Newspaper Page Text
DEATII-DEALISG BISILCLOTHS.
A Tidy Housekeeper Ht*£iis:ed nt Wlial
, bhe Found in the Kitchen.
A iidy housekeeper, writing in a
Western magazine, expresses the follow*
ing very plain views on a homely bu‘.
important subject, she says:
“I had some neighbors once, clever,
good sort of folks. One fall four of
them were sick at one time with typhoid
fever. The doctor ordered the vinegar
barrels whitewashed and threw about
forty cents’ worth of carbolic acid into
the swill-pail and departed. I went into
the kitchen to make gruel. I needed a
dish-cloth and looked around and found
several, and such ‘rags !’ I burned them
all and called the daughter of the house
to get me a dish-cloth. She looked
around on the tables.
“ ‘Why,’ she sail, ‘there was about a
dozen here this morning,’ and she
looked in the wood-box and on the man
tle-piece and felt in the dark corner of
the cupboard.
“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I saw some old black
rotten rags lying around and I burned
them, for there is death in such dish
cloths as these, and you must never use
them again.’
“I ‘took turns’ at nursing that family
four weeks, and I believe those dirty
dishcloths were the cause of all that
hard work. Therefore, I say to every
g&ousekeeper, Keep your dishcloths
'clean. You may wear your dresses
Without ironing, your sun-bonnets with
out elastics, but you must keep your
dishcloths clean. You may only comb
your hair on Sundays, you may not
wear a collar unless you go from home,
but you must wash your dishcloth. You
may only sweep the floor ‘when the sign
gets right;’ the windows don’t need
washing, you can look out at the door ;
ihat spider web on the front porch don’t
hurt anything; but, as you love your
lives, wash out your dishcloth. Let the
foxtail get ripe in the garden (the seed
is a foot deep, anyway); let the holes in
the heels of your husband's footrags go
undarned; let the sage go nngathered;
let the children’s shoes go two Sundays
without blacking; let two hens sit four
weeks on one wooden egg ; but do wash
your dishcloths. Eat without a table
cloth ; wash your faces and let them dry
do without a curtain for your windows
and cake for your tea, but, for heaven’s
sake, keep your dishcloths clean.”
How Steel Pens are Made.
First the steel is rolled into big
sheets. This is cat into strips about
three inches wide. These strips nre
annealed; that is, they are heated to a
red hot heat and permitted to cool very
gradually, so tii.it the brittleness is all
removed and ;i. . t <1 is soft enough to
be easily worked. Then the strips are
again rolled to the required thickness,
or, rather, thinness for the average
steel pen is not thicker then a sheet of
thin letter paper. Next, the blank
pen is cut. out of the flat strip. On
this the name of the maker or of the
brand is stamped. N xt, the pen is
w i led in a form which combines
gracefulness with strength. The round
ing enabl -i the pen to hold the requisite
ink and to distribute it more gradually
than could be done with a flat blade.
The lit!! • hole which is cut at the end
of the slit serves to regulate the elas
ticity, and also facilitates the running
of the ink. Then comes the process of
hardening and tempering. The steel
is heated to a cherry-red and then
plunged suddenly into some cool sub
stance. This at once changes the qual
ity of the metal from that of a Soft, lead
like eu I stance to a brittle, spingy one.
Then the temper of the steel must lie
drawn, for without this process it would
be too brittle. The drawing consists
of heating the pen until it reaches a
certain color. Tne first color that
appears is a straw color. This changes
rapidly to a blue. The elasticity of the
metal varies with the color, and is fast
ened at any point by instant plunging
into cold water. The processes of slit
ting, polishing, pointing and finishing
the pens are operations requiring dex
terity, but by long practice the work
men and workwomen become very ex
pert. There have been few changes of
la'e years, and the process of manu
facture is much the same that it was
twenty years ago, and the prices are
rather uniform, ranging from seventy
five cents to $4 a gross, according to
the quality of the finish.
