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A TOUCHING SCENE.
A TOUCH OF NATURE WHICH MAKES
THE WHOLE WORLD KIN.
The SelLSaerifice of a Woman Which
Cbnnaed Selfishness to Sympathy.
“There was a pathetic scene on a train
on the Western Division of the Erie re
cently,” said a conductor on that road.
“A woman boarded the train at Olean.
She carried in her arms a baby but a
few weeks old. It was very cross and
peevish, and defied all of its nurse’s ef
forts to keep it quiet Its cries were at
times so loud and piercing that the other
passengers could not hide their annoy
ance, and after a while audible expres
sions of their feelings came from all parts
of the car. The woman was patient
under the double trial of the child’s
tronblesomeness and the evident knowl
edge of the annoyance it was to her fel
low passengers. She talked soothingly
to the child, placed it in all positions,
and tried to so arrange its wrappings as
to, in a measure, deaden the sound of
its cries. Finally some one in the car,
whose impatience had got the better of
his sympathy, shouted out:
“ ‘lf that child can’t be kept quiet, I
hope it will be removed from the car at
the next station !'
“This unfeeling remark seemed to
meet with general approval, and the
poor woman’s eyes filled with tears, and
in attempting to speak her feelings over
came her, and she pressed the baby
closer to her and sobbed violently. She
soon recovered herself, and redoubled
her efforts to keep the child quiet For
a short time she succeeded somewhat,
but presently the cries of the baby were
as loud and prolonged as ever. At last
a man arose and said sharply:
•‘ ‘Madam, it would seem to me that
the mother of an infant should know
how to take at least half care of it.’
“The train had now stopped at Sala
manca. At the remark of the second
speaker, the woman arose in her seat,
and, facing the car full of passengers,
said, in a voice trembling;
“ ‘I am not this poor little thing’s
mother. I never saw it before yester
day, and I believe it hasn’t a living rela
tive. Its father was killed on the rail
real a week before it was born. Its
mother, living in a distant place, hurried
to the scene of her husband’s death.
The child was born among strangers,
and day before yesterday the mother
died, leaving her little one with no one
to care for it. I lived in the house
where the mother died, and volunteered
to do what I could for the poor little
thing, and to go with the dead woman’s
r mains to her native place. Her body
is itt this train. I am sorry the child is
so troublesome, bnt isn’t it entitled to
some little sympathy ?’
“The effect of the woman’s words moy
be imagined. There were few dry eyes
in the car when she dropped, sobbing,
into her seat. All selfishness was lost in
sympathetic thoughts of the little wan
derer, mid a score of hands that a mo
ment before were almost willing to raise
in chastisement of the babe were now
anxious to extend aid to it and its self
s:icrifiei:ig guardian. It was a touch of
nature that makes the whole world kin.”
successful Song Carpentering.
“What is the latest popular ballad ?”
“Vaniti,” replied the publisher.
“Frank Howard, the author of ‘l’ll
Await My Love’ and ‘Only a Pansy
Blossom,’ wrote it—that is, he wrote as
much of it as he did of the others I have
mentioned. He is a ballad singer with
Thatcher, Primrose and West's Min
strel’s, amd his income from song royal
ties is between S3OO and S4OO a week.
No, he is not a remarkable musician.
He understands music and has a nice*
voice. Hundreds of better musician®
fail as writers of songs. Howard is thfl
son of an lowa clergyman. Half a dozetP
years ago Milt Barlow, the minstrel,
found the young man traveling with a
liver-pa l peddler in the West. Howard
by his singing drew the crowds, and then
gave way to his partner, who sold
the pads. Barlow was struck by
the sweetness of Howard’s voice, and
hired him for twenty-five dollars a week
to sing in Barlow, Wilson, Primrose &
West’s Minstrel Company. His voice
and his songs made him popular and he
now receives SIOO a week salary. The
way his songs are composed would
astonish many better musicians. How
ard will write the words of a song, and
then with Hire.’ or four members of the
company will proceed to hammer a suit
able air out of hotel pianos. They will
work hour after hour for days, correcting,
changing, and culling out bar after bar
until they at last agree that an appro
priate air has been made. Then it is
written out and tried in public. If at
all successful Howard sends a copy to
his publisher and it is put upon the
market. There is a story among min
strels that Howard paid another singer,
Hairy Talbot, twenty dollars for the
words and music of ‘l’ll Await My Love.’
