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MABEL ELLIOTT
THE
Banter’s Daughter.
T.j GENEVIEVE U MAR,
Author of “A Weird Wedding Night,” “The
Love of Her Life,” “The Btolen Bride
groom,” “Cruel as the Grave,”
“Her Wedding Night,”
Etc., Etc, Etc.
CHAPTER Vl—Continued,
m toei r-triot, that Is her name," rnnr
touied Giulio. “ItV as pretty as her sweet,
smiling face; and now to report to the
padrone, and then to steal aw iy with little
Teresa to Miss Lucia’s to talk over our
plans for the future.”
Poor, hopeful boy! endowed with the
courage of a hero, and all the nobility of
mind of a martyr, his earnest sonl was soon
to be tried to its utmost limit of endurance.
Happily unconscious of the dark-hadows
that lined his rugged path ay of life just
s it seemed to become mure hopeful and
brighter, he hastened homeward, L ndly
thinking over his plans for Teresa's welfare.
They would take his savings, an 1, steal
ing away from the padrone's den, fly to
some other city.
Here they would have enough money left
to rent some rooms an l live until he se
cured work.
He doubted not his courage and ability
to care for the beloved sister for whose
happiness it would he a joy and a pleasure
to labor night and day.
His hopeful thoughts were somewhat
disturbed as he entered the narrow court
where tho padrone s house was located.
Around the doorway of the house was
Santo himself and several of his familiar
associates, engaged in low-toned conversa
tion.
Something had happened their somber
faces and serious munu r told Giulio this
•-■but what v
A shade of anxiety deepening on his face,
ho hastened his footsteps, and rea hod the
knot of men with a quick, excited query on
his lips.
“What has happened?” lie asked, sus
penseful ly, of one of the men.
Santo answered him:
“Your sister!”
“Teresa'” gasped Giulio, in quick
larm, his heart seeming to stand still with
sudden apprehension and pain
“Yes, came the terrible reply, “she was
killed by the cars this morning. Your sis
ter, little Teresa, is dead!”
CHAPTER VIL
A. YOUNG HERO.
A dusky pallor came over poor Giulto's
face as he heard the cold words that fell
from Giuseppe Santo’s lips that proclaimed
the death of the only being in the wide
world he could call by an endearing name.
The empty basket fell from his nervelesss
grasp, he staggered and almost fell against
the doorpost, and stood there like one sud
denly turned to stone, staring blankly at
the men before him.
“Dead! oh, unsay those cruel words. My
sister, my darliug Teresa, dead, and I saw
her but yesterday. It cannot be—-it can
not be!”
Rut there was no refutal ot Santo’s
statement in the stony, indifferent faces of
the padrone’s companions.
With a moan of stricken grief Giulio
sank to the doorstep and buried his face in
his hands.
Unheeding and uncaring for his sur
roundings, overwhelmed only by the awful,
solemn fact that death, sudden and terrible,
had robbed him of the oue heart that had
beat in unison of love and sympathy with
his own, he went through all the gradations
of bitter grief, self-reproach, and utter
despair.
What ray of hope could he see in that
dark hour when the darling sister he had
planned to work for and make happy in the
near future was lying cold in death? What
gleam of joy could he discern in the bleak
future, now that he stood in a cold, un
feeling world— alone'/
From tho blow that had prostrated him
momentarily Giu'io rallied at last. His
face was a void, his eyes deluged with
tears, his heart seemed breaking as he
struggled to his feet and asked, brokenly:
“Where is she?”
“Tp there,” and Santo pointed carelessly
to the staircase.
A watching sympathizer had noted his
coming oue kind heart at least tried to
rob the terrible confrontation of death with
kind words and pitying comfort.
Miss Lucia met him at the head of the
stairs. At the sight of her friendly fea
tures the poor boy staggered forward and
buried his face in her motherly arms,
“Oh, it can't be true!” he sobbed fran
tically. “Tell me it is all a cruel lie! !Bhe
cannot be dead, for I could not live with
out her. To miss her gentle face, her
cheering voice and pitying eyes, to have no
one to love, or care for, or work for—oh,
M iss Lucia, my heart is broken! nay heart
is broken!”
She soothed him in her soft, womanly
way as he sobbed away his grief in her
motherly arms. Between his distracted
ruoanings and the silence of despair she
told him how it had come about—how the
feeble spark of life had gone out with his
beloved name on Teresa's dying lips.
Santo had sent her to gather coal on the
lailroad tracks. It liad been her task on
many previous occasions, but the cold had
confused her, and, in stepping through the
deep snow to evade an oncoming train, an
engine on the next rails had come upon her
unperceived.
The engineer had checked the locomo
tive the moment he saw her, but it was a
moment too late. The next he had leaped
from tho cab and gathered her poor
crushed form in his arms, breathing self
reproaches and tender pity over the child
he had accidentally run over.
"She did not suffer much,” murmured
Miss Lucia, in a broken tone of voice.
“Her limbs were so crushed and hroken
that a numbness of feeling seemed to
steal over her. They brought her home,
and sent for a surgeon. He said he could
do nothing for her. When I earne here she
was dying. Oh, Giulio, he was happy in
death, for her lips moved in prayer, a
seraphic smile came over her wan face, and
she gasped out softly. ‘Tell Giulio I am
waiting for him in heaven.' and died.”
