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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.