If so, it was a good piece of judgment
on Howard’s part, for he has made two
or three thousand dollars on that song
alone.”
An old Chelsea (England) pensioner
s ..ted on the embankment, was lament
ing the death of a comrade. “Poor old
chap ! How shall I get on without
him ? ’ “Were you very much attached
to him, then ?” inquired a bystander.
“’Twasn't altogether that, sir,” replied
the veteran; “but you see, he’d lost hie
left leg and I’ve lost my right. We
shared a pair of boots between us, and
it’s ten to one whether there’s another
m the hospital whose feet are so exactly
the same size as mine.”
Wooden Shoes.— ls the merits of
wooden shoes were better known, says a
Western paper, they would be much
more used, especially on the farm.
Leather soaks up water and makes the
feet wet and the boots are hard to get on
and off, while wooden shoes keep the
feet dry and warm even in the coldest
weather. Besides this, they are much
cheaper and last longer than leather
boots and shoes,
Summerville (Babette.
VOL. XII. SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY EVENING, APRIL 22,1885. NO. U.
A VIGIL.
BY EDMUND CHIIESCE STEDMAN.
I walk the lane’s dim hollow,—
Past is the twilight hour,
But stealthy shadows follow
And Night withholds her power,
For somewhere in the eastern skj-
The shrouded moon is high.
Dews from the wild rose drip unheard, —
Their unforg.itten scent
With that of woods and grasses blent;
No muffled flight of bird,
No whispering voice, my footfall stops;
No breeze amid the poplar-tops
The smallest leaf has stirred.
Yet round me, here and there,
A little fluttering wind
Plays now, —these senses have divined
A breath across my hair, —
A touch, —that'on my forehead lies,
And presses long
These lips so mute of song,
And now, with kisses cool, my half-shut eyes.
This night? Oh, what is here I
What viewless aura clings
So fitfully, so near,
On this returning even-tide
When Memory will not be denied
Unfettered wings ?
Jly arms reach out, —in vain,—
They fold the air:
And yet—that wandering breath again I
Too vague to make her phantom plain,
Too tender for despair.
—March Century.
The Two Aunts.
“H’m 1 H’m ! Upon my word I Just
what might have been expected I Sel
fish ! Heartless I Cruel I”
Not all at once, as written down, but
popping out at brief intervals, sharply
and suddenly as pistol shots, the above
jaculations fell from the lips of Mrs.
Carpenter Wainwright, as she sat beside
an open-grate fire, reading a letter. A
lengthy letter, too, closely written upon
four large pages of paper. After she
folded it, she said more sharply than
ever:
“Well, thank goodness her mother is
no relation of mine !"
There fell a profound silence upon the
room after this last remark. Evidently
the news, whatever it was, about
the woman who was no relation of hers,
touched Mrs. Wainwright deeply. Her
brow was clouded, and, as she mused,
angry flashes sprang more than once
into her large, dark eyes. Upon all
sides of her were evidences of wealth,
and her own dress, though a morning
negligee, was costly and in exquisite
taste. She was not young—past sev
enty—yet she carried her tall figure
erectly still, and her eyes were brilliant
as those of youth.
While she sat in profound thought
there was a tap upon the door, followed
by the entrance of a young girl, just
touching eighteen, with a fair, sweet
face, lighted by eyes as dark as Mrs.
Wainwright’s own.
“Aunt Cora," she said, brightly,
“shall I read to you now*?”
The old lady looked into the sweet
face with a keen glance, as if question
ing herself somewhat about the girl •
Mfetehe said, abruptly:
have had a letter from Mrs. Pojx’,
HF morning.”
“With news from Mill Village ?” the
girl asked, a look of pleasure on her
face.
“You are very fond of Mill Village ?”
“No; I like the city much better.