It was some time before the tender
hearted dressmaker could control her emo
tions or subdue those of Giulio sufficiently
to allow him to enter the room where was
laid all that was mortal of little Teresa.
“Courage, my poor boy!” she whispered,
compassionately. "Little Teresa is better
off w ith tl eangels than in our feeble care.”
"But I loved her so; she was all 1 had in
life to love.” wailed the broken-hearted
Giulio.
Miss Lucia clasped his hand soothingly
as she led him to where the shrouded form
of the little martyr lav.
All signs of the dreadful accident were
removed. Only the white folded arms
crossed oier her breast, and the fair, gen
tle face, wearing a peaceful, happy expres
sion. were ipvealed.
Beside her lorn ly bier poor Giulio bent
his head and wept with ail the earnest
grief of a heart that knew its terrible be
reavement.
It was only when Santo, slightly subdued
in his rough manner, but still su!L n and
scowling, sent him on a mission to inform
his brother of the accident, that Giulio was
aroused from his lethargy of grief.
The errand co turned over an hour.
When he returned there was no longer a
throng about the doe r. Affairs had resumed
tteir wonted serenity in the court, and he
was dumfoutided to tied Santo and some
friends smoking and drinking in the room
THE MONROE ADVERTISER: FORSYTH, GA„ TUESDAY, JULY 5, 1887.—EIGHT PAGES.
Where his sister lay when la-t he h id left it
“Teresa!” he gasped out, bewildered
startled.
“They have taken h r nwiv. Tbit is the
end of it. the in ;nest having bet-n h-.-!d.
was Santo’s cooi reply as he- shuffled a pack
of greasy cards.
Giutio turned deathly pale, and -food for
a moment stupefied, ov-.-rcon; at the pad
rone's words.
“Taken her away?” he repeated, in a tone
of dread h-rror and uncertainty. You
cannot niran that! The funeral ——”
“The city will attend to that. WLit money
have Ito waste on the child? She is dead
—th it is the end of us all. Tli rich cas
ket or the potter’s field, it is one and the
same when death comes.
"Oh, >on wretch! brutta! allauno! ’ broke
from Giulio, intones of the wildest indigna
tion and anger, unconsciously emphasizi g
his words by the selection of terms of re
proach employed by S into b flis If. "You
murdered her —' yours the b'ame, yonrs the
retribution —nnd yon r- to grant her
Christian burial. Wretch! coward' mur
derer! why does heaven permit such things
to be!”
The padrone sprang to his feet, boiling
with rage.
“To your work. Maledetti you and ire to
talk to me thus, you and the girl to whom
I have given a home since you were chil
dren. To work, I say, or I will scourge you!”
“You will never beat me again,” replied
Giulio, a daugerous gleam in his eye. "I
leave you, Giuseppe Santo, never to return.
God will punish your awful crime. I leave
to Him your inhuman cruelty.”
‘Leave me, and the police shall drag you
to prison!’’ shri-ked Santo after his re
treating form. “Have a care for yourself.
If you are not back by nightfall, the law
shall claim you as a vagrant and runaway.”
Giulio was too shocked and sick at
heart to heed the import of the padrone’s
menace as ho descended the stairs.
Through a blinding storm of tears he im
agined his loved Teresa roughly consigned
to some dreary and unsanctified burial.
“She shall not be takeu to a pauper’s
grave!” he cried wildly. “Oh, my lost
Teresa, all my loving heart can do to make
you beautiful in death, as you were lovely
in life, shall be done for you.”
He did not pause until he had reached
Mi-s Lucia’s home.
He burst in upon her unceremoniously,
and startled her with the words:
“You know what they have done?”
She bowed her head sadly.
“They have taken Teresa away to be bur
ied by the city, a pauper, unclaimed, un
mourned. It shall not be!”
“Can you make it otherwise?”
“I will, 1 must.”
“Then Santo will furnish the money to
bury her ”
“Jle!” cried Giulio scornfully, iudig
nantly. “No! the money—my savings.
Quick! Where are they?”
Miss Lucia started, but reached for the
bank on the shelf and handed it to her
young friend.
For nearly a year he had not touched the
bank, except to place within it his savings.
His eyes filled with t> ars as he opened it
and transferred its bulky contents to his
pockets.
Every coin seemed to tell a simple story
of labor and self-denial. Oh! it was hard
to regard the past and its hopeful untici
patious ( f employing this money to give
pleasure aud happiuess to Teresa, and
now
All his plans were suddenly diverted, his
cherished hopes crushed to earth, and only
the last consolation left, of consigning all
that was mortal of Teresa Wynne to its
long home as tenderly as a loving heart
could suggest.
He did not say anything further to Miss
Lucia about his intentions, but at once left
the house, his cherished savings in his
pocket.
Daylight was fading as he proceeded
down the street. He was well acquainted
with all the policemen on the beat, with
whom he was a general favorite, undone of
these he addressed and asked some ques
tions about the rules regarding the burial
of the poor.
He learned that an undertaker near th-
City Hall did the city's work inthisparticne
lar. and securing the location of the place
he started on, his mind full of his newly
formed plans.
Among the many people whom he met on
(he crowded throughfare he did not notice
that, as he passed a liinpliglii, a well
dressed gentleman paused abruptly, stared
at him fixedly, and then hurried after his
receding form.