- '■
A Temperance View of It
If the working people of this country
want to know why they have hard times
every f<_ w years we can tell them. It is
not over-production nor underconsump
tion, as those phrases are commonly em
plcyed. If they had kept the $900,-
000. 0:0 they spend every year for strong
drink in their pockets for the past five
vears of good times, the present tern
porary lull in manufacturing and bus
iness activity would find many of them
able to bear it without l>eing pinched
for the nee -sos life. It is the over
sumption of whisky that makes the un
derconsumption of food and clothing in
this land of liberty and liquor. The an
nual bill for bread, meat, cotton and
woolen goods of this great American
people foots up a total of about sl,-
250,009,000. But its annual bill for
whisky, beer and taxes thereon is sl,-
400,000,000. In other words, it un
necessarily drinks 8150,000,000 worth
more than it necessarily eats and wears.
A rd the people who commit this folly
every year are amazed that once in a few
years they are hard up, and some of
them want to hoist the communistic red
flag and destroy everybody else’s prop
ertv because they have wasted their own
share of the national substance in rye
iuice and other riotous fluids.
-- ■ ■ ■
Dost Want It.-Old Marquis de
Caux, the ex-husband of Patti, is now
said to be the object of persistent per
secn’joii by a blooming widow ,n the
American Coionv, but the old Marquis,
w.ib no wife and half of her money,
. want a new wife with no money
@ljc
VOL XII. SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY EVENING. MARCH 11, 1885. NO. 8.
THE OLE ATTIC ROOM.
I remember the dear old attic room,
Where I slept when a little boy,
In the farmhouse orer beside the hill,
When life was a perfect joy,
I remember the chairs so old and quaint)
And the bed whereon I slept,
And the chest of drawers beside the door,
Where the apples were always kept.
I remember well how the early sun
Through the window sir all would stray,
And how the bird in the tree outside
Would warble his morning lay.
And how my mother’s “Time to get up 1”
On my heedless ear would fall,
And the unpietentious print that hung
So crookedly on the wall.
I remember the ceiling, cracked and low,
Where bunches of peppers hung.
And the old green curtain thatwould’t roll apt
But in every wild breeze swung.
I remember the barrels with stovepipes filled,
And various other things.
And the memory of this dear old room
Remembrance also brings
Os the nights I had of innocent rest;
What wouldn't I give to be
Again in those rosy, boyhood dreams,
A wanderer happy and free ?
And on its earpetless floor to romp,
A merry and boisterous boy,
And see my little sister play
With her latest painted toy ?
The room was not fair to look upon,
But to mo 'twas a jolly nest.
Ah, that now as then I could lay mo down,
Its tired and willing guest;
And dream the dreams that then I dreamt
In the nights so cool and still,
On the homely bed in that attic room
In the farmhouse by the hill 1
The Jewels.
“It’s bo very, very lonesome here I”
sighed Isabel Darling.
And to one who had been brought up
in the very heart of busy, bustling New
York, it might well have seemed “lone
some” in that solitary ravine of the hills,
with only the sound of moaning pines
overhead and the rustle of a mountain
stream, as it fled foaming over rock and
bowlder, to people the weird silence I
Grandmother Kesley had lived there
all her life To her there was compan
ionship in every stately tree and shud
dering clump of bushes. The sound of
wind shrieking down the huge stone
chimney was sweeter, in her ears, than
Nilsson’s clearest notes—the creaking of
the shutters at night was the voice of
some gossiping companion 1 How could
Grandmother Kefclay, at seventy, and
Isabel Darling, at seventeen, be expect
ed to view life from the same platform ?
“Lonesome 1” echoed old Mrs. Kesley.
“Oh, fiddlestick ! Get your knitting,
and then you won’t be lonesome.”
And, reluctantly enough, Isabel
obeyed.
Nightfall had long descended upon
the solitary homestead among the hills.
Here and there a star shone momenta
rily through the ragged rock of clouds
that were scudding from the northwest,
and the wind was holding high carniva
among the tree-tops in the glen below.
Mrs. Kesley sat before the fire, with
snch a generous heap of blazing logs as
that no auxiliary candles were needed,
and her queer, brown, wrinkled face
looked like that of a Fairy Godmother in
the ruddy shine. Isabel sat opposite,
her soft brown eyes mirroring the blaze
as it flashed and flickered, her dark hair
shining like bands of satin.
Isabel Darling was very pretty—so
pretty, in sooth, that her thrifty parents,
who had five other feminine “darlings’’
to dispose of, considered that her rose
bud face ought to buy her a fortune, and
indignantly bundled her off to Grand
mother Keeley's, among the Adirondack
hills, when the first soupeon leaked out
of a lover who had no more money than
he himself could earn at his artist craft
of wood engraving.
