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EDITOR AND BOOK AGENTS.
He Objects to the Females* but not to Ihe
* Males.
The Richmond (Va.) Religious Herald
says: We can stand a book agent,
provided he is of the masculine denomi
nation. «We are not afraid of him. We
know that he is coming and can deal
with him without buying his book. He
may be pompous and courtly or he may
be pimpled and cadaverous ; his lips
may be bedewed with honeyed flatteries;
he may be oily and crafty in his ap
proaches ; he may modestly ask for
“ just a moment of our precious time;”
he may say that he only craves the use
of our name, or he may charge in upon
us and seek to carry us by storm. This
does not matter with us. He is a man,
and so are we in a small way, and we
have our rights. We tell him what we
will and what we won’t, and that ends it.
But when she comes—then is the win
ter of our discontent. We bow to the
storm, and have no remarks to submit.
All the hidden resources of our polite
ness are called into requisition. She is
a woman, and has the advantage of us.
She has seen better days, and has a tear
in her eye. She belongs to an old fam
ily, and swam in luxury in her youth.
Little cares she for money—character is
everything with her. She is working in
the interests of literature and to lift up
society. Her book is for the home
circle, and is destined to ennoble the
character of mothers, and in that way
to add glory to republican institutions.
She came the other day. How glib
and rattliog she was ! She had us be
fore we knew it. She had us sitting as
erect as a sunbeam in July, and meekly
nodding assent to her sage observations.
We neither moved hand nor foot, and as
for talking, we had no chance. She
talked fast, and she talked long, and she
talked all the time. After regaling us
with the grandeur of her ancestry, the
pleasures of her childhood, and the sur
passing excellences of her book, she
touched us up. She did it handsomely.
She expatiated on the potency of our
influence, the value of our personal sig
nature and the well-known warmth and
kindness of our heart. Greatness, she
hinted, always had a tear on its cheek
for the struggling and unfortunate.
And there we were—dumb and foolish,
a victim to her spell. Time came and
went, but she went on, and on, and on.
We felt fatigued and lonesome, and
wondered how it would end. Finally
she gradually descended from her cir
cumlocutory flight, and lit in the region
of business. The atmosphere became
commercial, and it was a question of
dollars and cents. She had a book for
sale and desired to sell us a copy. It
ceased to be a question of ancestry, and
the poetry and praise all faded away.
The spell was broken, and all we had to
do was to say whether or not we would
buy the book.
We did it as well as we could—we
spoke in a bright and respectful tone—
we even thanked her for her visit—we
paid a tribute to her brilliant conversa
tional gifts—we wished her high fortune
and a golden future, and expressed re
gret that it had to be so. How her
whole aspect changed ! She patted her
check with petulance, her face flushed,
she breathed wildly, and swept angrily
away.
And yet truly wo felt sorry for her.
It. hurt us to think of her hard lot, and
her desperate devices to stem the tide of
s.dv.Tse fortune. We would have
1 ought Iter book, except that we could
not conscientiously pay an exorbitant
price for a useless article.
Bill Arp in a Strange Tavern.
Where do all the people come from
and what are they after ? The cars are
full of them an I the hotels are crowded
wherever I go. They come and they
go. They seem as restless as the
troubled sea. As I sit among them in
this large lounging room I cannot help
wondering what is their business and
what they are thinking, and how many
are happy and how many have some
secret sorrow, and I wish I was a mind
reader and could follow them in their
thoughts of home and family—wife,
children or mother away off somewhere.
How much we are all alike if we only
knew it. Sometimes I venture a remark
to a stranger who sits near me by the
stove. When I draw them out on home
and distant kindred it seems a welcome
subject, and as we get more familiar,
they warm up, and will venture to tell
me of their families and their business.
Strangers in a strange land are very
quick to appreciate civility. A man
may be offish and uncommunicative
when at home but when he gets away
off he looks longingly around for a friend
—somebody that knows somebody that
he knows. At times I have felt awfully
lonesome in my wanderings, and I would
have rejoiced with unfeigned gladness
to have seen my little dog Fido. I
could have almost cried over the affec
tionate wag of his little tail. This ever
eonstant mingling of the people from all
the States is obliged to do good. We
are all assimilating; we are rubbing
against each other more and more every
day, and we understand each other and
find that we are all just human and are
sailing in the same big boat upon the
sea of life. The North and the South,
the East and the West are being fast
drawn together, and not even the politi
cians can much longer keep us apart.—
Atlanta Constitution.
