Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

k ■ iS V--' 2 was already dusk, and the brilliaut jets ot eras, sparkling’ upon the gems, seemed to extract from them the streams of light, while within could be seen a sort of dazzling vista of gold and silver. Tim mins stood gazing tor a minute or two, and then walked in the best possible spirits, and advanced towards the coun ter. “I called about this advertisement,” said lie, showing one that he had cut out of a paper ; “the box has come into my possession.” “0, indeed,” replied the young man whom he addressed, with an unmistakable sneer ; “0, indeed ” “It happened very curiously,” Timmins went on glibly. “L and my wife were walking—” “Don’t tell your story to me, if you please,” interrupted the shopman, rudely, “i’ll mention your errand to my master. Here, Johnson, two upon ten.” The shopman disappeared down an in ner passage, and Johnson advanced from tlie other side of the shop and kept very close to Mr. Timmins, in a manner which lie could not but think offensive, especi ally as a man of far less respectable ap pearance was left standing unwatched at the opposite counter. Worse than this, ‘ two upon ten’’ soon became obvious in the glueing of Mr. Johnson’s two eyes upon the ten fingers, five of which w r ere resting innocently upon the counter. Mr. Timmins began to grow very 7 uncom fortable. When finally the first shopman returned, and preceded him into a private room, and Johnson, calling another man to attend to the shop, joined quietly in behind, Timmins felt that all his good spirits had unaccountably left him, and he was conscious of wearing a hang-dog look, and of being treated surprisingly like a criminal. Mrs. Timmins, with little Johnny in her hand, hovered about the door of the jeweller’s shop for a good quarter of an hour before her lord made his appearance. When, at length, he did so, she fell back with a start, and looked with terrified eyes into his face; the gaslight showed it to be of a deadly white. '‘Heavens save us, TANARUS.!” what’s the matter? You look like a ghost!” “Stuff and nonsense,” he said, trying to speak angrily 7 , hut the words came thick and faint out of his throat. “What, you’ve got th brat, have you ?” “Yes, T. Poor little man, he was so pleased,” and the wife crept timidly nearer to her husband. “We shall never repent it anyway, I’m sure. I Couldn’t have eaten my Christmas dinner comforta ble, if we hadn’t done it, but haven’t you —haven’t you got the money ?” “Yes, I’ve got the money,” he growled between his set teeth. Mrs. Timmins felt such a lump rise in her throat that she spoke no more till they were at home and in their own room. There she could no longer restrain her tears; they streamed down unnoticed over the new Christmas bonnet-strings that she had tied with such pride an hour before. “0, Timmins!” she pleaded, “I can’t bear this. Only tell me what it means?” “Means!” he exclaimed at last, turning savagely upon her ; “it means that I’ve been treated like a common thief. They don’t believe a word of my story, as one might have known they wouldn’t. They don’t prosecute, but they 7 are going to write and inform the company. It means that I shall lose my situation and my character, and be ruined as sure as you’re a living woman ; thanks to you and that cursed brat!” As he spoke, lie raised his boot in his blind passion, and launched a furious kick at little Johnny. It missed the child, but it struck the wood-work of the chim ney-piece, and made a dent in it. The sight sobered Timmins, in a moment. He looked at his heavy boot, and the mark which it had made, and then at the little child at whom the kick had been aimed. Turning away, he liid his face in his hands, and fairly burst into tears. “God forgive me,” he said, “I’m worse than a brute ; but it’s enough to drive a man out of his senses ;” and then, as Johnny, too young to be conscious of his escape, peered wonderingly up, he lifted the child in his arms, and kissed his curly head, saying; “Well, wife, come what may, we’ll do our duty by this child. lie shan’t want while we’ve anything to give him ; and if we starve, he can but starve with s.” The next day, Inspector John Timmins was summarily dismissed from the em ployment of the G.C. Railway Company •without a character. Coincidences. —The distance from “ head to toe” is precisely the same as that between the tips of the fingers with the arms extended. The length of the body is just six times that of the foot; while the distance from the edge of the hair on the forehead to the end of the chin is one-tenth of the whole stature. Lines. i. I stand on the bridge where last we stood When delicate leaves were voting ; The children called us from yonder wood, While a mated blackbird sung. n. Ah, yet you call, —in your gladness call, — And I hear your pattering feet; It docs not matter, matter at all, You fatherless children sweet.— nx. It does not matter at all to you, Young hearts that pleasure besets ; The father sleeps, but the world is new. The child of his love forgets. IV. I too, it may be, before they drop, The leaves that flicker to-day. lire bountiful gleams make ripe the crop. Shall pass from my place away ; v. Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, Or snow lies soft on the wold, Shall shut these eyes ou the lovely light, And leave the story untold. VI. Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be, For the warm \ also beats so high ; To love to-day, and to breathe and see,— To-morrow, perhaps, to die.