“Our Isabel to throw herself away on
Fred Hensley!” cried Mr. Darling.
■‘And with her face and the education
we’ve given her 1 ’
“Os course, it’s quite out of the ques
tion 1” said Mrs. Darling, who had just
such keen eyes and wrinkled brows as
her mother might have had twenty-five
years before—a worthy descendant of
the line of Kesleys. “We must send her
to Grandmother Kesley’s at once.”
Grandmother Kesley had written back
a favorable response to the letter of in
quiry that was at once dispatched upon
the subject.
“Let her come,” said Grandmother
Kesley, with a very sputtering quill pen
on paper that was fashionable half e
century ago. “You needn't worry your
selves about her _ lover. Lovers
aren’t in my line, and this Hensley chap
may have her, if once he finds his way
inside my doors, and welcome 1”
And it was in answer to this trumpet
of defiance that poor Isabel Darling was
now wearing her heart out, in the sol
tude of these wild, northern hills 1
Grandmoiher Kesley was kind-hearted,
too, in her way. She had done her best
to enliven the pining prisoner—had
brought down a packet of musty old
novels, “Clarissa Harlow,” “Charlotte
Temple,” “Alonzo and Melissa,” and
the like—furnished Isabel with materials
to work a sampler exactly like that
which hung framed above the “best
room” mantel, a memorial of her own
school-days, and even undertaken to
show her how to spin 1 Couid any mor
tal, however unreasonable, ask more?
Yet, with all this, Isabel Darling stil
drooped!
To-night Grandmother Kesley ! ; a
new entertainment provided, ouc bud
soen Isabel covertly crying once or twice
in the course of the day, and her heart
grew soft within her.
“JSabet,' said she, as they sat tete-a
tete in the twilight, “I never showed
you my box of jewels ?”
“No, grandmother,” said Isabel, list
lessly.
“Would you like to see ’em ?”
“Ye» grandmother,” still without
anyth, j of interest in the tones.
Grandmother Kesley went to a curi
ously clamped old hair trunk that always
>tood under the head of her bed, hidden
by the voluminous fall of the patchwork
quilt and with a great rattling of rusty
keys, drew forth a small square box, of
some aromatic smelling wood.
Isabel’s eyes opened in spite of herself,
as the old lady held up a glittering string
of ancient gold beads.
“I had them when I was a gal o’four
teen,” said she, nodding her be-capped
head. “Father—that’s your great-grand
father Kesley, child—give ’em to me
when I finished my first set o’ shirts foj
him. And here is a lot o’ amethysts
my Uncle Poundridge brought from sea
—there was a Spanish ship wrecked on
the shores where he chanced to be wast
in' and them was among the things cast
up.”
The purple stones, set in a strange,old
fashioned filagree of finely-wrought gold,
winked and glimmered oddly in the fire
light, as Grandmother Kelsey elevated
them in her skinny fingers.
“And this ’ere is a gold watch and
chain Squire Seth Duplex left your
Grandfather Kesley when ho died. Yom
grandfather and he were great friends,
Isabel, and the squire was always a great
hand to do things liberal. But John
Kesley never carried the watch—he al
ways said it was too fine for him and he
J stuck t“ his old silver one. And here’s
/our Uncle Lamech’s silver snuff-box—
and your Aunt Sylvy’s wedding ring
poor child, she died before she’d been
married a year, and the coral ear-drops
she used to wear 1 It’s a pretty good
box full of crinkum-crankums, ain’t it,
child ?”
“Oh, they are beautiful I” assented
Isabel, roused to enthusiasm at last.
“Aud I don’t mind saying, Isabel,
they shall all be yours, one of these
days, if—mercy upon us—what’s the
matter with the child ?”
For Isabel had sprung from her seal
like a frightened hare from its form.
“A face, grandmother—a pale, rigid
face, looking in at the window through
the darkness without.”
“Oh, pshaw I” cried Mrs. Kesley,
“there ain’t a soul lives within two
miles of us. Who on earth should be
lookin’ in at my winder ?”
“I don’t know,” persisted Isabel,
“but I did see a face.”
Mrs. Kesley opened the door and
looked up and down.