• ' ——————
Enough or Them.—A Texas paper
says : Texas has enough women if they
would only be sensible enough to marry
industrious, generous hearted cowboys
and make them happy, instead of enter
taining dndes in their parlors and dis
sipating their lives in idle gossip and
fashionable, frivolous, airy nothing
ness.
■'Madam, can yon tell me why women
stop in the middle of a street crossing to
talk ?” “I suppose they do it for the
same reason that a man rushes at the
top of his speed to g t across the tr ck
in front of a train of cars, and then
stands and watches the train go by.
@ljc Onajettc.
VOL. XII. SUMMERVILLE, GEORGIA. WEDNESDAY EVENING. MAY 20.1885. NO. 18.
ZiV WINTER.
BY LOUISE CHANDLEB MOULTON.
Oh, to go back to the days of
Just to be young and alive again,
Hearktu again to the mad, sweet tune
Birds were singing with might and main;
South they flew at the summer's wan
Leaving their nests for storms to harry,
Since time was coming for wind and rain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Wearily wander by dale and dune
Footsteps fettered with clanking chain—
Free they were in the days of June,
Free they never can be again;
Fetters of age and fetters of pain,
Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry—
Youth is over, and hope were vain
Under tbo wintry skies to marry.
Now we chant but a desolate rune—
“Oh, to be yourg and alive again
But never December turns to June,
And length of living is length of pain;
Winds in the nestless trees complain,
Snows of winter about us tarry,
And never the birds come back again
Under the wintry skies to many.
ENVOI.
Youths and maidens, blithsome and vain,
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry,
Mate in season, for who is fain
Under the wintry skies to marry ?
—Century for April.
A ROMANTIC STORY.
Startling stories are told and thrilling
effects produced in the many novels of
the day, but it is seldom we find any
thing more startling or thrilling in fiction
than this “ower true tale” of a belle of
the early part of the present ceutnry.
There are those still living who can
attest to the facts; but were it not that
the principal actors have passed from
the stage, I should hesitate yet to make
public such a peculiar family history.
As it is I will ‘‘tell the tale as it ’twas
told to me,” only begging pardon for
concealing the real names.
“In what was than a charming sea
side town, there lived, fifty years ago, a
most lovely girl, named Amy Provence
—bright and radiant and witty, but,
alas ! as the sequel shows, most unwise,
to say the very least.
Os suitors she had many, and when
she first appears in the light of a hero
ine, she had already promised her hand,
with her heart in it, to a prosperous and
highly respected young merchant.
There was not so much of fashion and
folly then as now; young ladies did not
lie awake over trosmaus and establish
ments, or mar their beauty and redden
their eyes, dimming their luster by late
hours and high living. But Miss Prov
ence approached her bridal day in all
her youthful freshness. Her lover Ernst
Rhodes, was ardently attached to her,
and the eourse of true love ran, appar
ently very smoothly. But the old fash
ion fate has of turning momentous re
sults on very small hinges, was in style
then as now, and fate was busy with
them.
Miss Amy was invited to visit Miss
Woolsey, a wealthy old aunt in Rhode
Island, before her marriage. So, bun
dling up some of the mysterious wed
ding paraphernalia, for a last beautify
ing touch, for her fairy fingers were
very tasteful and swift, she left her
lover, with regret, I know, and left him
for a week’s sojourn with her aristocratic
relative. This week was understood to
be the last of her maidenhood, and the
young girl felt even that to be a small
eternity. But what youngyZuncce, on the
eve of marriage with the dear one of her
choice, cannot find a wealth of enjoyment
in loving thoughts even for a whole week?