Still, there are some people in Mill
Village I am fond of.”
“Theoda West?”
The girl hesitated; then, lifting het
bright eyes, she said, frankly:
“I love Aunt Mary, bnt I don’t think
that I am very fond of Theoda. She is
very handsome, very accomplished, and
too fond of patronizing me. ”
“Ah 1”
“You see, she has been pupil teacher
at the seminary, and learned all the ex
tra branches to teach again.”
“While yon were making dresses?”
“Yes. Aunt Mary let me choose, and
I knew I could make a living at dress
making, while scholars were doubtful,
so near the seminary.”
“Your Aunt Mary was very kind to
you ?”
“Very! She took me when poor
mamma died, ten years ago. She could
not give me luxury and pleasure as you
have done in the last year, but she never
made any difference between Theoda
and myself.”
“H’m ! yes. She is your mother's
sister, I am your father’s. She gave
you a share in the house of care and
poverty. I have taken you to this one
and will not forget you in my will.”
The girl’s face flushed under the sar
castic emphasis of the words.
“L never weighed one obligation
against the other, Aunt Cora,” she said,
quietly; “you have been very, very kind
to me.”
“Your Aunt Mary is an invalid, too ?’
“She is in consumption. We have
feared every winter would be the last.”
“H’m ! Well, my news is that your
loving cousin, Theoda, has eloped with
the German teacher of the seminary who
has taken a situation in Philadelphia.”
The fair face grew deathly pale, and
an expression of positive horror looked
out from the soft, dark eyes. There
was a pause of silence that was painful.
Then Estelle Mason spoke in a choked
voice:
“I must go to Aunt Mary.”
“Go to her 1 Nonsense, child. What
claim has she on you ?”
“The claim of gratitude.”
“But what can you do ? You have no
money. ”
“lean work.”
“Have I no claim ?”
“Only second to here. You have been
very good to me. But you have so
many relatives that would be glad to
come and fill my place. You are strong
and well, with money for every comfort
She is feeble, sick and poor. Oh, how
could Theoda desert her ? How could
she ?”
“Do you know who this German
teacher, James Kent, is ?”
“No.”
“He is my husband’s nephew. Not
mine; but all my wealth came from my
husband, and James Kent, knowing me
to be a just woman, expects a handsome
legacy when I die. Probably' when he
told Theoda he would be a rich man
some day, he did not tell the name of
the aunt who had the money to leave."
“I never saw him. He came to the
seminary after I came here.”
“Exactly ! He displeased me! Ido
not keep people near me who displease
me.”
Again that cutting emphasis of tone.
Estelle did not answer, and Mrs, Wain
wright spoke again.
“I expect, therefore, that you will
abandon this romantic scheme of return
ing to Mill Village. There are asylums
where your aunt can be received.”
“Not while I can work for her,” Es
telle said very firmly.
“Mrs. Pope writes that she will prob
ably sell her cottage and live upon the
price in some such place. A hospital,
probably.”'
“Poor Aunt Mary. You will let me
go to her ?"
“I do not pretend to control your
movements,” was the reply, in a cold
voice. “When I took you from a life of
poverty and toil, to take your place
liere as my niece and heiress, I expected
to have a loving, grateful companion.
Since I have been mistaken, yon oar.
leave me whenever you desire it Only
I wish it understood that you choose be
tween your Aunt Mary and myself,
finally.”
Estelle’s eyes were full of tears, but
she controlled her voice, by a strong
effort, to say:
“I am not ungrateful, Aunt Cora,
though I never considered myself yonr
heiress. I thank you from my heart,
and if you were poor and sick you would
not find me ungrateful. But my duty
seems so dear to me that I cannot lies
itate. Even at the price of your dis
pleasure, I must go. But,” she added,
timidly, “I hope you will forgive me.”
•‘Ob, I shall not quarrel with you,
child. You may go, certainly. Only
do not flatter yourself with the idea that
you can return here when you tire of
your sentimental duties. There, go to
your own room, and give me yonr de
cision at dinner. Not a word now.”