It was Mr. Elliott, the father of the lit
tle girl, Mabel, he had saved that morning
on the avenue.
It seemed to be the intention of Mr.
EUiott to detain and question him, but
something in Giulio’s sad aud abstracted
runner aroused his interest, and he deter
mined to follow him.
Giulio at last reached a large lighted
store. He paused at the window and be
gan to count the money he had taken from
the bank.
Mr. Elliott, watching him curiously, be
gan to feel a little disappointed.
“YVbere can he have got so much money
honestly?” he murmured. “I have taken a
rare interest in him for his heroic behavior
this morning. I hope he is honest aud in
dustrious. ”
Giulio pursued his way, and paused fin
ally in front of a somber, dimly lighted
place.
Mr. Elliott started strangely as he opened
the door.
For it was an undertaker’s store.
CHAPTER VIII.
RETRIBUTION.
Giuseppe Santo forgot all about his
threat to have Giulio arrested for desert
ing him during the ensuing twenty-four
hours.
Either remorse at his past inhuman treat
ment of Teresa, or the possession of the
money Dyke had paid him, led him to
drink more freely than usual, and all that
night his miserable home was tlie scene of a
wild debauch on the part of himself, his
friends, and, a part of the time, of Dyke.
It was late the ensuinsr day when the
padrone learned en u-ih of Giulio to Know
that he had secured mon y somewhere to
bury little Teresa at his o vn expense, and
also that he never intended to return to his
old slavery again.
Still half-drunken from the debauch of
the previous evening, he made a visit to the
police office, and laid a charge against
Giulio. He told a pathetic story of relation
ship, of his long protection of Giulio, and
of the latter stealing his money aud run
ning away from home.
Then, satisfied in his crafty mind that he
would soon regain possession or his delin
quent cnsTge. ne returned to his nome.
A visitor was awaiting him, a man whom
he greeted with the cheery welcome of
hail-fellow well met, but who, with a dark
frown on his sullen brow, eyed him sul
lenly.
It'was Dyke, and he never replied to the
padrone's salutation.
“What is the matter?” asked Santo, with
a surprise that was evidently assumed.
"Don’t you know?" demanded Dyke, sul
lenly.
“No: how should I?”
“Well, I was robbed last night.”
“Bobbed! where, how?”
“Here —by you. ”
Dyke had arisen to his feet and clenched
his fist.
“No lies!” he cried, facing Santo fiercely.
“I see it in your false, evil face to deny th*
charge. It is useie-s. You made me arnnk,
and stole a package of papers from my
pocket, in this room, last night. They re
f.r to the case of these two children, and
could be of no value to any one except
yourself. What have you do: e with them?
Come, no lies. There will be serious
trouble if you do not instantly deliver them
up to me. "
Befo:e the determined mann rof Dyke,
| the padrone quailed visibly, but he said
roughly:
“Your papers? I know nothing of them.’
“Give them up to me.”
"You accuse me wrongfully."
Dyke ground his teeth, and made a men
acing movement toward Santo.
The padrone’s head sank back between
his shoulders until he assumed the pose ot
some deadly ‘-erpen?.
At the ' .me :: o n nt he drew a long,
murderous. !oo .i g knife.
"Maledetti b ■ insse 1 venomously.
Y u me: a m : :i nir ovn hon; - *? Go
or I ill plung th knif - into you.”
Dyke retreated 'o th do r.
"Bev.r-. i. r rente::-fiercely. "You
shall n • profit by the theft. I will have
your life for y.ur tren hery."
Santo laughed derisively.
When his visitor was go e, however, he
locked the door, and drew a time-worn
packet of pap rs from his pocket.
“Dyke may well wish to secure the
papers,” he muLered, with a complacent
chuckle, "but they arc now mine, and I
shall keep them. J hey will prove a valu
able document against this man Yauce;
thy may enable me to make a fortune by
keeping the boy, Giulio, under my control.
I will go in search of him, for Dyke may
outwit me by finding him to baffle and de
feat me.”
It was about dusk that evening when
Santo was returning to his home.
He had traced Giulio, but the latter had
gone to the funeral of little Teresa. When
he returned, the police, notified of his
whereabouts, would arrest him, and then
Santo would regain control of him.
As the padrone passed a corner he
nearly staggered an 1 fell. A man had
sprung from a .shadowed doorway and
seized him fiercely.
“My papers!” hissed a determined voice
in his ear. “I have a revolver ready in my
pocket, and will kill you if you refuse.”
It was Dyke. The padrone wrenched
himself free from his grasp. Tearing a
heavy slnngshot from his pocket, he struck
out at his adversary.
The biow met Dyke fairly in the face,
and he fell to the sidewalk.
Instantly, however, he drew a revolver.
He leveled the weapon straight at Santo’s
head.
“Miserable padrone!” he cried, “traitor
and thief, die!”
The revolver snapped, but did not ex
plode.
In a moment Santo grappled his enemy.
Blow after blow he rained on his de
fenseless head, and then fell back with a
howl of pain.
Dyke had again used the revolver, and
this time with deadly effect
Fatally wounded, the padrone summoned
a vengeful strength to his command.
Drawing his knife, he fairly flung him
self upon his prostrate enemy.