Miss Woolsey was a lady of position
and consequence, and the rare beauty
and grace of her niece gave her a pres
tige in the eyes of the many visitors to
the house. Her entertainments were
unique and “just the thing,” and it was
with a certain degree of pirtde that an
invitation to Miss Woolsey’s was accept
ed by the surrounding gentry. It is the
same the world over, and has been for
far more years than this veritable history
covers, that a certain element in charac
ter is gratified by tbe notice oi those
who are considered a round higher on
the social ladder. Amy was delighted
with the evidence of luxury about her;
and her vanity was flattered by the nu
merous attentions she received from the
various visitors to her aunt’s house.
Ernst at home was impatient for her re
turn, chafing and wondering how Amy
could go away from him, even for a
week, if she loved as he loved ! Fate
was weaving her first thread 1
Among the many who came to Miss
Woolsey’s attracted by the exqu site
beauty of Miss Amy, was one, a certain
Mark Haise, of whom people knew lit
tle, eave that he seemed to live in some
style; at Last, be kept a carriage, a
luxury that few indulged in in those
days, and said very little about himself
and his antecedents. Each evening he
came, and each evening saw him at
Amy’s side. He had not talked of love,
but shrewder eyes than hers saw whither
he was tending, and fate was weaving
her second thread.
In the meantime Amy had been vpry
diligent; the work was finished, the last
touches given to the dainty finery, and
in the near future the sweet hope of her
life would be fulfilled; so thought she.
Ernst was at home, waiting as only
lovers can wait, and each one of you
knows how patiently that is. Amy would
go to-morrow.
Even at this d ;
of all the sufferings that followed, my
pen almost refuses to chronicle the rec
ord of the last eventful evening of the
poor girl’s visit. We do have some
thing to do with our destiny, inasmuch
os the reins are put into our own hands,
and we may turn whithersover we will 1
So Mark Haise came and Amy received
him.
As usual he sat by her side, and, as
usual, she let him linger there. Alas 1
for the dear boy at home she knew she
loved, and whom in spite of all that fol
lowed, you know she loved 1 Ernst was
not by to give her his warning look,
and save her from the tempter. The
soft voice spoke:
“My dear Miss Amy”—and very ten
der was his look—"you are going away,
and do you knowhow I shall miss you ?’’
“You can’t ‘miss’ me much longer,”
she blushingly replied, laughing at the
innocent pun.
“Ah! that is what makes my heart
ache so,” said he, “for when you are
gone, and I think of all your happiness,
I shall regret more than I can tell you
that you ever came among us to so dis
turb the ripples of my qniet life;” and
a deep sigh enforced his words.
“Please don’t talk so, Mr. Haise,”
said Amy, “for even in this short week
I have learned to prize your friendship
highly, and I should be sorry indeed
not to retain it.”
“Amy,” said he, casting off all reserve,
and abruptly seizing her hand—“ Amy,
I can stand it no longer; I must know
my fate from your own lips 1 When you
talk to me of quiet friendship, there
rushes upon me like a wave the thought
of all that I lose in losing you ! Wil)
you be my wife ?”
His impetuosity startled her, and she
drew back.
“Do not talk so to me I” she cried.
“Do yon not know that in a few days I
shall be Ernst’s wife?”
Mark Haise knew not and cared not
who “Ernst” was; he only knew that
she had promised her troth to another,
and he meant to win her from him.
Don’t tell me that she was wrong and
imprudent to listen to him—don’t I
know it ? I am only telling you a true
story, and it is my duty to record that
this particular Amy Provence was no ex
ception to the corps of silly girls.
“Yes I know it, I know it," he plead
ed “but, Amy, darling, how can I let
you go 1 I will do anything for this dear
hand. I will give you a princely home
and every surrounding that wealth can
purchase, if you will only come to me
and bo my beloved wife 1”
“No, no,” said Amy, “do not tempt me.
Ernst is not rich, I know, but I love him
and ho loves mo dearly, and I will be
his wife.”
Do you think that Mark liaise gave up
the chase? Not he! His voice was very
winning, and as ho talked on andon, be
lieve me or not as you see fit, the girl
began to listen to his persuasive tones
Erust was away, aud Mark, with his
fine presents and finer promises, was
near—even at her very feet.
So it came that Amy Provence was
not even “off with the old love before
on with the new,” for when Mark Haise
added to all the other temptations the
promise of a carriage for her very own,
the poor, ambitious victim yielded, and
gave to her tempter her broken faith.
What he cared for it will soon appear.