So dismissed, Estelle went slowly to
the room where every adornment spoke
of her aunt’s care for her. She was
young and had endured poverty for
many years, so it was not without some
bitter tears for herself that she faced the
situation. She fully appreciated the
difference between Mrs. Wainwright’s
heiress, and a dressmaker toiling for the
support of two women; between the
petted child of this homo of luxury, with
servants to obey every wish, and the
drudge of a little cottage with an almost
helpless invalid to care for. Yet she
never faltered.
Ami when Mrs. Wainwright saw the
pale, resolute face at dinner, she knew
that she must lose one who was very
dear to her. Not for the first time, she
regretted her own residence abroad for
fourteen years, when sho might have
been winning Estelle’s love, as this
invalid aunt had done.
“I see,” she said, when the silent, al
mostuntasted meal was over, “yon still
cling to your idea of duty. Go then.
Take with you whatever 1 have given
you, for I want no reminders of your un
grateful desertion. I had rather spare
myself the pain of any parting scene.
John shall drive you to the depot in the
morning, and this will pay yonr travel
ing expenses, and help you until you ob
tain work.”
She placed a note for a hundred do’-
tars in Estelle’s hand as she spoke, and
turned coldly from her. But the girl,
now sobbing convulsively, caught her
hand and kissed it warmly.
“Do not think me ungrateful,” she
said, her tears falling fast: “it breaks
my heart to offend you. Please kiss
me, and give me a loving word before I
go”
"There, child, never make a scene.'
Good-by;” and she did kiss the pleading,
upturned face.
“May I write to you ?”
“Just as you please. I shall not ex
pect it”
And keeping her cold, impassive face,
Mrs. Wainwright went to her own
room, bolted the door, and came out no
more until Estelle had taken her de
parture the next day.
It was a room most unlike that in
which Mrs. Wainwright had taken leave
of Estelle, that the young girl entered
late in the afternoon of the fallowing
day. The little cottage where Mrs,
West wept for her unnatural child’s de
sertion had but four rooms, all cotinted,
and these were furnished very simply.
In one of these, stooping over a sewing
machine, stopping often to cougn, an
elderly lady, in plain mourning gar
ments, was seated when Estelle came in.
Every trace of agitation was carefully
driven from her face, as, with a tender
smile, she said :
“Aunt Mary, will you say welcome
home to me ?”
“Estelle !”
That was all, but the joy of the tone
was too warm to be hidden.
“You are glad to see me,” Estelle
said, brightly.
“Glad, child I glad ! My own loving
little girl. I have missed you sorely,
Estelle. But,” she said, suddenly,
“you have not quarreled with your
Aunt Oora?”
“We heard you were alone,” Estelle
said, evasively, “so I got permission to
make you a long visit. Aunt Oora gave
me a hundred dollars for housekeeping.”
“Alone I” the mother said, piteously,
“Theoda has gone, Estelle. My child,
whom I never denied any pleasure in
my power to grant! Oh, Estelle, it will
kill me 1”
And looking into the deep, sunken
eyes, the hollow cheeks, Estelle knew
her aunt spoke truly. The little rem
nant of life in the consumptive frame
was surely to be shortened by the cruel
ty of her own child.
But by every loving device the self
sacrificing girl strove to keep the feeble
flame of life still burning. She let it be
known in the village that she was anxious
to obtaiu work as a dressmaker, and
soon found employment. Some curios
ity was expressed at this sudden return
from the “rich aunt" who had taken her
away a year before, but Estelle only
told the simple truth, that one aunt
needed her, while the other did not.
Work, none too well paid, camo to the
little cottage, and the household duties
were shared while Mrs. West could keep
about. It was in November that Estelle
camo to bor, and before February she
was unable to leave her bed. The duties
then of nursing and still keeping up
with her engagements for dressmaking,
pressed very hardly upon Estelle, but
she never faltered. Day after day the
invalid was tenderly comforted, and yet
the busy click of the sewing-machine
was heard far into the night.
There was kindness shown by the
village people that helped in this labor
of love. Some camo to sit up at night,
when the invalid required watching.
Many a dainty dish, sent to tempt Mrs.