— VII. Leave it with God. But this I have known, That sorrow is over soon; Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone. Forget by full of the moon. vm. But if all loved, as the few can love, This world would seldom be well; And who need wish, if he dwell above. For a deep, a long death knell. IX. There are four or five, who, passing this place, While they live will name me yet ; And when I am gone will think on my face, And feel a kind of regret. MARY MOORE, A FI.EASANT LOVE STORY. All my long life I had known Mary Moore. All my life I loved her. Our mothers were old playmates and first cousins. My first recollections are ot a boy, m a red frock and morocco shoes, rocking a cradle in which reposed a sunny haired, blue-eyed baby, not quite a year old. That boy was myself— Harry Church ; that blessed baby was Mary Moore. Later still. I see myself at the little school-house, drawing my little chaise up to the door, that Mary might ride home. Many a beating have I gained on such occasions, for other boys besides me liked her, and she, I fear, was something of a flirt, even in her pinafore. How elegantly she came tripping down the steps when I called her name. ITow sweet her blue eyes looked up at me. How gaily rang out her merry laugh. No one but Mary could ever bring her heart so soon to her lips. I followed that laugh from my days of childhood till I grew an awkward, blushing youth ; I followed it through the heated noon of manhood ; and now, when the frosts of age are silvering my hair, and many children climb upon my knee and call me “father,” 1 find that the memories of youth are strong*, and that even in grey hairs, lam following the music still. When I was fifteen the first great sor row of my life came upon my heart. I was sent to school, and was obliged to part with Mary. We were not to see each other for three long years. This, to me, was like a sentence of death, for Marv was like life itself to me. Rut hearts are tough things after all. I left college in all the flush and vigor of my nineteenth year. I was no longer awkward and embarrassed. I hud grown into a tall and slender stripling, with a very 7 good opinion of myself, both in gene ral and particular. If I thought of Mary Moore it was to imagine how 1 could dazzle and bewilder her with my good looks and wonderful mental attainments, and never thinking she might dazzle and bewilder me still more. I was a cox comb, I know ; but as youth and good looks have lied, I trust that I may be believed when I say that self conceit has left me also. An advantageous proposal was made to me at that time, and accepting it, 1 gave up all idea of a profession, and pre pared to go to India. In my hurried visit home, of two days, I saw nothing of Mary Moore. She had gone to a board ing school at some distance, and was not expected home until the following May. I uttered one sigh to the memory of my little blue-eyed playmate, and then called myself ‘a man'’ again. "in a year, I thought, as the vehicle whirled away from our door, in a year, or three years at the most, I will return, and if Marv is as pretty as she used to be, why, then perhaps, 1 may marry her. And thus 1 had settled the future of a young lady whom I had not seen for four years. I never thought of the possibility MHBSB ©ff EH §©®m- of her refusing me—never dreamed that she would not condescend to accept my offer. Rut, now I know that, had Mary met me then, she would have despised me. Per haps in the scented and affected student, she might hare found plenty of sport; but, as for loving me, I should have found myself mistaken. India was my salvation, not merely be cause of my success, but because my la borious industry had counteracted the evil to my nature, and had made me a better man. When, at the end of three years, I prepared to return, I said nothing of the reformation in myself which I knew had taken place. They loved me as I was, I murmured to myself, and they shall find out for themselves whether I am better worth loving than formerly. I packed up many a token from that land of romance and gold, for the friends I hoped to meet; the gift for Mary Moore I selected with a beating heart ; it was a ring of rough virgin gold, with my name and hers engraved inside—that was all; and yet the sight of the little toy strangely thrilled me as I balanced it upon the tip of my fingers. To the eyes of others, it was but a small plain circlet, suggesting thoughts, perhaps, by its elegance, of the beautiful white hand that was to wear it. Rut to me—how much was embodied there! A loving smile on a beautiful face—low words of welcome—a future home and smiling face—all these delights were hid den within that little ring of gold. Tall, bearded, and sun bronzed, I knocked at the door of my father’s house. The lights in the parlor window, and the hum of conversation and cheerful laugh ter, showed me that company was assem bled there. I hoped sister Lizzie would come to the door, and that I might greet my family when no strange eye was look ing carelessly on. But no—a servant answered the sum mons. They were too merry in the par lor to heed the long absent one who asked for admittance. A bitter thought like this ran through my mind, as I heard the sounds from the parlor, and saw the self suppressed smile on the servant’s face. I hesitated a moment before making myself known, or asking for any of the family. And, while I stood silent, a strange apparition grew up before me; from behind the servant peered out a