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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.”