West’s appetite, proved a sufficient meal
for both. Ono neighbor sout a cart-load
of fire-wood, one a barrel of apples, and
there was never wanting a kindly word
of sympathy. So the dreary winter
wore away, and to the surprise of all,
Mrs. West lived through the bitter
March weather. How tenderly she was
guarded and nursed in that trying month
none knew but herself; but as the warm
spring days camo she brightened visibly.
Theoda wrote occasionally, seemingly
glad that Estelle had come to take the
post she had so heartlessly abandoned.
In ono of her letters she wrote:
“My husband bids mo tell Estelle it
is as well, perhaps, that she did not
build any strong hope upon Mrs. Wain
wright’s capricious adoption of her, as
he will certainly inherit his uncle’s
money.”
Estelle made no comment upon the
message, but in her heart wondered if
the money could be ever put to any
good use in hands so selfish as Theoda’s
or her husband’s. It seemed a bad pre
cedent for any noble action, this deser
tion of a dying parent.
Summer stole away, every day lessen
ing the invalid’s strength, and winter
loomed up threateningly in the future.
All of Mrs. Wainwright’s gift was gone,
and poorly paid, often interrupted sew.
ing, was but a slender provision for cold
and sickness. Yet the wasted face, grow
ing paler every day, pleaded silently for
many comforts; and Estelle, spurred by
the sight, wrote to her Aunt Oora. It
was one of many long letters, bnt the
first that asked for aid. Estelle wrote:
The doctor tells me Aunt Mary can
not live many weeks longer, and she re
quires almost incessant care, having
frequent distressing spells of bleeding
and suffocation, I find I cannot supply
the comforts she needs; so I turn to you,
uot to beg, but to borrow. Will you
lend me a hundred dollars, and I will
faithfully work till it is paid, when Aunt
Mary no longer needs my time ?
There was the usual curt reply to this
l letter, but the loan was sent with a brief
intimation that the promised payment
was expected.
Early in November the end came,
gently and painlessly, the dying breath
spent in a blessing for the faithful rims ■.
Never once had Mrs. West suspected
that her niece was forbidden to return
to the luxurious home she had quitted
for her sake, so she had made no dispo
sition of the little property in her power
to will away—the cottage and garden
around it. It seemed to Estelle, young
and ignorant of business, only a matter
of course that she should continue to
live and work in the cottrge where she
had nursed her aunt’s last moments.
But Theoda, who came to the funeral,
informed her [she would put the place
into the bauds of a lawyer for sale, and
I she must look for a boarding-place ir
the village.
Bewildered, weary with watching,
sorrowirg sincerely for her dead. Estelle
turned from the words, issued almost
insultingly, with a'sick faltering of her
true heart.
“A letter, Miss Estelle,” said one of
the village boys, tapping at the low
window. "I was passing the post-office,
and brought it.”
“Come and work out your debt to me
nere. Cora Wainwright.”
It was a temporary home, at least, and
the desolate girl promptly obeyed. Ir
the November twilight, as they had
parted, these two met again. The stern,
cold woman, who had so harshly put
the of duties before the warm
hearted girl, was waiting when she en
tered timidly.
“So you have come back,” she said,
looking at the pale face and drooping
eyes.
“To pay my debt,” was the gentle
reply.
“Pay it here!”
And Estelle found herself infolded in
an embrace so warm that the tears
sprang to her eyes.
“Here on my heart 1” said Mrs. Wain
wright, “craving such love as you give,
tender, true, self-sacrificing little Estelle!
I tried you sorely, child, only to find you!
We will not part again, Estelle, till
the grave closes over another old aunt.”
And when that hour came, comforted
by Estelle’s love, Mrs. Wainwright’s
will was found to leave all her property
to her “beloved niece. Estelle Mason.”
RACING IN EGYPT.
C'nniel# In n Free lor All—Exciting Nport
for NnilrrN mid EnaliHiiinen.
Pony races and foot races appealed
but little to the native mind in Egypt,
but the camel race, open to all coiners,
was a matter of the warmest interest to
all, both Englishmen aud natives. The
Mudir himself, with a large following,
attended the meeting, was most enthu
siastic on the subject of this race, and
entered his best camel for it, his ex
ample being followed by the owners of
all the best camels.
