Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME VII.
*|r V X
wL L-'l"
Vs5
THE GRUMBLER.
lie gramUes in tbe morning
Cto jiKiug from lushed;
He #ruiuble« fit his breakfast
While spreading hutter on his bread,
He grumbles »t his napkin,
He grumbles at his knife,
,g e grumbles at the table-cloth,
And grumbles at his Wife,
lie grumbles at the paper
While reading o’er the news;
He grumbles at the cobbler
Wbeu he buys a pair of shoes.
He grauinbles at the clock
When it strikes out the hour,
^ml ho grumbles at the “deluge”
ft h«m there comes a little shower.
lie grumbles at the children
Wbeu they’re playing iu the street;
He grumbles at the butcher 1
Aud the way he cuts his meat.
He grumbles al bis little dog,
If it only wags its tail;
And when the wind does gently blow
He grumbles at the “gale.”
He grumbles when a bill comes in.
No matter how very small;
He grumbles at the servunts,
lie grumbles at us all.
He grumbles ait tbe darkness
When he has to light tbe gas,
And be grumbles at the matches—
The unhappy grumbling ass.
He grumbles at the prices;
lie grumbles at the stocks;
Jle grumbles tit his very feet
When he buys a pair of socks.
He grumbles at the summer
When tbe suu is very warm;
lie grumbles at the winter
Every tune we have a storm.
He grumbles at a question;
He grumbles at a smile;
At church he grumbles at the people
Who ure standing in tbe aisle.
He grumbles at his daughter
When she wauts a little money,
And lie grumbles when the laughs
At anything very funuy.
He grumbles at the rich man;
lie grumbles fit Abe poor;
He grumbles at the beggars
When they kuock upon his door.
He grumbles at the rent day
When the landlord’s to be paid;
He grumbles in tbe sunshine;
He grumbles iu the shade.
He grumbles at bis neighbor
When he's getting iu his coal;
He grumbles at I he curtman
Who dumps it down the iioie.
He grumbles at a wagon
If it stands before the door;
And be grumbles at a crumb of bread
If it falls upon the floor.
He grumbles in bis little room;
lie grumbles ou tbe stairs;
He grumbles ajl the way to church;
He grumbles after prayer.
He grumbles in his sleep
y> hen he’s lying on the bed,
And I often fancy to myself
He’ll grumble when he’s dead.
MISCELLAJVY.
MADELEINE DE PIERREPONT.
fifteen years before, the father of
-ladeleine de Pierrepont and a Mon
p ut intimate Dubois^ a rich propritor, had
e< 11 Iriends. De Pierrepont
comfortably off, from the fact ot
J ’ 8 several occupations. He
collector of the rents of a rich
Member ot his noble family ; he was
a tax-gatherer and adjoint to the Maire.
Tlie Maire was M. Dubois, a rich man,
1 sorQcw hat of a miser. It appear¬
ed that oue afternoon Dubois asked
Pierrepont to walk over to a small
tuWL at some distance to receive with
' m a * ar £ e remittance, with which to
14 h ' d y of workmen employed in
*' ie public Works and other
lu cune4 expenses
in the building of a church
“dioolrooin. Dubois felt sater with
4 companion. It afterwards
was
proved that they received the money,
^ 7 er together more than at the they Soleil d'Or, used drank
were tO
l ' lyn despite every representation (
>
etulil w «dk home, though De Pierre
| *‘t the "idled body to of get a gig. Next morn
- Dubois was found
uut a hundred yards beyond the
U «euf D e Pierrepont, which
was at
° Jt °* ^ )e hill which led to the
vi |l ‘gc. All up
his money was gone, as
* 1 ll t 8 watch and rings.
\ stj.irph took place juatantly, and
V j . fe fUj l}is companion was
j police agent. De Pierrepont
1 Se< l that Dubois, on reaching his
cm l!’ l>atle U t* l,ira hill * n in that he
Vt P le alone ; Jmt still he
hancT* Ul 1 hUn 8,lvor t0 keCP because a btig: jt * ,00 °
F heav av y, ’ vvas so
until morni 3g. This
♦
line ♦
he gave Up to the police. Of 10,000
francs in notes he declared he knew
nothing Ou this he was arrested as
the assassin, tried, found guilty and
sent to the galleys for life. His wife
solemnly declared that, she heard Du*
hois wis.i her husband good-night, and
laughingly, ‘I’ll send a cart for the
silver in the morning/ But, instead
of berating him in the eyes of the
world, she beeame his accomplice.-—
Lo avoid being hooted at in tlio streets
she left the village, and every penny
being spent ere her husband's trial was
over, she obtained reluctant permission
to dwell in the charcoal burner's de¬
serted hut. But all shunned her and
her child as they would lepers, and, to
live, she was obliged to walk nine miles
in search of work of the c mrscst de
scription. Leave the country she would
because she was born there, and
she felt convinced that her husband
would be ultimately pardoned.
