber, wbo travels the road so late?”
. Ilusb, my child, ’tife the candidate;
f.t example of human woea—
(.’iflv lie cornea und late lie goes;
•; greets the women tfrltH edttttly glace;
H kisses the baby’s dirty face;
Uc culls to the fence the i'arndor At wdi-k;
[ebofes the merchant; he bores the clerk;
The blacksmith, while his anvil rings;
lie greets, and this is thb song he sings;—
•' ‘Howdy, howdy, howdy do?
How is your wife, and how are you?
Ah! It fits my fist as no other can,
The horny hand of the workingman!’ *’
•Husband, who is that man at the gate?”
“Hash, my love, ’tis the candidate.”
•‘Husband, why can't he work like you,
lbs bo nothing at homo to do ? ”
My dear, whenever a man is down,
Ko cash at home, no money in town,
lb) stupid to preach, too proud to beg;
100 timid to rob, and too lazy to dig,
Then over bis horse his legs he flings
And to the dear people this song he sings:—
“ ‘Howdy, howdy, howdy do?
How is your wife, and how are you?
Ah! it fits my fist as no other can,
The horny hand of the workingman!’ ”
Druthers, who labor early and late,
Ask these tliiug.s of the candidate:
What’s his record? How does he stand
At home; no matter about his hand,
Be it bard or soft, so it be not prone
lo close over money not his own.
Has he in view’ no thieving plan?
Is he honest and capable?—he’s our man!
Cheer such an one till the welkin rings,
Join in the chorus when thus he sings:—
“Howdy, howdy, howdy do?
How is your wife, and liuw are you?
Ah! it tits my fist as no other can,
The horny hand of the workingman!”
lIOW LITTLE WE KNOAV,
H 'W little we know of each other!
"<■ pass through the journey of life,
"ith its struggles, its fears and temptations,
Its heart-breaking cares and its strife.
" only see things on the surface,
For few people glory in sin,
Ami an unruffled face is no index
10 the tumult which within.
!i iw little we know of each other!
Ihe man who to-day passes by
Host with fortune and honor and titles,
Aud holding his proud head on high,
Hay curry a dread secret with him
bhich makes his bosom a hell,
And he, sooner or later, a felon,
Hay writhe in a prisoner’s cell.
it av little we know of each other!
lint woman of fashion, who sneers
'■ die jKjor girl betrayed and abandoned
And left to her sighs aud her tears,
Hnj, ere the sun rises to-morrow,
11 ivc the mask rudely torn from her face,
Aid sink from the height of her glory
lo the dark shades of shame and disgrace.
Ho" little we kuow of each other;
ft ourselves too little we know;
1 are all weak when under temptation,
Ad subject to error and woe.
llm let blessed charity rule us;
Ut us put away envy and spite,
Fur lll ° skeleton gijtn in our closet
May some day be brought to light.
MISCELLANY"
llie Old Bachelor’s Will.
BY SIDNEY THORNE.
sun ol an August day was scnd
i? golden shafts through the interlac
foliage overshadowing a limpid
stream,
young man was kneeling beside
■'i P°lo in Land, ostensibly fishing, but
s l*eckl(*d denizens ot the brook had
' ' cause for alarm. The cool
‘ l; and steady hand, so dangerous
peace under ordinary circum
-‘"ces, were not really putting forth
"• against them.
Va ß a handsome young faoe turn-'
11 such evident eagerness toward
faintly-defined foot-path leading
‘ u ,-lithe woods to the sylvan spot,
“'■features were almost too regular
1 ■ Masculine ideas of beauty; but the
:il vv ay the red lips were set togeth.
aiH * tlie massive yliiu redeemed theni
tJi weakness.
Started to his feet as the crack
uf dried leaves and twigs betray
ilri advancing footstep. Another
‘ ‘ ! heut and a breathless young crea-
Was beside him, panting from her
H! approach
1 began to think you were not com
!ls hot, and that my holiday was to
prov o a failue/
■ L was by the merest accident that
away. Fathei hardly trusts me
his sight. But he was called off
11 ,ln e ;peotod business, and I've run
1 y B tep, 1 >ut, Phil, I can't prom-
L,J come again. 1 feel so guilty all
fpje JEaetwitn fpwM.
the time—l can't dc> it Unless things
change.’
‘Dot/ began reproachfully.