The forsaken Ernst bore as well as
his fortitude and outraged love would
let him, the cold letter announcing to
him his Amy's treachery, and never
sought for an explanation. He was too
manly to resent the insult, and treated
the whole affair as beneath contempt,
rightly judging that the false-hearted
girl who could trifle with his tenderest
feelings was not worth mourning for.
It would be well for all if I could leave
it here, but truth compels me to pro
ceed. I need not tell you of the poor
mother, whose whole heart was in Amy’s
marriage with Ernst, of all who were
so indignant at her decision; or of the for
saken lover who had loved so blindly
only to be made to suffer so deeply—
my story is not with these.
Miss Woolsey was well pleased at the
turn in the tide of affairs, and offered the
deluded girl all the necessary assistance.
She was married in a few weeks from
her aunt’s house in a style seldom seen
at that time. I should like to linger
here if my heart was in it, and tell yon
of all the fine things that was said and
done, in spite of the unpleasant state of
things, but I will forbear. *
Ambition and love are always at war,
and one must be victor, so when Amy
swallowed down the love she gave rhe
reins to her ambition, and looked an ■-
I ward to her lordly home with what
pleasures she might. But she knew
nothing more of the man who had “led
her his own way" than he had told her
himself, so that when she camo to he
sad awakening it was as if a thunderbolt
had fallen at her feet. What were his
promises ? Mere empty air ! The home
he took her to was a miser’s home, aud
henceforth, and for her whole life of
fifty years, she saw such sufferings as
woman seldom sees.
Do you ask me if he gave her nothing
of all he promised ? Yes, the carriage,
which was the thing that turned the
scale in his favor; he gave her that, aud ;
thus fulfilled his literal promise.
He gave her tbe carriage, but it stood ;
in the barn for fifty years, with never a
horse, and never a ride had she with it! j
For fifty years there was present before
her eyes this constant reminder of a lov
ing heart trampled upon—for fifty years
Murk Haise made her feel his iron hand !
Children came to her, but no comfort
with them; one grew up a miserable
drunkard, and another went out from
her for many years, returning finally, to
settle down at home, taciturn and mo
rose. Her husband died, and this sou
seemed all she had to live for, and, as
his father’s will was made up entirely in
his favor, the wretched woman, who
had absolutely no society or friends,
leaned on him for her daily bread. But
in a little while he died, and all the poor
mother could now do was to be thank
ful she was not a pauper. Meanwhile
how read his will ? All, everything, be
queathed to a wife and son in South
America of whose existence nobody
dreamed !
By the terms of the will, the son was
to come North immediately on being ap
prised of his father’s death, take the
family name and look after the property:
but not a word of the old mother, no
care for her declining years, no love ex
pressed, nothing for her—all ns if she
were not I Is it strange after all these
reverses, and the corroding remorse of
fifty years, that the poor woman found
her burden greater then she could bear ?
When she felt her miserable life
drawing to its close, she sent for Ernst,
and for the first time in all these years
they two stood face to face ! He with
his white locks, but still commanding
figure, and fine, stern face, was an
avenging angel 1 she with her bent and
trembling form, her wrinkled, careworn
face, with its hungry look for human
sympathy, was scarcely the brilliant,
beautiful girl who had gone from her
home in her youth and innocence to
bring upon both their lives such a terri
ble consummation 1
They gazed at each other without a
word, till, at length, she spoke, and the
words which rang upon his ears came
from the depths of a broken heart.
“Ernst!”—the name, the once-loved,
still loved name, lingered upon her lips
like a strain of forgotten music—“ Ernst,
can you forgive me ?”
Gently the old lover took her trem
bling bund in his, but with everything of
love crushed out for all the years; calm
ly the words fell on her ears:
“Amy, I cannot 1 You ruined my
whole life! But for your tramplingout
my young heart I should have been a
different man I But for your treachery
we might have been happy ! As it is>
you destroyed my faith in woman; I
could never trust another 1”
She cowered in her misery, and put
ting her poor shrunken bands over her
worn face, she cried:
“Before God, Ernst, I pray for your
mercy 1 He knows how I have suffered,
and if effla poor criminal expiated his
guilt witqaliis heart’s blood, I have 1
Let me f< <'f that your just resentment
will not follow mo to the eternal world 1”
“Amy, let us understand one another.