‘Aud yum join Edward, in the infa
mows porsocutiou. Supposing the fa¬
ther guilty (which to me is not clearly
proved—and you know I am a lawyer)
why should this poor girl suffer for the
sins of her father ? Why (the savages
of North America, where, I have
just come from, are more civilised than
yon. I see in this hemic couple sub¬
ject for wonder and admiration, but
none of hate. Poor creatures 1 Fifteen
years of misery have not satisfied you
all, but you must still treat them as
outcasts.
‘My dear Arthur, youhavejust come
from America, where it appears to me
you pick up some very singular no¬
tions. For my part, the wife aud
daughter of an assassin, and the assas
cm of my uncle, were detestable
wretches whom I must hate,’ said the
other in nis usual cool way. His fit of
auger was past.
‘Injustice, infamous injustice 1 Poor
girl ! I think I see her meek face now
looking at me so proudly and yet so
sweetly. I never saw anything so love¬
ly in my life.
‘Wtiy the man is in love !' exclaimed
Edward Dubois, the heir to the murder¬
ed man's property.
‘Half; and what‘s more. Edward,
do you know I'd marry that girl to
morrow, if she'd have me, but I know
she would not.
‘By my faith/ said Edward, ‘you
amaze me, and I am not easily amazed.
Of c mrse you are joking.
‘Time will show. But now, tny dear
fellow, adieu ; you follow that path in
search of pleasure, I this on business '
‘Adieu, a deniain }
‘Yes. You breakfast with me at the
little inn, you know.
‘Agreed my philosopher. Adieu/
And Edward Dubois galloped down
a narrow path leading to the chateau
of a certain Count de Jessen, who that
day gave a grand diuner and evening
party. As soon as Arthur saw that he
was out of sight he turned his horses
steps, and galloped hard towards the
burner's hut.
When Madeleine returned to the
hut and began making a fire, she told
her mother what had happened, and
showed her a gold piece. They were
u-ed to this kind ot treatment, and the
mother did not feel it much now. The
scorn of fifteen years made herdespise
the world. But Madeleine seemed
hurt.
‘I do not care,’ she exclaimed, aloud
at last, ‘for what the young Monsieur
Dubois said ; but I am vexed tnat the
good-lookiug straiiger should have
said that 1 was uot a woman.
'You are not a woman, but an an
ge 1/ exclaimed Arthur solemnly. He
had approached on toot, and had
heard a portion of their conversation.
The mother and daughter stood still
in dumb amazement.
‘You seem surprised, Madame,’ said
the young man, addiessing the moth
er.
'You will ce still more so when I add
that I have returned with the deliber¬
ate intention of imploring you to give
me your daughter's hand iu marriage ;
not instantly, but Avlien you kuow me
better.
‘Monsieur l' exclaimed the mother,
indignantly, ‘this is too much. Go.—
The lelon’s daughter is still.too good
for insult/
'Madame !' said Arthur respectfully,
‘perhaps your astonishment will cease
when I add that your husband is inno¬
cent and that I have come six thousaud
miles Lo prove it.'
‘You are— speaking—seriously ?’ said
the poor woman.
‘On my sod conscience,’ said
Arthui solemnly.
Oh, joy 1 Oh, joy !' shrieked the
girl clasping the stranger around
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MARCH 27 , 1S79.
the neck, ‘the saviour has come at
last F
‘Be calm, my dear young lady, and
I will tell you my story in a few words.
lou will then understand my motives
for coming here. I scarcely expected
to find you at Solenthal, but at last
determined to try. I came last uight,
and soon heard of your resignation and
courage. Be seated, dear girl, and lis¬
ten to tidings that will be joyful indeed
to your filial heart.’
Madeleine, blushing, her color going
and coming, obeyed, and seated her¬
self on a log near the young stran¬
ger.