The knife was lifted, and fell once, twice,
a score of times.
When the sanguinary conflict had termi
nated, both men lay deluged in blood on
the pavement.
Dyke was found to be dead, banto in an
expiring condition.
In the pursuance of his evil plots against
Giulio Wynne the padrone had met his
doom. ,
He was removed to his miserable home,
aud his brother was sent fur.
Dying, unable to speak an intelligible
word, he intrusted the papers he had sto
len from Dyke to his charge.
They were destined to remain unopened
for many years to come.
The YVynne secret seemed to perish with
the untimely fate of those who sought to
benefit by it.
That night the cruel padrone paid the
penalty of his crimes.
Retribution hid overtaken his guilty
soul one hour after poor Teresa YVynne
was consigned to the grave.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
In the Wrong Place.
Customer from Texas—“l've busted
my head-gear, young feller, what's th’
tax on that one up there?”
Clerk—“ That ain’t a hat. That’s a
bath-tub.”
Customer —“You don’t say so! Now
I look at it, though, I see the brim is a
little narrer fer the size of the head-hole.”
Tid-Bils.
A Fourth of July Demand.
4
vf4ifr.
*m meme
Smart Boy (whose father is a printer)
—“Say, paw, if you want to make a for
tune, get up a boy's calendar, with sev
enteen Fourth of Julys every year. And
make one this week while you’re about
it, please.” —Chicago Herald*
A Fresh Water Sea Serpent.
A special from Locust Point, on the
shore of Lake Erie, says: “The French
settlers along the lake shore, in Erie
township, Ottawa county, a few miles
east of here, were surprised and amazed
last night over the appearance of an un
known fish of mammoth size. Two
brothers named Dessau, both fishermen,
were returning from the fishing grounds
when they discovered a phosphorescent
mass upon the beach. It was late in
the evening, but they succeeded in mak
ing their boat fast to the shore, aud,
upou examination, discovered a lake
monster writhing in agony. The broth
ers say that it was like a large sturgeon
in shape, but that it had long arms,
which it threw wildly in the air. While
they were watching it the great fish ap
parently died, and the Dessau boys,
badly frightened, hurried away for aid.
When they returned with ropes the fish
had disappeared. In its dying efforts it
had succeeded in tumbling into the lake
and had been carried away by the waves.
The marks on the beach indicate that
the serpent was between 20 and 30 feet
in length. Several seales as large as
silver dollars which were cast off were
picked up.
It is growing fashionable for superin
tendents of almshouses, in Michigan, to
insure the lives of paupers under their
charge, aud there is a marked increase in
the death rate at such institutions.
Judge Orr, of Kankakee. m. f has a
goat which runs his lawn mower.
TO-MORROWS FORTUNES.
My dreams, like ships that went to sea.
And got becalmed In sunnier climes.
No more returned, are lost to me,
Faint echoes of those hopeful times:
And I have learned, with doubt oppressed—
There are no birds in next year's nest.
The seed is sowed in balmy spring.
The summer s sun to vivify,
YVlth his warm kisses ripening
To golden harvests by and by,
Got caught by drought, like all the rest
There are no bird's in next year's nest.
The stock I bought at eighty-nine
Broke down at once to twenty-eight;
Some squatters jumped my silver mine,
My own convention smashed my slate;
No more in futures I’ll invest—
There are no birds in next year's nest.
— Burdette, in Brooklyn Eagle.
EMELINE’S SCHOOL.
She was the dullest scholar who at
tended the school. The teacher said so.
The particular institution which she
attended was a little brick-red school
house in the Territory of Dakota. Per
haps there is more than one such educa
tional edifice in the Territory of Dakota,
but I can’t be more definite because that
is about all I know' concerning it myself.
Her name was Emeline' Fancher, usual
ly called Em Fancher, or sometimes j
Emma Fancher, or perhaps more fre
quently “old Faneher's gal” and it was
agreed by all that she never would know
anything—not about her books—and the
teacher was quite positive that that was
all there was to learn in this world.
Of course she learned other things
readily enough and she could learn her
lessons as w’ell if she wanted to, but she
didn’t want to—only on very rare occa
sions. It was said that she was famous
to help her mother at home, and that she
was somewhat better than her brothers in
helping her father out-doors and that
when it came to going after the cows on
horseback or setting a trap which would
invariably catch a muskrat, or other
things of this nature, that she was en
thusiastic and successful, but it didn’t
raise her much in the eyes of the com
munity.
She was always shockingly familiar
with the teacher, a prim maiden lady
who had been a district school teacher
all her life and considered perfecting the
multiplication table the highest achieve
ment of man.
During the noon ’hour this waywrard
scholar would sometimes take her seat on
top of a desk near the teacher’s corner
and sit and swing her feet aud ply her
prim instructor with questions concern
ing the manners and customs and scenery
and natural products of different parts
of the country, and volunteer a bewil
dering amount of information concerning
the habits of tlie muskrat and the jaek
rabbit and the prospect for a good crop,
aud her latest adventure while bringing
home the cows on her favorite pony. She
would thus continue to shock Miss
Bacon, the prim instructor, till at last that
lady w’ould be obliged to send her away
in self-defense.
So Emeline went along for a couple of
years in the little brick-red schoolhouse.