“I told you so 1” she nodded triumph
antly, closing and bolting the door.
“Not a creetur to be seen, not so much
as a stray dog. It’s your fancy,
Isabel 1”
And not all her granddaughter’s pro
i testations could convince the ancient
dame to the contrary.
But about half an hour afterward, just
as Mrs. Kesley was spreading the round
I cherry table with a cloth of home-spun
damask, two-tined forks and plates of
some foreign ware, curiously decorated
with unlikenesses of birds, bees and in
sects. a knock came to the door, aud
Isabel started again, almost as nervous
ly as before.
It was beginning to snow softly, as
Mrs. Kesley opened the door, and the
crooked little figure that stood there was
powdered over with the white drift—an
old woman wearing a crumpled black
bonnet, and an ancient brown cloak with
; a double cape descending below her
I elbows.
“Who be you?” curtly questioned
Grandmother Kesley, “and what do yon
want disturbing honest folks at this
time o’ night?”
“I’m Lonisy Ann Paddock,” was the
humble and conciliating reply, “and I
started to walk from Hollyford to stay
a spell with Mrs. Squire Johnson below
here—she and my mother was first
cousins, you know —and somehow I’ve
got belated, so I calculated you’d keep
keep me all night, on a pinch 1”
“Humph 1” grunted Grandmother
K-sley, “I ain’t acquainted with Mrs.
Johnson, but I’ve heard she was a
dreadful likely woman ! Well, walk in,
Mrs. Paddock—it’s an ugly night to be
out alone in, and although we ain’t no
great hands for company, I guess you
can put up with our ways ! Won’t you
lay off your things ?”
“Thankee 1’ said the new comer, in a
regular New England twang. “I’ll
take off my cloak, but if it’s all the same
to you, I’ll rather set with my hood ou
—l’m dreadful subject to neuralogy in
the face 1”
And all they could see of Louisa Ann
Paddock’s face was the startling brigb
eyes that were veiled beneath the screen
of a pair of spectacles.
“She’s a queer-lookin’ old creetur,
ain’t she ?” said Mrs. Kesley, in a whis
per, as Isabel helped her ladle up a
dishful of delicious, limpid “apple
sauce” from a stone jar of the same,
that always -food on the second pautry
shelf. Bit Ist ol did not answer—she
was watebi g th s envious crouching fig
i urc through he half-open door.
“I suppo I am fanciful,” thought
she—“at least graulmother always says
so; but I do 11, nk 'he face is just the
same that was fi. ttaaed against the win-
dow when she was showing me the box
of old-fashioned jewelry. I wish we
hadn’t let her in. I wish there was a
man about the house. I wish-—’’
‘ Dear heart alive, Isabel, Miat ou
ea th be you doin’?” scolded Grand
mother Kesley—“boldin’ the dish so
that all the sirup’s runnin’ out?”
And Isabel, with a blush und start,
was forced to own her absent-minded
ncs <
Their own utter helplessness, the.
own isolation and distance from aid—
the rich old jewels in the wooden casket,
aud the pallid face at the window, van
ishing almost instantly as it app eared
h se, combined with one or two dis
crepancies in the conduct and appear
ance of their uninvited guest, filled
Isabel Darling’s heart with vague alarm.
People had been ruthlessly murdered in
their beds before now, for treasures less
valuable than these, and, had an oppor
innity presented itself she would fain
have taken council with her grand
mother upon the subject. But even iu
she pondered, the new-eomer rose to get
a drink of water from the stone pitcher
on the table. One or two long, vig-.
orous strides, aud then catching a
glimpse of Isabel’s startled face, the
soid-isant Louisa Ann subsided once
more into the halting limp of old age.
But that one instance of forgetfulness
had been quite sufficient to confirm the
young girl’s already aroused suspicions.
“I was right,” thought Isabel, her
neart beating wildly. “I was right I
She is no woman, but a man in disguise.
And Grandmother Kesley never sus
pects 1 Oh, what, what shall Ido ?”
At that moment Mrs. Kesley rose,
and, taking the shining brass candle
stick, began slowly to climb the steep
stairway that led to the attic of the one
story dwelling.
“For I s’pose,” she thought, “the
poor, tired creetur 'll be glad to get to
bed; and I may as well see if the little
cot in the north chamber is all right,
with blankets enough to keep off' one’s
death of cold.”