‘I know it is hard/ continued the
girl; ‘iout I am Us riiuCh the Suffefe*
by it as you. Though, Phil/ with a
sudden intensity iti her voice, ‘one
thinglcaudo. I Solemnly promise nev"
er to marry anyone but him I love,
and that is —you know who?
‘That is poor comfort, Dot. To know
that the girl you would shed your
heart’s blood for cannot even give you
a kind word now and then to keep up
your spirits! I shall half the time think
you are forgetting me, and making up.
your mind to marry the man your fa"
ther is §o taken with/
Ton are very different from the idea
T have of you if you give xVay to any
such feeling: Thy; Phil, all the peo
ple in the world couldr/t make nie
believe you false, if you had promised
to be true: Brit I must go. I just
came to tell you, no matter what hap
pens, that force could not drag me
into a marriage with Oram. Diiisriidre;
and to say ‘goodly* until wa can meet
as we used to, with thb full consent of
father/
‘That'Jl never be/ was the gloomy
answer. ‘IPs- good-by forever; I am
sure. I wish that old cousin of yours
had left his money to someone else.
It has destroyed our happiness; Your
father 6eemcd to like meuntil that will
made you an heiress, and Oram Dings
more began coming to the bouse.—
Much as he might have been taken
with your face, he'd never have both
ered bis head about you unless there
had been a prospect of adding to bis
possessions. I know him of oid, aod
he’s tight as the bark of a tree '
'Really, Philip, you are eompliraen-1
tary. So money is the sum of my at"
tractions, is it?'
But there was no vexation in the
(‘yes she turned upon his troubled face.
Hers was a true, trustful nature, and
she understood her lover's meaning,
though she tried to speak lightly aud
playfully, to prevent a painful parting
scene. Tears were near her eyes, but
she forced them back. She must be
strong for both. She held out her
hand.
‘Good by, Philip. Don’t be dis"
oouraged; all will come right yet/
Philip took the little hand in his
brown palm and gazed longingly into
the sweet young face. Then he s iid:
f Won’t you give mo one parting
kfss, Dot?'
The girl hesitated, then said grave
ly:
‘Yes, kiss me here,' touch
ing a slender finger to one of her soft
cheeks, ‘and from this time that place
shall be sacred from the touch of other
lips until we meet again.’
Philip kissed the cheek, which flush
ed redly at the touch of his lips. Dot
Was chary of permitting caress, and,
though they had been fond of one an
other from their buy and girl days,
Philip had never presumed to kiss
her, unless when playing a game of
forfeits in some of the merry gather*
ings winch are sometimes given in
country neighborhoods for t ie purpose
of drawing the young people together
and of helping the farmers husk their
corn, or to get the rosy produce of the
orchards into festoons of neatly-pared
and quartered apples to dry, on the
principle that many hands and nimble
fingers make light and pleasant work.
The next moment he was following
the lithe figure with sad eyes until it
had disappeared under the overhang
ing branches. He lacked Dot's faith
in the kindness of the future. lie
could only anticipate a long separa
tion, and perhaps estrangement; and
it was with a heavy heart that he
gathered up his fishing tackle and
started for home.
A distant relative of the Ingrahams
had lately died, and had wiled his
property to his cousin, Dorothy Ingra
ham. During his lifetime he had nev
er showed that he was aware of the
existence of our little Dot, and it was
a great surprise to her when the old
gentlemai/s solicitor came from New
York with the intelligence that he had
made her his heiress. At first it was
a great pleasure to the girl, and she
built many pretty ‘castles in the air’
about the way she would use her
wealth, until a change came over the
scene.
Mr. Ingraham, who had heretofore
seemed well pleased to see his daugh
ter in Philip Bertram's company, be
gan to entertain higher views for her,
and when young Mr. Diusmore, son of
President of the village bank, began
to drop in of an evening with the evi
dent intention of seeing Dot, though
he asked for her father, poor Philip
began/,o be treated coldly, and at last
was forbidden the house.
Had Dot's mother been living things
would have been different; for her
Sterling good sense would have car
ried the day against her husband’s
sudden inflation of feeling caused by
their good fortune. But since his
wife’s death, Mr. Ingraham had no
one to influence him, for he considered
Dot a mere child, to be petted and
governed as though she were 5 years
of age, instead of a Well-grown girl of
18, of more than ordinary capacity
and good sense.