small golden head, a tiny, delicate form followed, and a sweet childish face, with blue eyes, was lifted on mine—so like to those of one who had brightened my boyhood, that I started back with a sud den feeling of pain. “What is your name, my pretty V I asked, while the wondering servant held the door. “Mary Moore.” “And what else ?” I asked. She lifted up her hands to shade her eyes—l had seen that very attitude in an other, in my boyhood, many and many a tine—and answered, in a sweet, birdlike voice— “ Mary Moore Chester,” lisped the child. My heart sank down like lead. Here was an end to all the bright dreams and hopes of my youth and manhood. Frank Ches ter, my boyish rival, who had often tried, and tried in vain, to usurp my place be side the girl, had succeeded at last, and had won her away from me. This was the child—his child and Mary’s I sank, body and soul, beneath this blow, and hiding my face in my hands I leaned against the door, while my heart wept tears of blood. The little one gazed at me, grieved and amazed, and put up her pretty lips as if about to cry, while the perplexed servant stepped to the parlor door, and called my sister out to see who it was that conducted himself so strangely. I heard a light step, and a pleasant voice, saying— “ Did you wish to see my father, sir ?” I looked up. There stood a pretty, sweet faced maiden of twenty, not much changed from the dear little sister I had loved so well. I looked at her for a mo ment, and then stilling the tumult of my heart by a mighty effort, I opened my arms and said— “ Lizzie, don’t you know me?” “Harry! Oh, my brother Harry!” she cried, and threw herself upon my breast. She wept as if her heart would break. I could not weep. 1 drew hej* gently into the lighted parlor, and stood with her before them all. There was a rush and a cry of joy, and then my father and mother sprang to wards me, and welcomed me home with heartfelt tears. Oh, strange and passing sweet is such a greeting to the way-worn traveller. And, as I held my dear old mother to my heart, andgrasped my fa ther’s hand, while Lizzie clung beside me, I felt that all was not yet lost, and although another had secured life’s choicest blessing, many a joy remained for me in the dear sanctuary of home. There were four other inmates of the room who had risen on my sudden en trrnce- One was the blue-eyed child whom I had already seen, and who now stood beside Frank Chester, clinging to his hand. Near by stood Lizzie Moore, Mary’s eldest sister, and, in a distant corner to which she had hurriedly retreated, when ray name was spoken, stood a tall and slender fig'ure half hidden by the heavy window curtains that fell to the floor. When the first rapturous greeting was ovetf, Lizzie led me forward with a timid grace, and Frank Chester grasped my hand. “Welcome home, my boy !” he said, with loud cheerful tones, I remembered so well. “You have changed; but no matter about that- your heart is in the right place, I know ” “How can you say he has changed ?” said my mother gently. “To be sure he looks older and graver, and more like a man than when he went; but his eyes and smiles are the same as ever. It is a heavy heart which changes him. He is my boy still.” “Ay mother,” I answered sadly, “I am your boy still.” Heaven help me! At that moment I felt like a boy, and it would have been a blesssed relief to have wept upon her bosom, as I had done in infancy. Rut I kept down the beating of rny heart and the tremor of my lip, and answered quietly, as I looked into his full hand some face— “ You have changed, too, Frank, but I think f>r the better.” “0, Yes—thank you for the compli ment,” he answered with a laugh, “xMy wife tells me 1 grow handsomer every day.’’ His wife. Could I hear that name and keep silence still ? “And have you seen my little gtrl ?” he added, lifting the infant In his arms and kissing her crimsoned cheek. “Hell you, Harry, there is not such another in the world. Don’t you think she looks very much like her mother used to ?” “Very much !” 1 faltered, “Hallo!” cried Frank with a sudden ness which made me start violently, “I have forgotten to introduce you to my wife ; I believe sbe and you used to be playmates in your young days—yes Har ry !” and he slapped me on the back. “For the sake of old times and because you were not at the wedding, I will give you leave to kiss her once—but mind, old fellow, you are never to repeat the cere mony. Come—here she is, and I for once want to see how you will manage these ferocious moustaches of yours in the operation.” He pushed Lizzie, laughing and blush ing, towards me. *A gleam of light and hope almost too dazzling to bear came over me, and I cried out before I thought, “Not Mary.” It must have betrayed my secret to every one in the room. Rut nothing was said; even Frank, in general so obtuse, was this time silent. I kissed the fair cheek of the young wife, and hurried to the silent figure looking out of the window. “Mary—Moore,” I said in a low, eager tone, have you no welcome to give the 1 wanderer ?” She turned and laid her hand in mine, and said, hurriedly— “l am glad to see you here, Harry.” Simple words—and yet how blessed they made me. 1 would not have yielded her up that moment for an Emperor’s crown. For there was the happy home group, and the dear home fireside, there sweet Mary Moore. The eyes I had dreamed of by day and night, were falling beneath the ardent gaze of mine, and the sweet face I had so long prayed to see was there beside me. I