We are both old now. Since you and
I met in the old, old time—” his voice 1
quivered, and he raised his dewy eyes >
to heaven —“it is half a century. But
all tbii fifty years is but as a moment
to what is to come. I have lived a lone
ly life, without wife or children. I
should rather a thousand times have
seen the green sod over your grave, and
felt that you were lost to me because
God took you, than to have it as it is.
But your own hand gave the blow, and
it was your own hand which crushed all
my life. But if it will be any comfort to
you to feel that I do not hold resent
ment still, then be comforted, Amy.
I am willing to leave all with God.”
He bowed his head over her hand and
was gone.
* ******
When they camo to her, hours later,
she lay peacefully asleep, her white
hands clasped over her breast, and tbe
expression on her dead face calmer and
serener than it had worn in life since
the last time Ernst had looked upon it.
* *,* * * * *
Fate had|woven the last thread.
Dwarf Love Making.
Count Magri, the dwarf, who is soon
to marry General Tom Thumb’s widow,
was dining in a restaurant, when a
newspaper man imformed him that his
fiancee has spoken of him most com
plimeutarily in a printed interview—
»had, in fact, said that she was madly
in love with him, and other words of
/similarly burning import. The count
hung his head, blushed deeply, asked
for her exact language, and took out a
lead-piencil and wrote it down in midget
letters on the bill of fare, in order, as
he said, to show it to her, and see if she
really did feel so. Three days after
ward he was found again. “I read that
to her,” he observed, sadly, “and she
' said she never said anything of the
kind.”
Down at the Heed.—Dan Rice, the
circus clown, is running a ten-cent circus
in the French quarter of New Orleans.
He talks sadly of the good old days
when his Floating Palace was the sensa
tion on the Father of Waters, and thou
sands upon thousands of people swarmed
I from far and near to see him. He gave
1 an entertainment a few nights ago when
I not 300 persons were present, and about
. one-third of those were professional and
! other deadheads.
PROGRESS IN ARKANSAS.
SENATOR CROCKETT SPEAKS ON
THE RAII.ROAO FREIGHT BILL..
lie Deslrfts I.nw-s Framed that will Build
sip a Glorious State instead Dwnrflnv
Iler.
The Little Rock (Ark.) Gazette prints
in full the speech delivered in the Sen
ate of that State by Colonel “Bob-”
Crockett on the bill to regulate railroad
freights. Following are some of its elo
quent paragraphs:
“Sir, for whom aro we legislating ?
For ourselves alone ? Alas, Sir, heaven
will never smile upon such selfish legis
lation. In a little while you, Mr. Pres
ident, and my venerable friend, the
father of this bill, whoso snowy locks
are even now being tossed by the breezes
of another world, aud I will have passed
away and quietly sleep beneath the sod.
The winter snow will drape the mounds
above us with a winding sheet, but the
sting of its bitter cold will be all un
heeded by us. The spring birds will
sing their sweetest notes in the swing
ing branches above our graves, though
their music will not be heard by us.
“But Arkansas—God bless her I—like
a gentle mother, will fold us to her lov
ing breast and drape our bed with sweet
flowering vines, sing soft lullabies o’er
our dreamless rest with the low, sweet
music of murmuring winds. After us
will come another generation, who, if
they find our State standing shoulder to
shoulder with her sister States in the
battle for development and material
prosperity, through our wise legislation,
will rise up and call us blessed. But, on
the other hand, if they find her dwarfed
by unwise and restricted legislation,
they will spit upon the graves of those
whom they should honor.