Affairs went oh iri this way for sev
eral months. Mr. Dinsmore's calls
grew more frequent, aud a strong pres
sure was brought to bear upon Dot to
make her listen to bis suit, which was
now openly declaied. She had tried
to discourage him, by treating him
with marked coolness and indifference)
but he would not make a repulse, and
her life was growing to be an unhappy
ode, her father's conversation being
principally upon the perfections of the
suitor, whom she cordially detested;
thoug doing her best to treat him with
eburtesy.
Philip knew of his cdnStailt visits,
arid beard rumors of an engagenient.
lie grew gloomy and morose, and
when he chanced to meet Dot, would
pass her in such a way which made
her poor little heart aclie.
So tln'ugs went on from bad to
worse, until Dot would have been glad
if her inheritance had been sunk in
the sea. At last another actor ap
peared—a youtlg girlj wild created
quite a sensatiou in the quiet village.
She was from a city in the far West,
and was very pretty, and kuew just
What colors to choose for her toilet,
to set otT the tints of her glowing bru
nette comph'xion.
Dot’s heart felt h\ke lead in her bo
som, when one day she the stran
ger walking jauntily by .Philip's s.de.
She was shortly afterwaro introduced
to her, and for a few moments a
ful spirit suggested that she sn.
make herself disagreeable; but sbP
resolutely put the temptation away
from her, aud appeared her own natu
ral, lovable self. She soon ceased to
wonder at Philip’s evident pleasure in
Miss Belmont's society. She was so
frank, and cheerful, and sparkling in
her conversation that she was won
from her prejudice, and they grew to
be friends.
It was not long before Kate Bel- I
moot knew the true stale of Dot’s
feeling toward Oram Dinsruore, though
Philip’s name was as a sealed book
between them. Dot loved him as dear
ly as ever, and the very intensity of
her feeling fur him made her strange
ly shy of mentioning him to even her
dearest friend.
It was a great surprise to her when
Kate said to her once, half jestingly:
‘llow strange that you don't like
Mr. Diusmore better! I have taken a
great fancy to him, but have studious
ly avoided being even pleasant to him,
for rumor gave him to you; and, think
ing him your special property, I did
not want to ‘play with edged tools.'
But, if you don't love him, I shall
adopt different tactics—for I think he’s
perfectly splendid!'
Dot smiled sadly.
“ 'What is meat to one is poison to
another.’ How true those old adages
are. I don't think he cares for me.
He never looked at me before I became
rich I wish old Jared Ingraham had
left his money to someone else!’
‘Jarad Ingraham,' said Kate mus
ingly. ‘Where have I heard that
name? Oh, I know. I have the dear
est old friend out West, and it’s her
love story which that mme has brought
to my mind. Something happened to
separate them when they were both
very young, and she left all her friends
and settled in the West. But she has
always remained single, and to this
day is true to the memory of her old
love. By-the-bye, her name is most
the same as yours, only it's Dorothy
Ingraham instead of Dot.’
‘Why,’ said Dot, ‘my name is Dor
othy. They only call me Dot for short.'
‘I wonder if you and Miss Ingraham
ai e related to each other? lam quite
sure that Jared Ingraham was her
lover’s name. If it was the same per
son, doesn’t it seem strange that he
should have left his money to a young
chit like you ; begging your Ladyship's
pardon, instead of to his faithful old
love ?
Dot's face was a study as Kate rat
tled on. It fairly shone.
‘Kate,‘ said she, ‘I see it all. I am
an interloper. Isn't it nice The
will saidj ‘I give and bequeath to my
I dear cuusiu Dorothy Ingraham,' that's
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, IS7S.
all I can rfcmember verbatim, but that's
enough. All the law terms in the
world wouldn't make it any plainer to
me. We all thought it strange that he
should have left to me, when he had
never paid me the slightest attention
when he was but the lawyer said
that to his knowledge there was no
other person of that name* so I must
be the one. Give me your friend's
address, and Dll soon get the truth of
the matter/
‘l‘ll give it to you, of but
you must first promise me not to say
anything about it Until you are quite
sure/
'I will keep silence until you give
me permission to speak/ replied
Dot.
She wrote at once to the old lady,
and in due time received a reply which
confirmed hei* suspicions. So she im
mediately began to put things in train
so Miss Ingraham should receive her
rights.
A month had hardly gone by when
much to Dot's amusement, Mr. Dins
more called and requested a piivate
interview with her. She had noticed
his growing fondness for Miss Bel
mont's society, and half-expected the
denouement.