Isabel had risen instantly to follow
fter, when, with one forward stride,
“Louisa Ann Paddock” closed the door
at the foot of the stairs and drew the
bolt.
“Stay where you are 1” uttered a low
voice in unmistakably masculine ac
cents.
Isabel uttered a wild scream.
“Help I” she shrieked, involuntarily
uttering the watchword, although she
knew no human ear was nigh to respond,
“Help! For heaven's sake do not
murder us, two helpless lonely women I”
“Isabel I” ,
In an instant the brown cloak and
aood lay in a lump on the floor, aud she
was clasped in a pair of arms that were
as strong as they were tender. And
through the cannonade of knocking and
rattling at the stairway door, kept up
by Grandmother Kesley, who had been
alarmed by her granddaughter’s scream,
Isabel could only gasp out the half
audible syllables:
“Oh, Fred 1 Fred Hensley ! how could
you frighten me so ?”
“Open the door, some one 1” squeaked
Mrs. Kesley. “Murder! Thieves!
Fire 1 Robbery 1 Let me in, I say !”
“Grandmother, don’t be frightened,”
cried Isabel, tremulously, “I’ts only
Fred 1”
“And,” added the stranger, blandly,
“Fred will be very happy to unbolt the
door any moment you are willing to sat
isiy your agreement 1”
“What agreement?” demanded Mrs.
Kesley.
“That if once I found my way inside
your door 1 might have Isabel and wel
come!”
“I never said so !” cried the old lady.
“But you wrote so,” said Fred, calm
ly, "and I have it down in black and
white 1”
Grandmother Kesley made no attempt
to deny her own “hand-of-write,” but
changed her tactics with laudable promp
titude.
“Isabel, are you going to keep me
here in the cold all night? Why don’t
you open the door ?”
“I can’t, grandmother!” faltered Isa
bel, her cheeks radiant with blushes,
“Fred won’t let me stir !”
(But then she didn’t try very hard !)
“I’ll tell yon what, ma’am,” said Mr.
Hensley politely, “I shall be delighted
to release you at any moment you will
say ‘Yes’ io my suit for Isabel !”
There was a moment’s meditative
silence, and then Grandmothef Kesley
sensible to the last, uttered the fateful
monosyllable !
“Yes 1”
And when she emerged from her state
of siege on the stab way, the only ob
servation she hazarded was:
“Young folks will be young folks—
and there ain’t no use fightin’ against
Fate 1”
“And I thought you were a robber !’’
said Isabel, locking with timid happiness
into her lover’s eyes, “come to steal
Grandmother Kesley’s jewels 1”
“So I am 1” said Fred, smiling. “And
I have stolen the very brightest of them
ail !”
When Frederic Hensley went away,
a fortnight afterward, he took Isabel
Darling with him as his bride, and
Grandmother Kesley’s wedding present
was the wooden box of antique treas
ures, gold beads, amethyst necklace and
all.
LITTLE BABY JIM
<AUNES A C OOLNESS TO SPUING OP
BETWEEN MAN AND WIFE.
The Story «.f a TAttle Foundling’® Cl oho Call
r.oin a Good Home.
Baby Jim, of the Foundlings' Horn*
| had a very narrow escape last week,
says the Chicago Inter-Ocean. He is
red headed and freckled, but he is lusty
enough for a farm hand. When he was
about eight months old a lady who had
no children took him to bring up. There
were prettier babies than Jim, but some
how she took a fancy to bun. In spite
of his fiery hair there was something in
his face that made him handsome. In
telligence was in his eyes and people
who looked at his head said he would be
heard from in the world. He was heard
from very frequently, and that is what
came very near changing the whole
course of his life.
The husband of the lady who took
Jim did not like him. Jim’s voice was
not musical and his red hair did not
match the furniture in the handsome
home to wbi.oli he had been taken. The
wife’s attentions to him may have made
the husband jealous, too. Something
was the matter with Jim all the time,
and the man of the house got tired of
him, though his wife enjoyed it all.
Whatever Jim did was fun to her. She
rigged him up in new clothes and fash
ioned many pretty garments for him
herself.