“Let us remember that Arkansas is a
growing State, aud legislate for her on
the plan that my dear old mother, of
blessed memory, was wont to cut my
clothes in my boyhood days. She
always cut my breeches two years ahead
and I always grew io them, and, alas 1
sometimes 'got too big for ’em,’ and
when I did—but that was my mother’s
business. Sirs, let us cut Arkansas’s
breeches —but I see I must drop the
illustration or change the sex of our
State, which I would not do for the
world—God bless her ! We do not carry
this selfishness into our private life. If
I were to find my old friend Uncle Bob
McConnell putting out fruit trees and
were to say to him ‘Uncle Bob, why
trouble yourself to put out fruit trees?
they’ll never benefit you,’ the old man
would straighten himself to his full
height and reply:
“ ‘No, Bob, I’m old and will probably
never see these trees blossom or fruit,
but I have children and grandchildren
who, as they climb these trees and
pluck the ripe frnit long after I’m dead,
will say: “Grandfather planted these
with his own hands,” and they’ll bless
the old man, as they eat the fruit for his
kindness in planting the trees for their
benefit.’ So let it be with us. Let us
| frame laws that will build up our glori
■ ous State instead of dwarfing her by
hostile legislation against railroads, the
grandest of agencies of modern civiliza
tion for developing the resources of a
new State. Let us not say to capitalists
abroad, ‘Come aud look upon our broad
prairies, our fertile valleys, our magnifi
cent forests, our mines and quarries,
which are sleeping untouched for want
of transportation. Come, help us de
velop these grand resources.’
“And when in response to our urgent
pleading they do come, let us not turn
upon them and throttle them with de.
etruetive legislation. It is true, Sir,
that while we do not stand upon our
borders and welcome capitalists, ‘with
bloody hands to hospitable graves,’ we
do stand upon those borders and wel
come them with such obstructive legis
lation to disastrous bankruptcy. I stand
not here to-day as the special defender
of the railroads, as railroads alone, but
Ido uphold and would protect, foster,
and encourage them as the means of
building up our beloved State.
“It is for Arkansas and her brave
sons and fair daughters who shall come
after us for whom I plead. Sir, in the
core of my heart I Believe that this bill
and all others of kindred character are
wrong in conception, and if adopted
would be ruinous to the railroads, and
as an inevitable consequence the ruin of
Arkansas. I cannot support the bill,
and earnestly hope that it will not
pass. ”
Maine’s Prohibitory Law-
A dispatch from Portland says : The
new Prohibitory law has gone into
effect. Drummers can no longer solicit
orders for liquors. On this point tbe
law is very emphatic. The next im
portant change is one intended to pre
vent a liquor dealer from concealing the
fact of his guilt by destroying his stock.
No fine is imposed in cases of intoxica
tion. Drunkards will be imprisoned
from five to thirty days for a first
offence, and from ten to ninety days for a
second offence. Gen. Dow believes that
very little good will result from these
and other changes made by the last
Legislature in the prohibitory laws. It
is reported that “bottle carriers” have
again become quite numerous. These
men have only a bottle at a time, from
which they peddle out drinks. Os
course they are liable to arrest.
Bread Cast Upon the Water.
About a month ago an old New
Yorker dropped his luggage before the
clerk’s desk in an Old Point Comfort
hotel and dashed off his autograph in a
free and easy hand, “John McKesson,
New York city.” Day after day passed
and the visitor seemed to be enjoying
Virginia with a great deal of zest.
When he finally made up his mind
to move homeward he tripped once more
to the clerk’s desk, this time to ask for
his bill. “McKesson ! McKessonl”
ejaculated the clerk, “there’s no bill
here for any Mr. McKesson.” “No
bill ? why, what are you talking about.
Do you know how long I’ve been here,
Mr. Clerk ? “Yes, sir, Ido know, but
I have orders from headquarters to take
none of your money—not a cent.” Now
comes on the scene a genial hotel pro
prietor to beam upon the astonished old
Knickerbocker aud grasp him by the
hand after an enthusiastic fashion.
“ You’re the same old John McKesson
I knew thirty years ago,” ejaculated the
hotel man. “Don’t remember me, eh?
Well, let me recall a little incident
which happened when I was struggling
along in the world years and years back.
You belonged to one of the leading
wholesale drug firms in Maiden-lane,
and I was tbe driver of an express
wagon. One day I had to unload some
packages going from your store to some
Western town. My horses were scared
just as I was handling the goods and one
package was dumped to the ground and
broken. At headquarters I was told
that I’d have to make good the loss, a
little matter of §2O or so, which meant a
crest deal to me. With a sore heart I
went down to your store the next day to
ask what was the lowest figure at which
I could settle, and yon, without a mo
ment’s hesitation, told me that I need
not pay one cent, that you could stand
the loss better thaji I could, and that
must be the end of it. But it isn't the
end of it, all the same, for I am making
a round §IOO a day down here now,
though if I wasn’t making a cent I’m
dashed if I’d let you pay for anything
under my roof, if you staid here the
whole year through.”