‘I atn a young Frenchman, and about
seven years ago [I emigrated to Peru
in search of fortune. I started as a
lawyer and found business plentiful
enough. I knew many Frenchmen in
the place, but a merchant of the name
°* Gaillard was my most intimate
friend. He was twice in age, gi avc
even sutleo and satu.me ; but he Lad
quaint I liked ways, was very charitable, and
him. Besides, the others were
married, had families, and he was
alone. We used to sit of an evening
at a cafe, play piquet, drink sherbet,
and then walk home together. He was
rich, and lived in great style, but not
in any way up to his income. People
w.ondered he never married, but he said
Ike had been married, and did not care
to try the experiment again. He Pok¬
ed with alarm at the prospects of set¬
tling in life, and did all he could to
preserve unto himself one bachelor
friend.
‘About a year ago lie fell ill, and
doctor at once intimated to him that
lie would not recover, Apart from
disease it was a general break-up of
nature.
‘When be found there was no hope
he sent for me
‘Versan/ says he, ‘ listen to a dying
man and interrupt me not. You see
on this bed an assassin, a thief a mur¬
derer. Fourteen years ago, sitting in
a hotel, I saw two net: dining, one of
whom had received 16,000 or 17,000
francs. A dreadful thought came iuto
my mind. I was not poor, but I was
wicaed. I followed these two men.—
They walked on their way to Solenthal
together. I dare not attack both, and
or twice I thought of giving up
my fearful design. But at the house
of one De Pierrepont they parted, anu
victim Dubois advanced ou all
alone.
‘I was monster enough to think that
Heaven gave him up to me. 1 bound¬
after him ; I gave myself no time
thought; f stabbed him in the neck;
him ; took his money, and fled.
spare you my thoughts and my fif¬
years'suffering. I fled my coun¬
; beeame a merchant—rich and
but I never had one happy
Not only had I murdered
him, but Pierrepont was suspected and
for my crime, only not to
because the jury hesitated. I
thus ruined au honest man, and sent
family to beg their bread.
‘He paused. 1 spoke not, too ab¬
in my horror.
‘De Versan, listen to me, my friend.
uot turu agaiust me; I have left
you my sole heir.
‘Never will I—*
‘Hark ! you must aud you will.—
ray property, and think, when
enjoy it, with pity on its guilty
owner, and I will make a public con¬
fession, pay the heirs of Dubois their
16,000 francs, and by proving my own
guilt, obtain the pardon of the innocent
De Pierrepont. Refuse, and I will die
unrepentant, for my only friend will
have deserted.
‘I accepted.
‘And may heaveu bless you !‘ said the
weeping aud sobbing mother, while
Madeleine hid her head,in her mother's
lap.
‘An hour later, in the presence, of
the French and English Consuls, four
Englishmen and four Frenchmen, two
priests and the Arcalde, Gaillard, or
rather Mesnard, made his solemn con¬
fession, which was signed by all pres¬
ent, sealed, and one of the two copies
given to mi'. That copy is at present
iu the hands of the Minister of Justice,
and here/ drawing forth a letter, ‘is a
tru^ copy of your father's free par¬
don.'
A shriek from both the women was
the reply.
‘And now, Madeleine,* said he tak¬
ing the girl's hand, 'before I have tbe
chance of rivals, may I renew my earn,
est request for your hand and heart ?
‘Monsieur, no man on earth can ever
do for me what you have done, In an
hour I have lived years of joy ; that
joy I owe to you. Give me my father,
and the love of my whole life, if you
value it, shall be your poor revyard.
This sudden resolution of the
girl, so natural under the
ces, was approved of heartily by
mother.
Next morning there sat in a small
Solenthal, waiting for breakfast, a
not old but bowed with years of
gray-(mired and pale. On each side
him sat a woman-one bis wife,
other his daughter. They had
ta king for hours, and were not
ry yet. A young man sat opposite,
face beaming with delight.
times the waiter had announced
fast, but the joungman had
hade him be quiet and wait awhile.
At length a hurried step was heard,
and the young Edward Dubois enter¬
ed ; he started as if bitten by a
and would have left the room.
/Stop !‘ said Arthur, sternly, as
caught him by the wrist. ‘Rather
and ask for pardon than fly. Read this,
man> an( j He put in his hand the print
cd bm proc i aimi tUe inja , tice
p ier ,epont‘ S sentence, his free pardon,
aud collUilli tho certified confe8sion
ot Mesnard.
Edward Dubois read it irPsilence.—
When lie bad finished reading he
ed around and grasped tbe ex-con¬
vict's hand.