As she went into the room he rose to
meet and for the first time Dot
felt an emotion of sincere liking and
respect enter her heart for hirm Under
the influence of genuine feeling he
seemed a different person to the plaus
ible, polished man of the world who
had tried to palm eff the semblance of
love upon her, during bis unsatisfacto
ry couftship;
‘Miss Ingraham/ he said, flushing as
lie spoke, haVC come to make a con
fession, and to ask vour forgiveness.—
Not for withdrawing my suify for I
know you never even liked, much less
loved the unworthy man who stands
before yon ; but for persecuting you
with my unwelcome attentions. Under
the light which a genuine passion lias
shed upon my actions I see how con
temptible they have been, and wish to
apologize to you, and make my peace
before I dare to speak to the young
j aQ ’v I love, of my desire to win her
for J \Cy wife. Will you forgive
me ?
Dot held outlier hand.
‘With all my A’eart, Mr. Dinsmore,
and I shall always inspect you fur the
franks manly part you have aO-ted at
the last. You have my bt>\?t wishes
for your success.'
Mr. Ingraham was first very angry
at Oram Dinsmore's defection, but
when Dot said, decidedly, ‘I wouldn’t
have married him if I bad remained
single all my life/ he determined to
give up trying to direct the course of
true love, making a virtue of necessity
—yet thinking himself all the while a
model father.
Dot was willing that her father
should please himself with this delu
sion so long as he withdrew his oppo
sition to Philip's coming to the house.
When a few months afterward, the
real heiress, Miss Dorothy Ingraham,
appeared upon the scene, unchantable
persons said that Mr. Dinsmore had
known of the mistake.
But Kate Belmont, his betrothed
wifeq bad the pleasant consciousness
that she had Won his heretofore mer
cenary heart while he thought Dot the
true heiress, and that he values one
glance of her bright eyes more than
he did the whole of Dot‘s supposed
thousands.
The real testatrix was very much
taken with her young namesake, and
would not consent to take more than
half of the property. The mistake
about her legacy has been the means
of drawing her into the society of a
young relative of whose existence she
would otherwise have been ignorant.
It has proved very pleasant to her in
old age to have such a treasure trove
of warm human affection bestowed
upon her, for young Dorothy loves her
aged cousin very much, and is never
better pleased than when entertaining
her in her pretty for she is now
Mrs. Philip Betrarrq and the happiest
little matron under the sun.
In a certain benighted part of the
country may be seen on the outside of
an humble cottage, the following in
scription in large gilt letters: ‘Semi
nary for Young Ladies.' This was,
perhaps, too abstruse for villagers, as
immediately underneath there is added
in rude characters: ‘Aotey bene—also
a gall's school.'
‘3‘iddy, is Miss J ulia at home?’ ‘Well,
sur, if you are Mr. Adolphus Laudon,
she is; if you are any of er genfe
wau, she is not.' He was Mr. LandoD.
WOMEN WHO SAVE.
The Feminine Mania for Hiding
Valuables*
Mrs. Hansen put SSO in the oven of
her stove one night, to keep it safe.—
Next morning after breakfast the na
tional debt had been diminished ex"
actly that mucin A student of the
curious would find it interesting to
note the places in which women hide
their money. One excellent and fru
gal dame use to tuck her little savings
away under the corner of the carpet.
The tiny roll of greenbacks grew faU
ter and fatter in the course of a year
or two, when the day after it counted
up s2soj the house took fire, burued to
the ground, and again the national
debt was diminished by a little roll of
woman's pin-money. There was that
other careful lady who used to hide
her diamond rings between two teaN
cups in the kitchen cupboard, some
times behind a certain brick in the cels,
lar, and again under the lining of an
old hat. She had divers other places
of safety for her jewels also, the only
trouble being that she had so many
hiding-places she occasionally forgot
where she had last put her precious
things, and about three months she
would fancy she had been robbed, and
the house would be turned inside out>
and all therein made feel very uncom
fortable until the missing gems would
be found carefully tucked away in the
folds of the bottom towel of the pile in
the left-h&nd corner of the lower draw
er in the clothes-press in the east end
of the dining room. This periodical
excite about Mrs. McGillicuddy’s dia
mond rings w r as the only event winch
broke *he monotony of an otherwise
rather dull life iu a suburban resi
dence.
Shakspeare knew the soul of the sex
when he made the “Merry Wives of
Windsnr’' hide Falstaffin a basket of
linen. Their idea is to hide things in
places where people would net be apt
to look for them. It is unusual, pet’"
haps, for a woman to have much mons
ey to take care of, therefore she hides
it in an unusual place.