The scone at the starting point was
quaint in the extreme. Camels were
there of every size and hue, bellowing
one and all as though in the direst agony;
some of them bestridden by Eng
lish soldiers on their red leather saddles,
some by officers, who preferred the com
fortable Soudan saddle, some by naked
Bischari or Abebd eh sons of the desert,
who not unfrequently,disdaining saddles
of any kind, sat perched on the rump
of the animal as on a jackass, and guided
their beasts by the nostril string alone.
Here and there among the crowd were
Bashi Bazouks on slim-necked, slender
legged animals, whose rich accoutre
ments showed that their owners found
war a paying trade, and townfolk who,
perched on their light wooden saddles,
their long robes bound closely round
their waists, intended evidently to make
a desperate struggle for victory.
At last, profiting by a moment when
all the competitors seemed to be in line
—a result to obtain which' had taken
some three-quarters of an hour—the
signal was given to go, and the camels
started. Then some trotted, some gal
loped, some turned themselves round
and round seeking to tie themselves in
knots and refusing to move forward,
others threw themselves on the ground
and rolled their riders off, and one or
two, disengaging themselves from the
crowd, started off in a mad breakneck
gallop toward the hills, their riders,
albeit wild sons of the desert, unable to
do more than cling to the beasts for
dear life. Every now and then occurred
a terrific collision between two eager
competitors, which flung both camels
and riders to the ground. As the beasts
rounded the turning post the confusion
became proportionate to the excitement.
Many camels never got round the post
at all, but fell to fighting one another
on the far side of it, in which con diets
their riders, when natives, soon took
part with right good will. Others sought
to cheat, diminishing the distance by
100 yards or so, but these defaulters
were promptly spotted and hounded off
the course by the watchful stewards.
The winner was greeted as ho passed
the post by such cheers as completely
disconcerted the poor brute, and had
not his rider warily forestalled him he
would have turned back in fright from
before the crowd.
The race was a good one, and one of
the most interesting features about it
was the fact that, although the winning
camel was ridden by a native, the Eng
lish soldiers, whose acquaintance with
camels dated from but a fortnight,
seemed to hold their own very fairly
against the natives, who were, so to
speak, born and bred camel riders. As
to knowledge of the habits of the brute
and adaptability to a long journey, the
superiority of the native is incontest
able; but at this short trial of speed the
Englishmen showed themselves not much
his inferiors.
- _ -
The Milliners. —Why should mil
liners ever fail, or, in fact, ever do any
thing else than retire with large fortunes
at the close of a brilliant career ? Alas I
the reason must lie in the distressing
fact that there are women who fail to
pay for their bonnets. Perhaps the
milliners might find a remedy in redu
cing the cost of these necessary and be
witching, but very costly, articles of
feminine attire, so that by charging leas
they would receive more.
PREMATURE BURIALS.
An Undertaker’# Belief that Peoitlo are
Often Buried Alive.
“The world would be horrified,” said
a New York undertaker, “if it knew the
number of bodies that ere buried be
fore life is extinct. Once in a while
one of these oases comes to light, but no
steps are taken to prevent their recur
rence.
"Something that happened to me
about twelve years ago has worried me
ever since. I was sent for one day to
take charge of the body of a man in
Division street. The man was a tailor,
and had fallen over while sitting oh his
bench sewing. He was a big, fleshy
man about 40 years of age, and weighed
about 250 pounds. The body was warm
and the limbs were limp. I did not be
lieve the man was dead, and said so. His
friends told me that a physician had
pronounced him dead. I was ordered
to put the body on ico at once, but I de
layed the operation, on one pretext or
another, for nearly two days. During
this time the body lay on the bench in
the little shop. Finally, I could delay
no longer. The limbs were still as limp
as when I first examined the body. I
prepared the body for burial, and the
next day it was buried. I do not be
lieve that man was dead when the earth
was shovelled in on the coffin. If the
same thing were to happen again I
would let somebody else do the burying.