‘No apology can make up for my
CoiJuct/ said he, ‘but what I can
I will. This will satisfy the whole eouu
try.
‘Mons eur,‘ replied De Pierrepont in
husky tones, ‘you did as but the world
did. Appearances were agaiust me,and
all condemned me.
‘Edward, my friend/ said Arthur,
you see the danger of judging from
appearances. Had Dj Pierrepont been
truly guilty, his wife and child should
have been pitied, not scorned. As it
is a vile prejudice has made these two
women for fifteen years outcasts and
pariang.
Edward made no reply, as the break,
last came in. He like all the country
round was horrified now they found
how unjust they had been ; and nfcver
was a wedding more tumultuously
hailed aud feted than that of Arthur
de Versan aud Madeleine de Pierre¬
pont.
A Silenced Father.
A few days ago a boy about fifteen
years old, entered a grocery store, aud
and after looking around for a few
minutes he secreted a loaf of bread
under his coat and started out. He
was overhauled on the street by the
grocer, who was shouting for an officer,
when the lad's father came along and
cried out:
‘What ! Is it my Thomas ? Has my
Thomas come to be a thief? Take
him to the station at once !
'You want him locked up, do you V
asked the grocer.
‘I Jo 1 A child of mine that steals
shall go lo the prison. Thomas is a
wild bad boy.
‘And who has made me so ?’ cried
the boy as he looked around upon the
crowd. ‘Mother—mother died three
years ago and father there hasnf t spoke
one kind word to any of the children
since. I have not slept in the house for
months. Look at the bruises ou my
arms.
‘Thomas, you know I’m kind to all
of you,' replied the father, as the lad
bared his arms.
‘Kind ! Have you ever read us a
word about Heaven, as in—mother used
to ? Have you ever seen her grave but
the once ? Have you ever sent us to
school ? When I've worked haven't
you pouuded me till I gave up the
money ?
‘But—but Thomas you are a thief/
stammered the father.
‘I—I haven't got a shirt to my name,
contiuued the boy as he threw opeu
his coat, ‘and Sam aud Mar 3 7 are worse
off, ’cause they are barefooted. There
hasn't been fire or wood iu our house
for two days, aud when I ca ne here
to steal this bread, the children were
in bed shivering aud starving. If you
do not believe it, come along with
me !'
The crowd believed .it ; there were
tears in the bo.y's eyes and a quiver to
his chin, and when tbe father went to
remoustraie, a man in the crowd seized
him, shook his heels in the air, and
yelled :
‘You old Satan, you are a loafer aud
a gutter drunkard, and I knoir it, aud
if you ever lay hand on one of the chil
dren again I'll follow you to Texas but
what 1*11 break every bone m your
body !
‘Let the boy go !‘ cried tbe crowd,
and he was released. More, he was
giveu more bread and provisions than
he could carry home at oue load.
Superior Abilities,
NoW there abideth these things,
which every man can do better than
any one else?
Poke a fire.
Put on his own hat.
Edit a newspaper.
Tell a story after the other man huff
beguQ it."
Examine a railroad time-table.
Did you never notice that if you
open a railroad guide, and begin to
look for some particular train, that
some officious man in the crowd will
spring up and lay his great thumb
right over the column your train is in,
and tiy to find you the night express
on the Chicago, Burlington and
Quincy, by roaming up and down a
column headed ‘accommodation/ in
the Iliinous Central side of the page?
And you can't bluff him off, either.
A few days ago a quiet-looking man
on the Wabash Railroad called the
train boy and asked him for a railroad
guide for a moment. Then he began
to examine the columns, and a busy¬
looking man behind him leaned over
the seat, and said:
‘What train are you looking for?
Where do .you want to go! I can find
it for you, if you‘re not much accus¬
tomed to this sort of thing/
The stranger thanked him and said
he was looking up some of the connec¬
tions of the Wabash Railroad, and he
guessed he could find what be wanted.
The busy man immediately took
hold of the guide and pulled it away
from him.