For a time the busband, who had sub
mitted at first in silence, said little, but
after a while it became evident that
trouble was brewing in the family. The
man was ill-natured, and baby Jim’s il
luminated countenance and uproarious
voice aggravated him. There were some
harsh words between husband and wife,
some tears and reproaches, followed by
a day of reflection on the part of the
wife. Toward evening she made up her
mind. Taking Jim in her arms she sum
moned her carriage and drove rapidly tc
the home, where, with many tears and
caresses, she left him, telling the reason
and saying that she would send his beau
tiful little wardrobe in the morning.
That night when she was picking up
the little garments and toys and packing
them carelessly in a small trunk which
she had labeled Jim, her husband, who
had finished his cigar, inquired:
“Where’s Jim ?”
“He's gone,” she said.
“Where ?”
“I took him back to the Foundlings’
Home, and I’m packing his things
now.”
She didn’t look up. In fact, her head
was bent lower than seemed necessary.
The husband looked thoughtful, turned
around on his heel, whistled a little and
walked into the library. He begun to
feel that he had won a great victory over
a baby and a woman, but he could not
extract any comfort from the reflection.
The house seemed quiet, and he half
wished he could hear Jim yell and his
wife laugh. Jim was not so much a
nuisance after all. It might be handy
to have him in the family.
The next morning at breakfast he told
his wife that he had no idea that she
would send Jim back to the homo. He
may have expressed a wish that she
would, and even commanded it, but he
didn’t always mean what he said when
he was annoyed by business cares. If
she set so much store by Jim, she had
better go and get him. He thought he
could stand it. It is very hard for a man
to own up.
That breakfast was never finished.
The horses were at the door as quick as
they could be harnessed, and as the
wife left the house she exclaimed :
“Oh, what if he should be gone 1
Drive as fast as you can. ”
“No danger,” said the husband, listen
ing to the receeding wheels. “He’ll be
there.”
And so he was. He was in line with
the others, taking his grnel and yelling,
of course. The lady explained her
errand, seized him to her breast and
made him cry still louder. Then she
drove home with him, hugging him
close all the way, and that day when the
trunk was unpacked she sang so loud
that even Jim’s war-whoop, occasionally
raised in defiance, could not be heard.
It was * close call for Baby Jim.
Mormons In the Land.
Some time ago a New York publish
ing house requested information from
the Interior Department touching the
increase of membership of the Mormon
Church from 1850 to 1880. lu reply the
Census Bureau states that the census of
1880 contained the only reliable record
of the number of Mormons in the United
States, the previous inquiries having
elicited information only in regard to
the number of church organizations and
number of sittings. From these in
quiries it appears that in 1850 there
were 16 church organizations and 10,880
siltings, in 1860 24 organizations and
13,500 sittings, in 1870189 organizations
and 87,838 sittings, and in 1880 267 or
. ganizutions and 65,262 sittings. The
actual membership of the Mormon
Church, according to the census of 1880,
! was 79,886.
A Surprise.—A New Orleans paper
skes this surprising statement: Noth-
| i g surprises a man more than being
• Killed when he expects to kill some
j bodr,
POVERTY STRICKEN.
One of the PntAetle Scenes in the Liss
Draiuuof a.Great City.
Joe Howard writes to the Philadel
phia Press: A friend of mine was smok
ing a cigar of breakfast solace, one
morning, looking through the pane ol
wonder'upon the street, of unoceupancy,
when he saw a middle-aged man, well
dressed, with no overcoat. The man
looked at him for a moment, touched
his hat, ascended the steps and rang
the bell. My friend went to the door
himself.
“What do you want?”
“Work.”
“I have no work for you.”
“Won’t yon kindly allow me to clean
the snow from your door steps and side
walk ?”
“What will you do it for?”
“For my breakfast”
Now that tells the story. Here was
on intelligent mon, well dressed,
though without an overcoat, who
wanted work wherewith he might fill
his own stomach with satisfactory food.
He cleaned the steps with broom and
shovel borrowed from my friend. He
cleaned the sidewalk and gutter, and
then he came to the basement door for
his break-fast compensation. My friend
had the table put in the far corner of
the room and an appetizing and satisfy
ing breakfast spread, but the poor man
was too chilled to enjoy it After a
while he thawed out, and, two or
three cups of coffee bracing him he
tackled the liver and bacon, the baked
potatoes and biscuit before him. Mel
lowed somewhat, he regarded my friend,
who had smoked and fussed around the
apartment gently, with contemporaneous
human interest, whereupon my friend
who is a man aud a brother said:
“What is the meaning of this ? Why
are you seeking employment for this
kind of pay ?”