An estimable lady used to hide her
goll watch and pocket book under an
inverted wash hand-basin in the kitch"
en every night.
A few days ago a New York woman
put hec SBOO-diamond ring in the folds
of a lace ebrtain. She put it there be"
cause that was a place where thieves
would not be apt to look for it. A
sei yant, who was dusting the room,
shook the curtain, and away went the
diamoafl ring ou t °f the window, and
now its owiiei mourns for it as one
without liopoV
A most worthy lady, not long since
died at her home, not a thousand miles
from Cincinnati, and after death,- the
family found a large sum of money hid
den away in an ancient bandbox, full
of old hats and bonnets. It was her
savings for several years and nobody
knew she had it till after her death.—
Whenever a woman dies, who, like
John Gilpin’s wife, ‘had a frugal mind/
her anxious and affectionate heirs
would do weli to look for her
in all places in which money would
not be at all likely to be hidden.
Niglit Ail*.
An extraordinary fallacy is the dred
of night air. What air can we breathe
at night, but night air 1 The choice
is between pure night air from without
and the foul from within. Most people
prefer the latter. An unaccountable
choice. What will they say if it is
proved to be true, that fully one-half
of all the diseases wc suffer from is
occasioned by sleeping With our win
dows shut ? An open window mest of
the night in the year can never hurt
any one. This is not to say that light
is not necessary for recovery. In great
cities night air is often the best and
purest air to be had in the twenty-four
hours. We could better understand
sbutt : ng the windows in town during
the day, for the sake of tne sick, 'ihe
absence of smoke, the quiet, all tend
to make night the best time for airing
! the patient.
One of the [lightest medical author
ities on consumption and climate has
told us that the air of London is never
so good as after 10 o'clock at night.—
Always air your room then, from the
outside air, if possible. Windows are
made to open, doors are made to shut,
a truth which seems extremely difficult
hf apprehension. Every room must he
! aired from without, every passage from
within. But the lower passages there
1 are in a hospital the better.
After She Has Graduated.
'Chris/ in the Phrenological Jour
nal has some sensible words to say
about the relation of the ordinary ed.
ucation of girls to their life after school.
He says s
‘Girls are reared for the most pait
in the belief that woman's chief and
final destiny is to marry. This is the
Only ambition cultivated. Parents,
friends, and society at large, all tend
to inculcate this principle. So the ed
ucation of our girls goes on; a little
smattering of the languages ; a little
music ; a great deal of fancy work ;
but not enough of anything to enable
them to say : *1 hold within myself the
power to gain an honorable livelihood
by my own exertions.* There is ever
the miserable sense of dependence
even for thought. To be sure there
are a few who have dared to step out'-
side their allotted sphere, but these
are tho 'strong minded and unfemi
nine.*
The superficial education finished,
the daughter waits in the home circle
for him who is to fulfill her destiny.—
Perhaps he never cornCs, if so, ouly to
deceive. Wh?t then ? Ah, it the par
ent could only lift the veil and see ! A
miserable life spent in complainings
and bitterness of soul. Sometimes the
mind and body both a wreck. And
all for what ? Because, this hope gone,
their education did not supply that
which would satisfy the cravings of
tho mind—an aim, a something tangi
ble for which to work. Society is slow
ly working out the problem of the sex
es, and ere long the cause which we
espouse will need not our poor pencil-
We have listened with pleased incre
dulity to the discussion of the question
of woman's work and education, by
the learned doctors of our colleges
and universities. It is not they who
can settle the question as to woman's
mental capacity. Wc must answer it
for ourselves.
Parents must weigh well the obliga
tions resting upon them, and see that
the intellectual wants of their daugh
ters are satisfied with proper pabulum
Let thorn supply for ther daughters as
they do for their sons, work which
will satisfy not only physical but men
tal cravings. It is not good, whole
some, satisfying work that wastes en
ergy and mental fiber, but rather the
lack of it. A child fed on sweetness
exclusively cannot be strong, and it is
useless to bring up the present weak
ness of woman's intellect as her normal
condition, when her mental diet has
ever tended to this end.
Give the girls a chance and they
will develop strength and character.—
A thorough education, and special
training with reference to self-support,
cannot detract from womanly dignity.
Give them an opportunity, then, to
work out for themselves api ice and
name. Then, if they he called to fill
the divinely-appointed position of wife
and mother they will fill it nobly.