A Scrap of Tartar History.
The remarkable swordsmanship of the
Tartars is proverbial. Their favorite
weapon is a long, curved cimetar, quite
different from that of the Turks. It is
made of the finest steel, richly alloyed
with silver, and a sword becomes an heir
loom in a family and descends to the
first born so long as the race exists.
When the last representative of a fam
ily dies his sword, which may have come
to him from a hundred generations, is
broken and buried with him. The
blades of the weapons, which are beaten
out on an onyx stone anvil in the an
cient Mogul city of Taztchmtzy, the
Holy Place, are very thin, and the won
derful feats performed with them are
astonishing.
Once when Robo, the cousin of the
Great Mogul, was caught in a rebellion,
his execution was ordered. The most
skilful swordsman of the empire was
provided for the beheading, and the
Great Mogul and his court assembled to
see it. For a second the keen Tartar
blade flashed in the sunlight, and then
descended upon the bare neck of Robo,
who stood upright to receive the stroke.
The sharp steel passed through the ver
tebrae, muscles and organs of the neck,
but so swift was the blow and so keen
j the blade that the head did not fall, and
kept its exact position, and not a vital
organ was disturbed. In surprise the
Great Mogul exclaimed: “What, Robo,
art thou not beheaded ?”
“My lord, I am,” replied Robo,
“but so long as I keep my balance right
my head will not fall off.” The Great
Mogul was so pleased with the deftness
of the executioner that he ordered a
. bandage to be tied on, and Robo speedi
, ly recovered. He afterward became a
loyal subject, and was made cashier of
■ the empire, because, as the Great Mogul
remarked: “He knows that if he keeps
! his balance right his head will not come
! off. ” It is one of those curious scraps
, of history that are often overlooked.—
] Pittsburgh Chronicle.
I Paris as a Seaport
1
f The old idea of making Taris a sea
port, ventilated in 1825, has again been
j taken up by an engineer, M. Bouquet
de la Grye, who is a member of the In
stitute. He proposes to deepen the
Seine between Rouen, where large ves
sels can sail or be towed up from the
sea, and Poissy, a pleasant summer re
. sort of many Parisians, within easy dis
tance of the metropolis. The distance
to be deepened is something over 93
miles. The projector, however, says
nothing of tbe dangers likely to result
from the numerous islands which stud
the Seine between Poissy and Rouen,
and which would render river naviga
tion exceedingly dangerous for vessels
of large tonnage, such as those who
i pick their way so carefully from Havre
to Rouen. The cost of deepening the
i Seine, with its tortuous windings be
; tween Poissy and the Norman town, is
estimated at §30,000,000. The engi
: neers who, in 1825, conceived the gigan
tic plan, spent §IO,OOO in studying the
i problem, but their labors were inter
rupted by the revolution of 1830, and
the project has been since in abeyance,
BRACE OF FUNNY THINGS
FOUND IN THE COLUMNS OF Ot'B
HUMOROUS EXCHANGES.
A Bit of Broken Chlnn-Tke Writers
Crump—The Grocer—Out in the Demi.
wood Country—The Animal Painter.
Etc.. Etc.
IN TBE DEADWOOD COUNTRY.
Marriage in Arizona:
“Do you take this woman whosehand
you’re a squeezin’ to be your lawful
wife, in flush times an’ skimp?”
“I reckon that’s about the size of it,
Squire.”
“Do you take this man you’ve j’ined
fists with to be your pard through thick
an’ thin?”
“ Well, you’re about right for once,
old man.”
“All right, then. Kiss in court, an’ I
reckon you’re married about as tight as
the law kin j’ine you. I guess four bits
'll do, Bill, if I don’t have to kiss the
bride. If I do, it’s six bits extra.”—
Chicago Ledger.