“About the same time a young woman
living up town was supposed to have
died very suddenly. A physician was
called in. He said she was dead. An
old woman who was present thought
otherwise and insisted npon it that she
was in a trance. The body was buried.
A few weeks later the old woman de
termined to satisfy herself about it, and
bribed the grave diggers to disinter the
the coffin. The lid was removed and a
horrible sight was seen. The young
woman had come to life and had made a
terrible struggle for liberty. Her hair
was torn out, and her face was fright
fully scratched. She had turned over
on her face.
“A person is generally believed to be
dead if there is no action of the heart or
pulse. But if a person is in a trance
there is no action of the heart or pulse.
A vein should be opened. If blood
flows the person is not dead. This oper
ation would take about thirty seconds,
but it is uot often resorted to. Suppose
the person is suffering from a temporary
suspension of animation. Before he can
recover the use of his faculties an under
taker comes in, and he is put in an ice
box, where whatever life may have been
in him is frozen out. The Board of
Health should take hold of this matter
and devise some means of ascertaining
beyond all doubt that life is extinct be
fore the body is buried. I have thought
of a good many different means. A re
ceiving vault could be built in every
cemetery where bodies could be placed
until decomposition had begun, when
they could be buried.”
A Fable.
A Woodchuck who had, at great La
bor and many Back-Aches, managed to
excavate a Hole for Himself in a Hill
side, was resting and congratulating
Himself when along came a Fox, who
said:
“Ah—um I Just Fits me 1 I’ve been
Looking for just such a Den for the
last three months.”
“You don’t mean to Steal my Home
away queried the Woodchuck.
“Might makes Right in this Blizzard
country, and don’t you Forget it! Take
yourself off, or I’ll make you sad! ”
The Fox took Possession, aud the
Woodchuck withdrew, but next morn
ing he passed that way to find the Fox
fast in a Trap at the mouth of the Den.
Some boys had Baited for Woodchuck
and caught a Fox. As they Appeared
on the scene Reynard called out:
“I am but a poor Fox, while you nre
Learned and Intelligent Human Beings.
You have no right to Sacrifice me in this
Manner I”
“Ah 1 Yes, but this is a Question of
Might instead of Right 1” was the Reply,
as he was Knocked on the Head.
moral:
It Ceases to be Funny when Both
Sides begin to play the same Game.—M
Quad.
——
The Amount of Water Trees Absorb.
Dr. J. M. Anders, in a geological
survey report, gives the results of his
inquiry as to the quantity of water
pumped from the earth by trees. He
finds that the average exhalation from
soft, thin leaved plants in clear weather
amounts to one and a quarter ounces
Troy per day or twelve hours for every
square foot of surface. Hence a moder
ate sized elm trees raise and throws off
seven and three-quarter tons of water
per day. In the report the facts are
applied to what is going on in America,
where certain inland fertile districts are
becoming converted into deserts by
wholesale clearings; and in other places,
such as the plains of Colorado, where
only five or six years of irrigation and
planting have already produced a meas
urable increase of rainfall. It is main
tained that the deserts of Syria and Africa
are the results of cutting down trees,
and that original luxuriance may be re
stored by skillful replanting.
THE HUMOROUS PAPERS.
WHAT WE FIND IN THEM THIS
WEEK TO SMILE OVER.
A Sale Place—A Pretty Glrl’e Shot-Had
Been Entlna Onlons-Tlie Dear Children.
Etc.. Etc.
A pretty girl’s shot.
As they were all coming out of the
theatre together young Sypher acci
dentally trod on the dress of the pretty
girl just ahead.
“Oh, shoo I” involuntarily exclaimed
the young girl as she suddenly brought
up.
Young Sypher thought he saw a chance
for a mash.
“You needn’t shoo me,” he simpered,
smartly; “I’m no cow.”
“No,” the pretty girl returned, with
a glance that pinned him to the side of
the lobby, “perhaps not now, but you
will be when you grow up.”
Then she swept on, while young
Sypher was so astounded that he actual
ly forgot to light his oakum-stuffed ci
garette when he got outside. — Boston
Journal.