To which answered the stranger:
“I was a clerk in Blank & Co.'s,”
naming one of the greatest dry goods re
tail firms on Sixth avenue, “and have
been for four years past, on a salary of $25
i week. With thirty others I was dis
charged last week on forty-eight hours
jotice. I had spent all my money, aud
for the sake of sending some to mj
parents in Connecticut I had'anticipated
my salary, by the courtesy of the cashier,
?o that when I was discharged I had
nothing coming to me.
“I pawned- my overcoat, for it was
mild last week, pawned my watch, and
on Saturday night I found I had noth
ing. I borrowed something of a chum
and started out to get work. I have
been to every dry goods store aud every
little shop where 1 had been previously
known, but in every place I was met bj
the words: ‘We are discharging, not hir
ing men.’ You may not believe it, but
I haven’t eaten a morsel in forty-eight
hours, and in despair, seeing you at your
window, I ventured to make the request
that you would permit me for my break
fast to shovel off your snow.”
The Governor of Texas Indignant.
Governor Ireland, of Texas, in his in
augural address uses the following lan
guage: “Since my late message to the
two houses was penned, the knowledge
has reached me of the perpetration of a
series of horrible crimes, murders, and
thefts on Texas soil by incursions of pre
datory bands from Mexico. Since it has
become known that neither Mexico nor
the United States will surrender one of
their own citizens to be taken to the
other Government to be tried for crime,
the people on the right bank of the Rio
Grande have become emboldened, and
they stand on Mexican soil covered with
the blood of our women and children.
J have made repeated efforts through the
Secretary of State to induce discussion
of the propriety of so amending the
treaty of 1861 as to permit any one, no
matter where his allegiance may be, to
be extradited but no results have fol
lowed. Commercial treaties and money
affairs seem to be of more importance
than the blood of our people. In the
last few days I have written to the Presi
dent, giving him full accounts of the con
dition of aflairs on the Rio Grande, and
have also informed him that Texas can,
if* need be, protect herself, and minute
companies and State troops on that bor
der have been directed to protect our
people without deference to nice points
of international law. If the Federal
troops, whose duty it is under the Con
stitution, are too tender to patrol the
border, or if the few companies in the
interior are only to make a show at dress
parades, it would seem that their pres
ence ou our soil is of little practical use.”
Plenty ol Brains.
A good story is told about a gentle
man who stammers. He was in
vited to dinner by a friend, and
the principal dish at the dinner was
calf’s brains. Knowing his guest’s
fondness for this dish, the host had
cautioned the members of his family,
among whom was a college student, to
partake, of it sparingly. The young
student was annoyed at the implied
doubt as to his good breeding. So,
when the waiter came around with the
dish in question, tho college young man
lery much on his dignity declined
saying:
“Thanks, no; I have plenty of brains.”
“C-c-c-eolf’s brains?” inquired the
guest
SOME STRAY JOKES
FOUND FN THE HUMOROUS COLUMNS
OF THE NEWSPAPERS.
tie Succeeded too Well—A Brother’® Pride
Mexican Customs—A Panicky Doctor—
The loturnuce Man, Etc.» Etc.
SUCCEEDED TOO WELD.
“Now,” said the bride, “Henry, I
want you to understand distinctly that I
do not wish to be taken for a bride. I
am going to behave exactly as if I were
an old married woman. So, dearest, do
not think me cold and unloving if I
treat you very practically when there is
I anybody by. I want you to behave like
an old married man.”
The first evening of their arrival the
bride retired to her chamber and the
, groom fell in with a whist party, with
whom he sat playing cards until 4 o’clock
in the morning. His wife spent the
weary hours weeping. At last he turned
up and met his grief-stricken bride with
B the hilarious question :
'* “Well, ain’t I doing the old married
> man like a daisy ?’’
1 She never referred to the subject
1 again, aud everybody knew after that
3 that they had just been married. — Ban
3 Francisco Chronicle.
r HIS LOSS HER GAIN.
Two ladies were discussing their hus
bands, and one had just said that her
husband had become very cross of late.