‘YouM never fiad it looking tint
way,’ he said; ‘now, tell me where
you want to go. I know nearly all the
connections of tnis road. I travel over
this line twice every sixty days/
After a vain effort to get his guide¬
book, the stranger reluctantly yielded,
and the busy man looked down the
column of ‘ticket fares' and ascer¬
tained that the stranger's train reach¬
ed Danville at 76 and then he look¬
ed down the column and rl iscovei ed that
the connecting train f>r Vincennes left
at 6584. Tnen he handed the guide
back to the stranger, and leaned back
in his seat with the air of a man, a
Chri.stain, unselfish man, who had, at
some trouble to himself, of course, set
a bewildered wayfarer right The
stranger thanked him quietly and with
every appearance of profound grati¬
tude.
‘Oh/ the man said loftily, ‘that's all
right; these railroad guides are all
Greek to people who ain't accustomed
to railroading/
By aud by, the stranger went into
the other coach, and the busy man no¬
ticing the respectful demeanor of the
brakeman as he passed called out, to
the employee and asked:
‘Who is that man?‘
‘Mr. II. C. Townsend/ said the
brakeman,‘the General Passenger and
Ticket Agent of this road/
And the busy man looked straight
out of the car ^window a long, long
time, and every time the train-boy
went by shouting ‘Railroad Guides/
he turned pale and shuddered.
The Bright Side.
Look on the might side. It is the
right side. The times may be hard,
but it will make them no easier to
wear a gloomy and sad countenance.
It is the sunshine and not the cloud
that makes a flower. There is always
before or around us that which should
cheer and fill our hearts with warmth.
The sky is blue ten times where it is
black once. You have troubles, it
may be. So have others. None are
free from them; and perhaps it is as
well that none should be. They give
siriew and tone to life—fortitude and
courage to man. That would be a dull
sea, and the sailor would never acquire
skill, where there was nothing to dis¬
turb the surface of the ocean. It is the
duty of every one to extract all the
happiness and enjoyment he can within
and without him aud, above all, he
should look on the bright side of
things. What though things do look
a little dark? The lane will turn, and
the night will end in broad day. In
the long run, the great balance rights
itself. What is ill becomes Avell—
what is wrong, right. Men are not
made to hang down their heads or bps,
and those who do only show that they
are departing from the paths of true
common sense and right. There is
more virtue in one sunbeam thau in a
whole hemisphere of clouds and gloom.
Therefore, we repeat, look on tbe
bright side of things. Cultivate all
all that is warm and genial—not the
cold aud repulsive the dark ^rij mo-
A New Incident iu Dickens’
Early Career.
There is a very attractive room at
Ipswich, to-wit: Mr. Pickwick's room,
at the Great White Horse Hotel, the
true history of which is curious and
hitherto unpublished. When Charles
Pickens Was a very young man, and
unknown la fame, he reported far the
Morning Chronicle—which journal
lent the future novelist to the Suffolk
Chromelo on the occasion of the Suf¬
folk assize. Arriving at his destina¬
tion, the young pressman engaged the
comfortable best room of the hotel, the
Great White Horse.
But later in the day, as the influx of
visitors became great, the churlish
landlord, named Brooks — generally
called ‘Old Billy Brooks'—who had
small respect for the pres*, and very
limited ideas as to its power, surren¬
dered Dickens' bedroom to some legal
magnate, assigning to ‘that newspaper
fellow 7 ' oue far less roomy and comfort¬
able, and placed, iu fact, just over
some stabling. Dickens was naturally
much annoyed, but said little, biding
his time. When ‘Pickwick’ took the
literary world by storin, its ludicrous
and scarcely exaggerated description
of the White Horse, ‘where they sold
the worst possible wine at the best
possible price/ entirely altered Mr.
Brooks’ notions as to the power of tbe
pen. and much of his later liTe was
spent in raving about the injury Dick¬
was doing him.
Not long afterwards Brooks died,
and the hotel changed hands. But as
the years rolled by the landlords began
to discover that the brilliant humorist
had done far more good than harm by
making the hotel one of Mr. Piewick's
resorts. Tourists and travelers of all
kinds—especially Americans—flocked
to the White Horse to view the scene
of Mr. Pickwickhs startling adventure
with the middle-aged lady. Whether
the attendants always point out the
room, we can not say—clearly
one room will do just as well as au
other—but it is certain that visitors
keep coming to see it to the present
day. •
Forgotten.
How ire dread to be forgotten. We
from the thoughts of death, for
we know that in a little while our
places will be filled by others. Es¬
respected aud loved as we
may be, a score of years finds little
but a tomb stone faithful to our
Men whose intellect and
are the admiration of the age
this destiny, and e'er the moss
half way up the marble slab
tells bis name, the cypress and
ivy on the old church wall sigh
and ask—who was he? It is
to be and how sweet are the
that come to us from loved
who are far away, ‘Do they
of me at home?' is the heart in¬
of many who are separated by
and by sea from the associations
their childhood. The desire to be
seems a part of the hu¬
heart, and there are little pages
the households of our land made sa
by loving friends who have in¬
in their many ways the simple
me.