EATING ONIONS.
‘What makes you think they’re en
gaged, Mrs. Quigley ? Did her mother
tell you ?”
“No; she hasn’t said a word to me
about it,”
“Then I suppose her father men
tioned it to your husband ?”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“Well, I give it up, then. How did
you find it out?”
“Why, I met them out walking the
other afternoon, and stopped to chat
with them a few minutes. They’d both
been eating onions, and I tell you, Mrs.
Duckley, a sign like that never fails.
They’ll be married before three months,
or I don’t know a mop from a mug
wump.”—Chicago Ledger.
it wouldn't pay.
Through the telephone: “Is that you,
doctor?”
“Yes, who is it?”
"Mrs. Merony. Oh, doctor, what
shall Ido for baby ? Ho has swallowed
a dime.”
“Well, you surely don’t want to spend
.wo dollars to get a dime, do you 1” and
the telephone ceased working.—New
nan Independent.
THE RETORT COURTEOUS.
Woman’s cruelty to woman has made
thousands fail to speak to each other.
Cicely had just dropped in to congrat
ulate her friend on pleasant prospects
directly after Lent.
“Oh, I am so glad for you. my dear.
Augustus always was such charming
company. Oh, he’s real nice. He paid
me marked attentions half a dozen years
ago.”
“Indeed 1 I believe I’ve heard him
say something about your being a very
dear friend of his mother.”
The coffee cream froze in the little
quaint pitcher on the table. So did the
morning’s conversation. Hartford
Post.
in the legislature.
“Mr. Speaker, I arise to place in
nomination a man, sir, what we all
know, sir, to be a man what ain’t got no
peer nowhar. We all know that he is
more than qualified, sir, for the posi
tion, for I sarved with him durin’ the
wah, sir; he will not only represent the
great partee, but, sir, the entire State.
Durin’ the dark and bloody days when
the pale face of hunger put its bloody
hand on the heart of the nation he was
found to be as true as steel, an grabbed
the gory wolf by the lappels of his
shirt and shook him until he loudly
begged for mercy.”— Arkansaw Trav
eller.
THE DEAR CHILDREN.
Deacon Bucrag addressed the Sunday
school children as follows:
"I will tell you a story, dear ehildren.
Little Harry was a real good little boy,
but his brothers Tom and George were
bad and thoughtless. One day, while
passing the house of a poor widow,
Tom and George began to throw stones
at her cat. Little Harry reminded them
that this was very wrong, and remon
strated so earnestly that presently they
stopped throwing stones at the cat, and
now, dear children, what do you think
Tom and George then did ?”
“Began to throw stones at little
Harry,” was the general shout— San
Francisco Ingleside.
WORKED BOTH WAYS.
“Why are you like the moon, Nick
up,” said his friend Batee. “I give it
up," answered Niekup. “Well, because
your face is always bright and beaming
with good nature,” said Bates, and hs
looked toward the bar. “That ain’t
bad; I’ll just tell that to my wife when
I get home,” said Niekup, and then he
linked at the bartender and told him
to “set ’em up again.”
“Mary,” said he, as he tumbled into
bed that evening, “Why am I like the
moon?” “What is it ?” she sharply
asked. He repeated the question. “Be
cause you are full every month in
the year,” she answered and crushed
him.— Chicago Tribune.
EASILY PROVEN.
“I want to get rid of my partner,”
remarked the mean man to a lawyer.
“Who is he ?”
“My brother. I want to prove that he
has a bad reputation.”
“That is easy enough. You can say
that he is your brother.”
WHEN HE WOULD NEED THEM.
“My dear,” said the wife of the edit
or of a weekly newspaper, “shall I give
away those old trowsers that you haven’t
worn for two years to some poor, deserv
ing tramp ?”
“No,” answered the editor; “let those
trowsers hang just where they are. I
may start a daily paper some day and
then I will need them sure.”— Middle
town Transcript.
I think Ruskin has not been encour
aged about women by his many and per
sistent attempts to teach them. He
seems to have found them wanting in
real scientific interest—bent on senti
mentalizing in everything.