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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,