“Ah,” said the other, with a sigh, “I
1 am sorry to say that mine does not lose
‘ his temper more than once a year.”
“And pray why do you say you are
sorry for that ?”
“Because he always makes me a
3 present of a handsome dress after a
> quarrel.— Harper's Bazar.
A YOUNG BROTHER S PRIDE.
1 Featherly was making an evening call
’ and had just complimented Miss Smith
upon the beauty of her teeth.
“Yes,” interposed Bobby, “an’they’re
r all natural teeth, too, an’ every one of
’em is sound.”
‘ “There, there, Bobby,” said his sis
ter sternly, but her face flushed with
pleasure, “little boys should be—”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Bobby proudly,
“they’re all sound, an’ pa says that fora
r woman of her age it’s quite remark
“ able.”
1 QUEER CUSTOMS IN MEXICO.
Mrs. De Blank—“Of all the things.”
Mr. De Blank—‘ Well, now what?”
“Oh I nothing. I just happened to
" see a curious item about a Mexican ser
vant who waspaid $49, his three months’
wages, and immediately spent $35 of it
1 for a hat, a aftpibrero, you know.”
“Yes, a Mexican is very proud of his
sombrero. Some of them cost S3OO. ”
, “But the idea of a man paying such a
price for a hat. ”
“Oh 1 the men in Mexico can easily
afford to do that. The women don’t
’’ wear any bonnets, you know.”— Phila.
' Call.
IF LIVING.
In all policies of insurance these
among a host of other questions, occur:
“Age of your father, if living ?” “Age
j of your mother, if living ?” A man in
the country who filled up an application
made his father’s age, “if living,” 112
• ( years, and his mother's 102 Tho agent
was amazed at this, and fancied he had
secured an excellent customer; but, feel
ing somewhat dubious, he remarked that
the applicant came from a very long
r lived family.
r “Oh, you see, sir,” replied he, “my
parents died many years ago, but, ‘if
I living,’ would bo aged as there put
. down.”
“Exactly—l understand,” said the
I agent. — Boston Gazette.
THE PLACE TO SIT.
A countryman and his bride applied
at the box office for tickets.
“Orchestra chairs, parquette or family
. circle ?” asked the ticket seller.
“Which’ll it be, Mariar?” said the
e groom.
e “Well,” she replied, with a blush,
“bein’ as how we’re married now, p’rhaps
( j it would be properer to sit in the family
circle.”
A PANICKY DOCTOR.
ir There is a story about a doctor who
{ was recently called to a fashionable lady
at two o’clock in the morning, aud as
tonished his patient by asking her, after
” a brief examination, whether she had
d made her will. He then advised her to
(1 send for her lawyer and perhaps also her
( Pastor.
e “Must I die?” asked the lady.
n “I am afraid so,” was the reply.
e “How much time do you give me ?”
0 asked the lady, in despair.
0 “Well,” eaid the doctor, “if you treat
|. your family and yourself as you do now
y there’s no telling what will happen. If
e you sleep when you ought to and use
e your judgment yon may be good for 30
i. years more.”— Boston Beacon.
i-
J The Gorgeous Secretary.
In his Boston lecture, the other night,
G. A. Sala told of his experiences at the
coronation of Alexander 111, It was
necessary to wear a uniform to gain ad-
I mission. He accordingly wore a plain
one that did not gain him any particular
attention, but his secretary held some
civilian appointment at London, the
e chief perquisite of which was tue right
to wear a uniform, “in comparison with
which Solomon in all his glory was the
smallest of potatoes.” To his paper he
sent a dispatch of seven and a half col
umns. How to get it in ahead of other
'' correspondents was a quandary. But,
' intrusting it to his secretary, what was
the latter’s surprise, as he neared the
8 door in his flaming i aiment, to see the
” entire guard present arms while he
marched through. His dispatch was
> sent two hours before any ether corre-
3 I spondent got away from the ceremony.
? ■
I A Hoe sick Falls lady who is promi
, aent in the revival work in the Methodist
s | Episcopal Church recently knelt in the
1 | aisle near some boys who were laughing
at the earnestness of the Christians,
and prayed: “O Lord, these boys
’ think they are awfully smart, but wa
s beseech Thee, good Lord, to make their
hearts as soft iw their heads.”