We love to be remembered, but how
crushes the heart to think we are
by those we hold most dear;
think that the plighted vows of
we love are so soon forgotten:
the mother who bids her daugh¬
‘God speed' on her bridal day af¬
receiving the fondest expressions
filial devotion should be forgotten;
the father bowed by the weight
years aud needing the helping hand
the boy he started on a successful
should be forgotten. Memory J
ungrateful to the living, but forget¬
is natural after death, for the
of the living soon out-face the
id. As we drop into the great Gce&u
eternity the little ripples of memory
circle out of sight, and should we
‘Footprints on the sands of
he who made them is suo.u for¬
Let him who would move the world,
move himself.
The wise and prudent conquer diffi¬
by daring to attempt them.
Be temperate. Liquor has made
paupers than all other vices com¬
Death is more desirable than a wick¬
life. And not to be born is better
to lead a disgraceful life.
NO. 13.
it&Ihumor
i a
Sound money—The organist's salary
The current news always makes a
current jam iu the newspapers.
IIow to take a man down—Employ
a short hand reporter.
-—*-
A whole set of false teeth now for
$8. Just chew on that.
■ -- ——- -
r lhe latest slang phrase is: Oh, you
are too new; the dust sticks to you.
The oysterman's golden rule is:
Stew unto others as you have others
stew for you.
-—----—
Actors cannot carry their quarrels
on the stage. They must ‘make up T
before they play.
It may be a very hard thing to be
tried by adversity, but how much
harder to be tried by the county judge
Many a man who prays not to be
led into temptation would bn awfully
disappointed if bis prujer was gran -
ed.
An Illinois man writing to the Clerk
of the Supreme of the State for a li¬
cense to practice law, said: If you have
two sizes send me the largest.
A Western rural paper asserts that
there are too many hogs in this coun
try. The writer has probably been
taking a ride in a street car ou a cold
day.
Sixteen ‘inaguificeu 1-100^!^ widows
attended an Alabama quilting. No
man present dared to limit tbe number
of ‘handsome and accomplished' young
ladies.
A Georgia postmaster, when a sub¬
scriber called for his paper, told him
that ‘there was nothing in the Adver¬
tiser, and he had used it for wrapping
paper/
‘Pompey, why am de cross colored
baby like de buttercup ob de valley?-'
'Gib it up, Jones; why am it?' ‘Why,
one am colored yellow, ain't it? aud
aiu’t de oder a colored yeller, loo?’
The following is posted in front of a
grocery store near Harvard square:—
‘Wooden pails six cents each. Notice:
We did not steal these pails, but we
think the man we bought them of did.’
<* - ----------- -
In this country a boy has too much
to fight against. First, it's his moth¬
er's slipper; next, Fourth of July; then
green apples; and finally, Santa Claus,
a ricketty pair of skates and an air¬
hole iu the ice.
A graduate from Yale college, now
in Colorado, who can swear iu four
languages at the bull train he drives,
says: ‘You ought to see 'em pull when
I give ’em that foreign game.' There
is education of animals for you.
‘Well, and what did you do then?'
asked counsel, after badgering a wit¬
ness in the Lowell railroad case at Sa¬
lem. ‘Why, went lo the rescue, to bo
sure, as quick as a lawyer goes for a
fellow’s pooket book/ The court rose
to it.
‘Were there any cats m the ark V
is a question that is troubling the re¬
ligious editor of an exchange. Certain¬
ly there were, and the first thing they
said after leaving that ancient craft
avus : ‘It there's Ararat round here we
want to gopher it/
If there is any distinction between
‘a while’ and ‘a time/ it is often lost
sight of. For instance, when a young
man leaves off work and says he is go¬
ing off for ‘a while,' no one can feel
sure until nis return that he has gone
off for ‘a lira.'—with all the word ims.
plies.
Jones (who had been to the club Uftv
til two a. in.)—Mary, wasser use
keeping light for mo, anyway?'
MaryBecause, Henry, you know
that while the lamp holds out to burn,
the vilest sinner may return.
Jones kept better hours for the nex\
week or two*