never knew the meaning of happiness until that moment. Many years have passed since that happy night, and the hair that was dark and glossy then, is fast turning grey. I am now grown to be an old man, and can look back to a happy, and, I hope, well spent life. And yet, sweet as it has been, I would not recallv a single day, for the love that made my manhood so bright, shines also upon my white hairs. An old man. Can this be so? At heart lam as young as ever. And Mary, with her bright hair parted smoothly from a brow that has a slight furrow upon it, is still the Mary of other days. To me she can never grow old nor change. The heart that held her in infancy and shel tered her in the flush and beauty of wo manhood can never cast her out till life shall cease to warm it. Not even then, for love still lives above. A gentleman, passing along a causeway between two waters, asked an Irishman whom he overtook, ii people were not lost there sometimes, seeing that there was no rail to keep them from falling in f “Lost!” auswerd Pat; “I never knewkany body lost there in my life. There have been some drowned; but then they were always found again.” WIT AND HUMOR. On the failure of two bankers in I rc . land, named Gonnc and Going, some wag perpetrated the following : “ Going and Gonnc are now both one, For Gone is Going, and Going is Gonne." “Have you paid the Tax on your in come, Pat ?” “No, sur.” “And whv not ? “Recause it is incom-pat-ible with my interests.” Os all the young women mentioned in the Bible, Ruth seems to have treated her sweetheart the worst. She pulled his cars and trod on his corn The author of a volume entitled “ The Story of Louise de la Valliero,” just pub fished in London, says that the fair Louise had “large eyes of deep blue, veiled by long dark eyelids /” A Miss Joy was present at a party re cently, and in the course of the evening someone used the quotation, “ A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” when she ex claimed ; “Pm glad I’m not a beauty, for I should not like to be a Joy forever!” The majesty of justice was fearfully sustained by Lord Eskgrove, the English judge, who, it is related, once sentenced a tailor for murdering a soldier, in these words : “ And not only did you murder him, whereby he was bereaved of his life, but you did thrust, or push, or pierce, or propel the lethal weapon through the waistband of his regimental breeches, which were his majesty’s.” A Frenchman, solicting relief of a ladv, said gravely to his fair hearer, “ Madame, I nevaire beg, but dat I have von vise vid several small family dat is growing very large, and nossiug to make dere bread out of, but de perspiration of my own eyebrow.” Great applause has been bestowed upon Rubens because, with one stroke of his brush, he turned a laughing child to a crying one, in a painting ; but many a parent has turned a child’s expression from joy to grief by a single stroke, without ever getting any credit for it. Somebody has given utterance to the following scrap of philosophy, which, ii it be not good, is at least cool : “ The poor man’s purse may be empty, but he has as much gold in the sunset and silver in the moon as anybody.” The Schleswig-Holstein affair gave occasion to the only good mot ever re ceded of Earl Russell. He said : “Only two men ever did understand this ques tion—another gentleman I. The other gentleman is dead. He explained it to me, but I have forgotten all about it.” The late Bishop Meade, of Virginia, was, generally, not given to fun, but he could relish humor, and occasionally him self say a very witty thing. A friend recalls a mot once uttered by the Bishop. He was lamenting the little attention paid in a certain portion of the State, at the time, to the subject of education, and added, with a sympathizing look, “ Oar girls are poorly educated, but the boys will never find it out.” A gentleman, it is said, had a board put oil one part of his land, on whi h was written, “ 1 will give this field to any one who is really contented,” and when an applicant came he always said, “ Are you contented ?” The general reply was, “ 1 am.” “ Then,” rejoined the gentleman, “ what do you want with my field ?” The Galena (lib) G azette relates that a citizen of that place recently met a member of Grace (Episcopal) Church, and rallied him on his abstinence from amusements, during Lent. He continued, “ I believe your church keeps Lent ? “ Yes,” was the reply, “ and I believe your church keeps mortgaged.” The sort of conundrums that pass mus ter at the antipodes, is indicated by the following from the Melbourne Punch : “ What is the difference between a fiery individual and a slice of bacon ? One is rash and the other is rasher. What is the most becoming dress for bare earth 1 The skirt of a wood. Where do poets dry their clothes? Oil their own “lines. What is the difference between a brick layer and a laborer? The one “lay bricks ; and the other takes the (h)odds. What is the difference between a Miuhtt* rial meeting and a Government railway • One is a means of locomotion, ami ‘he other a means of low-commotion. Mnen is money like a bullet ? When it b “spent.”" When is a sheep-run like ho siery ? When it is a-stocking. M iilU does measles make on its first appearance A “ rash” promise. M hat is the mb • once between a bookseller and a pai> ■ One brings a book to you and tue (m brings you to book \V hy d’>cs the omisi of the head first become bald ? Beeau*-' it is there that the “ parting” of the hau is first noticed.”