ON BOLDER SKATES.
h This girl hail h
on her roller - Chicago
was her home. When she struck out her
number • * eights
the peo- • o o • pie gave
her room. • i * Likefreight
ing-cars on • ! * wheels, im-
mense her * ez/j • pedals
seemed, and • • more, assho,
regardless of expense, sailed
up and down the floor.
The girl dashed on;
she could not
stop: her feet
momentum gained.
•‘Down brakes !” they
cried; “Oh, maiden, flop !”
She greater speed attained.
How gracefully she skated
there !—Just like a big giraffe—
and puffed and shrieked in mad
despair, and made the people laugh.
Then came a burst of thunder sound,
as on the floor she sat upon her bustle
big and round, and made
it—oh!— so flat, bho sat
in misery complete, an d
blushed. She couldn’t stir; but
never tried to hide
"oo OO
because those
feet hid iier.
OO OO
—H. 0. Dodoe. in Pucfc.
NEVER KNOWN TO CATCH ANYTHING.
“Are you going to send that man
down among those rotten tenements?”
asked a visitor at the New York Police
Headquarters.
“Os course. Why not?” asked the
officer in charge.
“Because there is small-pox there.”
“Oh, he won’t catch it.”
“Why, has he had it ?”
“No ; he’s a detective.”
“Beg pardon, I didn’t know that”
GREAT CONSIDERATION OF A GROCER.
“Who was it that rang the bell,
Jane ?” asked the lady of the house.
“The grocer, mum.”
"With a bill, I presume.”
“Yesnm.”
“You told him to come next week ?”
“Yesum.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, mum, he had been here a
dozen times already and he wouldn’t
come again, and to tell you so.”
“How considerate. I didn’t think it
of a grocery man.”— Cincinnati Traveler.
BROKEN CHINA.
Flenchee manoo comes,
Flinkee havee fun,
Fightee Chinee Borneo,
Bling along big guu.
Flinkee Chinanianeo
Lunee light away,
Flinkee fight witli faneo,
Mebbe with tea-tray.
Chinamanee watchee,
Gitee mightee mad,
Flenchee armee catehee,
Huitee plitty bad I
Flenchee fightee fineo,
Gun go slapee bang 1
Allee samee Chinee
Lickce him Dong Dang.
Chicago Tribune.
ANOTHER SIGN OF SPRING.
Smith keeps a savage dog on his
premises, and near his kennel a board is
displayed with the warning in large let
ters, “Beware of the dog.”
“I suppose,” said Jones, pointing to
the warning, “you have painted that
sign in large letters so that ‘he who runs
may read.’ ”
“No,” said Smith, “but that he who
reads may run,”— Boston Courier,
THE WANING OF THE HONEYMOON.
Mrs. Cherry—“ You see, my dear, I
am prompt about calling, I always
make it a point to call on the bride early,
before the honeymoon is over, you
know.”
Bride (wearily)—“l fear you are too
late.”
Mrs. Cherry—“ Too late 1 Why, you
have hardly got settled in your new
home yet.”
Bride—“l know; but the honeymoon
is over. ”
Mrs. Cherry—" Over?”
Bride—“ Yes; the market bills have
begun to come in.”
NOT THAT KIND OF TIRED.
“Mother, did you say I can’t go to the
rink to night ?”
“Yes, Mamie, I did.”
“Why, mother?”
“Because you have been there every
day three times for the past three days,
and so much exertion will ruin your
constitution.”
“Why, I’m not a bit tired, mother.”
“Well, if you are not, come and help
me wash these dishes.”
“Ob, pshaw ! I’m that kind of tired,
but not the skating kind.”
She helped wash the dishes all the
same.— Kentucky State Journal,
JUST THE THING FOB HIM.
He was one of Austin’s favorite art
amateurs, and was seeking a point where
he could settle down to work and prac
tice. He struck the quiet little village
of Kyle, and said to a farmer living in
the suburbs:
“Can you tell me sir, where I can se
cure board in the village ?”
“What’s your business?” asked the
farmer.
“I am an animal painter,” replied the
artist.
“You don’t say !” replied the farmer,
in a tone of wonder and admiration;
“then, by gosh 1 I’ll board ye, and yon
can paint my old roan horse black to
match my other one.” The artistis now
driving a mule team.— Texas Siftings,