Strong, intelligent and self-sustain**
ing, they will transmit to posterity a
worthy heritage. But if, on the com
trary, such be not their lot, and they
be called to walkthrough life alone,
they may still he fruitful of good works
and crowned with richest blessings..
Ingenious but Faulty.
A well-known Sacramentan whohad
been out with “the boys’' until three
o’clock in the morning, felt a trifle un
easy as to what his wife would say up
on the subject, and determined to adopt
a little piece of strategy. He entered
the house cautiously, noiselessly took
oft his boots and made his way to the
bedroom, lie was not so obfustica
ted but that he knew it would bedan-*
gerous to get into bed, so after disrob
ing he took up a position by the side
of the baby's cradle, and began rock
ing it like a 49-er. His wife, aroused
by the noise, discovered him, as it was
part of his deep laid scheme that she
should, and called out:
‘Why, what on earth are you doing
there V
‘Doing?* he replied, keeping the
kinks out of his tongue by an almost
superhuman effort, ‘l'in trying to get
this—baby asleep ! She's been crying
half an hour and you've slept through
it all!'
His air of righteous indignation was
well put on, but it wouldn't do—luck
wos against him.
‘What do you mean ?‘ his better
half sternly responded. ‘I have got
the baby in bed here with me, and 6he
hasn't cried tO'-uight ! When did you
come home ?‘
Never stop to argue the point with
an excited hornet.
The hen becomes a rooster when
the sun goes down.
—
Have one settled purpose in life, and
if it be honorable it will bring you rc%
ward.
Some men are so awful slow that
the only time they get ahead is when
they buy a cabbage.
‘Mother, I heard sissy swear.’ ‘\\ hat
did she say? > ‘Why, she said she was
not going to wear her darned stockings
to church.*
‘Can you read smoke raa?’ ‘What
do mean, child?’ ‘Why, Pve heard
some men talk about a volume ot
smoke, and I thought you read any
vol urne.’
*
Every girl who intends to qualify
for marriage, should go through a
course of cookery. Unfortunately, few
wives are able to dress anything but
themselves.
A captain of a privateer, who had
been in an engagement, wrote to his
owners that he received but little dam
age—having only one of bis hands
wounded in the nose.
‘I can't see how you can sit and eat
while your wife is sick/ ‘You see, my
dear fellow, it is not that I love my
wife less, but that I love pancakes
more/ •
‘So/ said a young gentleman to a
beautiful young lady, at a party in
Arkansas, ‘you won't take any of the
sardines?' ‘No/ said she, ‘but I’ll
take some of the grsased minnows/
A Pike’s Peaker writing to a Minnes
sota journal, says the miners are very
much discouraged in that region; they
have to dig through a solid vein of
silver, four feet thick, before they
reach the {gold.
—-♦♦♦
Faxan, of the Buffalo Republic , says
that ‘women are callel the ‘softer sex’
because they are so easfiv humbugged.
Out of every one hundred girls, ninety
five would prefer ostentation to hap
piness—a dandy husband to a me
chanic/
‘I say, Joe, how d'ye do; how's all
the folk?’ 'Putty well; only the old
man has got the miasma, and Sal has
got an affection for some fellow; how
is yours?' ‘Oh, so so, except the old
man; he is gettingold and infernal/
An Irishman, in great fright and
haste, rushed into Abernathy’s room,
aud exclaimed: ‘Bedad, the .boy Tirn
has swallowed a rat.’ ‘Then, bedad/
said the doctor, ‘tell the boy Tim to
swallow a cat/
Bob (aged five)—l say, Fred, does
it ever get hard times up at your
house?
Fred (aged six)—Oh, don't it just!’
Bob—Well, I do hope times'll be
soft at Christmas, ever so soft.
Fred—So do I—just as soft as mush.
—
Fifty editors in Maine recently went
on an excursion. They made a com
mon purse and bought a box of sar
dines for dinner. In consequence of
that reckless extravagance, forty-nine
of them have since taken the benefit
of the bankrupt act.
An honest old lady in the country,
when told of her husband’s death, ex
claimed: ‘Well, I declare; our trou-*
hies never come alone! It ain’t a week
since I lost my best hen, and now Mr.
Hopper has gone too, poor maul'
‘Come here, my little dear,' said a
young man to a little girl, to whose
sister he was paying addresses; ‘you
are the sweetest thing on earth.' ‘No,
I am not,’ she replied, artlessly; ‘sister
says you are the sweetest.’ The queft*
tion was popped the next day.
TsO. 31.