Then she graduated. The exercises were
not elaborate—in fact they could not
have well been more simple. She piled
up her books and taking them under her
arm went home.
To the astonished Miss Bacon, who
demanded an explanation of her sudden
departure, she said:
“Eve learned <no ugh and I am going
to quit.”
“What are you going to do at home ?”
“Help ma and pa, I reckon.”
“But don’t you know you are only
fifteen years of age and need to go to
school more ?”
“Oh, I s’pose so—that’s wTiat you’re
always telling me. But I guess I’ll never
learn anything at school anyhow, so I’m
going to quit. Pa and ma don’t care
and you’ll never see me at school any
more, so good-by.” She went out the
door, but turned and gave Miss Bacon a
parting shock by adding: “Come down
to our house Saturday and we’ll go a
fishing in Dry Lake—l know where there
are some splendid young frogs for bait.”
But the worthy Miss Bacon could not
reply—the idea of her adjusting a frog
on a hook! So she did not go Saturday
and did not see her late pupii. In fact
two years passed and she only saw r her
occasionally and then w r hen going to or
from school she encountered her dashing
wildly along on her pony.
One day when perhaps a little more
than the time mentioned had elapsed,
Emma entered the school-house after
school had closed and as Miss Bacon was
preparing to take her departure. She
was, in her own words, a “full-fledged
young lady now,’and was certainly quite
prepossessing in appearance, Miss Bacon
thought, compared with w hen she “gradu
ated. ” She was not large, though per
haps a little taller than the average
young lady, and was as strong and ac
tive as ever. She was dressed with more
taste than formerly and evidently did
not indulge in her wild and wayward
habits to so great a degree, though she
had the old gleam in her eye which
seemed to tell that she could still ride
tlie poky as far and fast, or set a trap by
the lake with the same certainty of a
catch.
“Miss Bacon,” she said, “I’m going tc
surprise you.”
“YVell,” replied that lady, “go on—
you have surprised me before.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, laughing,
“but another way this time. You re
member how I graduated ?”
“Y'es, I believe that is what you
termed it.”
“YVell, there isn’t any use of gradu
ating unless it does you some good, is
there?”
“Certainly not.”
“That's what I thought, so I’m going
to teach school.”
“Y"ou a teacher!” exclaimed Miss
Bacon. “YYhv, Emeline, how can you
think of such a thing?”
“Don't you think I can do it?”
“YVhy, it doesn't really seem as if you
would be successful as a teacher. Where
are you going to teach?’’
“Oh, over in the other county. Ma
reckoned I couldn’t get a certificate even
if I had studied some since I left here, but
the superintendent was a nice young man,
and I smiled at him and acted real sw r eet,
and he gave me one with a pretty good
■tanding. I tsll you it made ma open her
eyes. ”
‘ l You will teach the coming winter,
then ?”
“Yes, got my school engaged. Going
to have thirty scholars, some big boys,
too, and I’m going to make them stand
around. If any of my scholars ever run
away and act like I used to I’ll make
them wish they hadn’t,'’
“Well, I hope you may have excellent
success, and if I can do anything to assist
you at any time, pray let me know'.”
“Oh, I'm going to yet along all right
—that’s what I’m going over there for,”
and she gave her head a decided toss and
walked away leaving Miss Bacon musing
on what might not happen in this world
i of constant surprises.
A few weeks after. Emma went to her
school. She found a boarding place
near at hand and settled down w ith the
determination to work hard and give the
best satisfaction that she possibly could.
The first morning she was confronted bv
the usual array. They were all sizes,
from those so small that the experienced
teacher always put them down as
having been sent by strategic mothers
to get them out of tlie way at
home, to the large boys she had spokeu
of to Miss Bacon, some of whom were not
only larger than herself, but several
years older as well; and one of them. Mr.
Edward Comstock, even grew particu
larly attentive to his teacher.
She was also met by the usual diversity
of text-hooks, those necessary auxiliaries
to a successful school, ranging from the
late N. Y\ r ebster’s able spelling book to
the last work of some ambitious profes
sor who hopes to teach orthography with
out labor on the part of pupil or teacher
with his new “system”—the former vol
ume having been the property of the
grandfather of the little urchin who
brought it aud the latter having come as
a sample from the publishers to the direc
tor of the district who straightway armed
hi* youngest son and heir with it. de
termined to give the work a trial before
recommending it.
Likewise there was the usual range of
studies. There was the little tot who
had yet to gain a speaking acquaintance
with the alphabet, up to the ambitious
young man who aspired to algebra and
an ornate style of penmanship, which
ran to birds and spiral-spring O's.
It must be confessed that in higher
mathematics and pen-strokes which
swelled out at unexpected places our
teacher was not altogether at home.
But she argued that these ambitious
young men knew nothing about it either,
and therefore they could all, at least,
start even.
Among the particularly bad boys was
little Johnny Dutcher, whom Eninra
found to be a particularly obstinate youth
that no amount of moral suasion, “keep
in’ in” at the noon hour or even corporal
punishment could w r oo from the error of
his ways.
Several w'eeks of school pass 'd and
Mr. Edw'ard Comstock, the largest bey,
remained attentive to Emma—but not
more attentive than a pupil could judi
ciously be to his teacher. One day when
the term w T as about half over she found it
necessary to order little Johnny Dutcher
to sit still in his seat and make the ac
quaintance of his lesson during the noon
hour when the other children were en
gaged in a grand snow-balling match
outside. Naturally this was the cause of
much grief to little Johnny—missing the
snow-balling match was partly responsi
ble for the distress, but being forced to
come in contact with his lesson was tlie
direct cause. Judging from the way he
recited his lesson subsequently, it would
have been hard to conceive liow such a
very slight introduction to it as he must
have had could have caused him so much
grief. But it did and Johnny went home
plotting all manner of schemes for re
venge.
The next day little Johnny’s father,
Mr Dutcher, senior, called at the school
and expressed his great displeasure at
tlie wav his promising son had been used.
He w'as very awkward about it, and not
half so warlike as his manner at first in
dicated.
“YVot I wnint to say,” explained Mr.
Dutcher, “is that you ’bused my boy, an’
as one o’ the officers of this school dees
trick I'm goin’ to see if something can’t
be done ’bout it.”
“I never abused your boy,” said Emma
firmly.
“But he says ye did. lie says ye kep’
him in at noon an’ ree-cesses, an’ it ain't
good for his health—no, ma'am, it's very
bad on his health—it's wearin’ on him
now' —he can't stand it ’thout no
exercise.”
“I only kept him in a few' times, and
it was because he never had his lessons.”
“But he says he alays has liis lessons,
and that you al’ays keeps him in. An’
then lie tells me ye pounded him with a
club.”
“Then he tells what isn’t so, and you
know' it!” replied Emma, with emphasis,
her anger rising.
“ Oneo’ my boys lie? They don't never
do no such thing—l brought ’em up
different from that I'll hev you tinner
stand! They tells the truth every time
and ye did pound poor little Johnny w ith
a club! Yc hain’t no fit teacher fer a
school an’ I'm goin’ to see ef I can't get
yc turned out and some’un in as can learn
the scholars an not pound ’em !”
“ Sha’n't I put him out?” asked
Edward Comstock, coming forward.
“Yes,” she said in a tone which
show'ed that she would have done it
herself if she had been able. Then there
followed a very lively though short un
counted in which Air. Dutcher got
picked Uj> and dropped a couple of
times, stepped on once and finally thrown
out through the door into a large snow
bank, all of which feats were accom
plished by Edward Comstock, the
largest boy in school, who was also
accused of harboring a tender regard for
the teacher herself.
But though the valorous Dutcher had
been so artistically got rid of in the
morning it was much harder to dispose
of him in the afternoon when he called
with the remainder of the intelligent
I School Board and announced that ow ing
to the fact that she had pounded one of
the children of a member of that Board
with a club and deprived him of needful
exercise—clearly proved by the child
himself —that they, as a Board and in
pursuance of their duties, must dismiss
her as teacher and secure another who
would not jeopardize the health of the
children of the members of that Board.
Emma had expected such an outcome
of the difficulty and although she sup
pressed her feelings with difficulty, she
managed to keep them sufficiently under
control to indicate to Edward Comstock
to keep his seat, this young gentleman
| having indicated his entire willingness to
come forward and throw the entire Board
out of the door if she was of the opinion
that it was for the best.
“I never hurt any of your children,”
she exclaimed, and put her foot down
very firmly, “but they all need it and I
don’t want to try to teach them any
longer anyhow,” and she walked away
and left them.
A few days later she returned home
and soon after met Miss Bacon.
“I'm sorry to hear of your misfortune,”
said that lady.
“Oh, you needn’t be —I was glad to get
away,”Emma replied.
“Is that so? I’m sorry you feel that
way about it. I’m afraid the time you
gave to it has all been lost.' 1
“YY'ell, I don’t know—l got engaged to
the biggest boy in the school and he'll
be twenty-one in the spring, and we’re
going to be married then—l think that’s
doing pretty well.”
And as Miss Bacon thought of it and
remembered all the terms which she had
taught without accomplishing anything
of that nature she admitted to herself
that perhaps Emma had done more than
she had at first given her credit for.—
Dakota Belt.
BUDGET OF FUN.
HUMOROUS SKETCHES FROM
VARIOUS SOURCES.
A Troublesome Law—An Appropriate
Selection —So lie was—Work
ing Him Nicely—lt Fright
ened Her, Etc., Etc.
“Will you please pass the butter?”
said the landlady’s daughter to the star
boarder.
“I'm sorry,” replied the latter, who
was a railway clerk, “but the new law
prohibits all passes.’’ — T id-Bits.
Appropriate Selection.
“I see that old Dr. Fettlox has been
appointed visiting physician to the Old
Soldier’s Home. How on earth did they
come to choose him ?”
“Why, don’t you know lie’s the most
renowned veteran-ary surgeon in the
country?”
“Indeed. You surprise me. I thought
he was a horse doctor.”— Life.
So He Was.
“Humph! but you are wearing your
father’s hat!” he said, as he looked over
the fence at the other boy.
“1 know it!” was the reply.
“Hey! but you are ashamed!”
“Not much J ain’t! A feller who
can’t make use of his father hadn't orter
have one!” —Detroit Free Fret*.
It Frightened Her.
Old Man (Reading report of baseball
game)—“They got onto Clarkson early in
the game and pounded him all over the
field. He succeeded in striking out two
men, after a hot grounder had gone right
through Burns, and a man been given a
life on first, un.l then the visitors wielded
the willow in earnest and knocked the
unfortunate out of the box.”
Old Lady—“ Don’t read any more of
that fight, please, Josiah. lt’< too dread
ful. Dear me! Dear me! Where could
the constable have been? Anti they call
this a Christian country.”
Working Him Nicely.
*‘My dear,” said a husband, who is fond
of putting posers. “Can you tell me why
young women who don't want to get
married are like angels' visits?”
The lady finally gave it up.
“Because they are few ami far between.
Ha, ha, ha! Not bad, eh?”
“Exceedingly clever. He, ho, he!
By the way, John, can you let me have
that $:'.()?”
“Certainly,” said John. —New York
Sun.
High Art in New York.
Miss Bondclipper, accompanied by her
mother—they live on Fifth Avenue, N.
Y.—called at the studio of the great por
trait painter, Herr You Pinsel, to inspect
Mrs. Bondelipper’s portrait in oil. Both
ladies went into ecstacies over the work
of art.
“So, Miss Pondclipper, you dinks dot
likeness your mudder of vash goot?” re
marked the flattered artist.
“O, it is perfectly splendid!” replied
Miss Bondclipper, “it is just as natural
as life. lam surprised, Herr Van Piu
sel, that with your talent you did not be
come a photographer.”— Siftings.
Taking the Census.
“I have a scheme to make some money
when the next census is taken in Da
kota,” said one Sioux Falls man to an
other.
“What is it?”
“Why, I’ll make a proposition to the
Legislature to take the census of the
towns at about five dollars per town and
make a whole barrel of money.”
“Why, you couldn’t make a cent at
that rate.”
“Couldn’t, hey? Well, I know I could
get rich at it. I can take the census of a
town for fifty cents. You see I’ll give a
man half a dollar to hitch up a sick horse
and drive it out on the main street and
let it lie down, and then after about five
minutes I’ll get up on the wagon and
count ’em.” — Dakota Bell.
The “Pen” Alight ier Than t he Sword.
John B. Carson, the well-known rail
road magnate, was showing an English
friend the beauties of St. Louis a little
while ago.
“Who lives there?” asked the English
man, pointing to a magnificent marble
palace.
“Mr. Brown, the great pork-packer.”
“And there?” said the Englishman,
pointing to another magnificent dwelling.
“Mr. Jones, the famous pork-packer.”
“And there?” pointing to a neat little
frame house.
“Oh, tlint’s General Sherman’s house,”
said Mr. Carson.
“Ah!” remarked the Englishman, “an
other evidenc • that the ‘pen’ is mightier
than the sword.” —New York Truth.
AVhat Pompeii Died Of.
A Post-Express reporter chanced to be
standing beside the delivery desk of one
of the city libraries when a well dressed
lady of thirty approached the desk. The
librarian was cutting the leaves of anew
copy of the “Last Days of Pompeii,”
every now and then stopping to read a
passage from the famous novel. The
lady glanced around listless and said:
“I would like to find something new in
the way of nice reading. Nothing very
strong, you know, something light and
amusing. That is a nice looking book
you have there. What is it?”
“It is the “Last Days of Pompeii.”
“ ‘Last Days of Pompeii,’ Pompeii—
Pompeii—who was Pompeii ? What did
he die of? I never could bear tragedy.”
“I believe he died of an eruption.
Yes, this is rather tragical,” replied the
librariiiajvith the faintest smile imagin
able. The lady departed after securing
something ‘lightand amusing.’and with
out the slightest 1 idea that she had fur
nished any amusement. —Rochester Post-
Express.
Had the Cowboy Along.
It was on a train coming East from
Chicago. In the smoking car was a pas
senger who had been out in the cattle
country for several years. He was a
small man, having soft white hands and
a very mild look, and one of the pas
sengers presently observed:
“So you’ve been in the country, eh ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Had to go armed, I suppose ?”
“Yes, all men out there go armed.”
“Saw Mexicans, eh ?”
“Yes, sir, a few.”
“And cowboys ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever have any trouble with a cow
boy ?”
“Yes, sir, once.”
“And do you mean to say that you
came out of it alive ?”
“I do, sir.”
“And—and what become of the cow
boy V'
“I have him here, sir,” replied the
little man. and opening his valise he took
out a cow-boy’s sombrero with a bullet
hole through the front, and then open-
ing a small parcel he brought out a well
preserved human ear.
“Well, by George !” gasped the in
quisitive passenger, and he began shrink
ing tip and wilting away until when the
little man looked around for him he had
entirely disappeared. —Detroit Free Frets.
Gollo the Food of the Canary-Islander.
I have alluded to the excellent bodily
j development and proportions of the
I modern Canarians, and to the testimony
! left by the old chroniclers to the still fine
* characteristics of the ancient Guanches.
; who are indeed described as marvels of
; bodily strength, beauty and agility, be
cause these facts have an important bear
ing on the question of their food. As
there can be no such bodily growth,
strength and activity, as is described as
belonging to these people, without su
perior nourishment, it follows that the
i food used by the Guanches, and adopted
| and still almost exclusively used by the
| present inhabitants, must be highly nu
tritious.
This article, so evidently important, is
I the gofio, named at the head of this paper.
! There is nothing mysterious about it,
j for gofio is simply flour made from any
j of the cereals by parching or roasting
before grinding. The Guanches may
have roasted their wheat, barley, etc., by
i the ready method of first heating stones,
I on which or among which the grain was
I afterward placed. As to that there aro
[no precise accounts, but well-shaped
grinding stones are plentifully preserved.
At present gofio is prepared by roasting
the grain in a broad, shallow earthen
dish, over a charcoal tire. It is kept
constantly stirred, fo prevent burning,
i One can hardly pass through a vil
lage or hamlet without witnessing
! some stage of the preparation
:of gofio. The grain is first care
fully picked over and all impurities re
moved. The processes frequently take
place in front of or just within the al
! ways-open door, giving the traveler am
\ pie opportunity to see all steps of the
preparation. The grinding is done at the
wind-mills, which abound everywhere.
The roasted grain is ground to a very fine
| flour, when it becomes gotio. Aftergrind
! ing it is ready for immediate use. When
it is to be eaten, milk, soup, or any suit
able fluid, may be mixed with it—any
! thing, in fact, to give it sufficient con-
I sistency to be conveyed into the mouth.
Being already cooked-, it requires no fur
ther preparation before eating.
Ultimately maize was introduced into
the islands, and soon became an articleof
general cultivation, particularly on the
Island of Grand Canary, where gofio from
it is the staple article of food for the la
boring population, as that from wheat or
wheat mixed with maize is in Teneriffe,
wheat being more largely grown in tho
latter island.— Popular Science Monthly.
Maypole Customs.
A correspondent sends to London
Notes and Queries the following particu-
I lars of the maypole customs at llalt
• whistle, iu the county of Northumber
land, England. The maypole was usually
some seventy or eighty feet in height. It
i was made of the two best trees that could
be found on some neighboring e-tate,
and which had been secretly chosen some
time before by the youth of the town.
The maypole was set up on May 14 (one
of the half-yearly fair days) in the market
place. The night before, the youth of
Halt whistle, who had forcibly requisi
tioned the best horses they could find,
started for a secret destination
—for the maypole was in
variably a stolen one. Sometimes the
gamekeepers offered resistance: but if tho
[townsmen could get the trees into Halt
whistle, then they were claimed by
; the lords of the manor as waifs, and no
interference was allow ed with them. The
pole was decked with ribbons, holly, and
a windmill on the top, and was the centre
of rural festivities of the usual nature.
In the evening it was pulled down and
sold by auction, the proceeds being spent
in drink, which seems to account for the
great stress laid by my informants on the
fact that they always took the very best
trees they could find. The advent of the
rural policeman killed the maypole at
Haltwhistle. The May fair is still held,
tint a strict interpretation of the law has
robbed it of its central ornament.
Where Snakes Abound.
In attempting to explore some of the
islands of Lake Chapala it seemed as if
the earth literally wore a “skirt of ser
pents,” says a letter from Mexico to the
Philadelphia Record. The ground
swarmed with them, swaying and w rith
ing from every bush, hissing and squirm
ing on every fallen tree, and rippling tlie
water in all directions. It was a ques
tion as to which were more numerous,
the birds above or snakes below. They
tell us that as soon as the spring birds re
i appear there is a great gathering of
j snakes below and hawks above. The
; latter literally cover the trees, and when
ever hunger dictates they make a dash at
the tired little creatures who have settled
upon the islands after their annual re
; turn from some unknown region. If a
| bird escapes the hawks and seeks to re
-1 fresh himself with a drink, in the twink
[ ling of an eye he is swallowed by one of
the greedy serpents that lie in wait for
him at the water’s edge.
A Doctor’s Bill in Brazil.
Brazilian doctors are as eccentric in
their charges as the people are in their
j desire to enjoy the pleasure of being let
alone. The physicians do not regulate
their charges by the time and labor they
have expended in the patient’s service,
j but by the estimated value of his life. As
i this value is determined by the patient's
i income, he, if he survives, is treated bv
the doctor as wreckers treat a stranded
j ship—the greater the value, the larger
! the salvage.
A young English engineer, while en
gaged in some work in the vicinity of
Rio, was attacked by yellow fever. A
| doctor of good repute attended him, and
on his recovery demanded a fee of sboo.
The young engineer remonstrated and
to appeal to the courts. But
friends who had resorted to these tri
bunals for redress advised him to have
nothing to do with the law. He acted
upon their counsel and paid the doctor’s
bill.— Youth's Companion.
Biirmah's Forests of Teak.
In obtaining the va,t and rich domain
of Burmah the English Government has
come into possession, among other natu
ral treasures, of immense forests of teak,
which, never very plentiful in India, was
becoming commercially quite rare, and
consequently of increased cost for indus
trial purposes. Of all the woods grown
in the East this has been pronounced as,
in some respects, the most valuable. This
superiority consists in its being neither
too heavy nor too hard; it does not warp
nor split under exposure, no matter how
prolonged, to heat or dampness; it con
tains an essential oil which possesses the
rare property of preventing the wood
from rotting under wet conditions, and,
i£t the same time, acts as a preservative to
iron, and repels insects: it is, in addi
tion, a handsome woed, of several varie
ties of color and grain, and takes a good
polish.