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THE SEABOARD.
The wayg» wo a joy to the sea^w, the
to the herd,
And a joy to the heart is a goal that it may
not reach.
fior sense that for ever the limits of sense
engird,
No hearing orsight that is vassal to form or
speech
Leams ever the secret that shadow am]
silence teach, *
Hears ever the notes that or eve” *hey swell
subside,
Sees e*5r the light that lights tho loud
world’s tide,
Clasps over the canse of the lifelong scheme's
oontrol
Where though we pursue, till the waters of
life be dried,
The goal that is not, and ever again tho
goal.
Friend, what have we sought or seek we,
whate’er betide,
Though the seaboard shift its mark from afar
described,
But aims whence aver i&ew shall arise the
soul?
Love, thought, song, life, but show for a
glimpse, and hide
The goal that is not, and ever again the
goal. Swinbukne.
.An Investment.
The yellow haze of midsummer hns,.
its. radiant £aiJ3ns over the velvet
slopes of the Fairhaven farm—the river,
murmuring softly over its pebbly bot¬
tom, flashed up like a sheet of silver—
and the purple fields of clover, nodding
ready for the scyfhe, filled the warm air
with slumbrous scents.
“Fine weather for the hayin’,” said
Eliakim Fairhaven. To his material
nature, God’s Bunshine and the grand
glitter o2 earth and sky, Vsre but the in¬
struments to fill bis pockets with sordid
gain—mere accessions to “a good crop!”
Alas ! is not this world full of Eliakim
Fairhavens, in one shape or another ?
Miss Comfort Fairhaven sat beside
him knitting and watching the cumber¬
some frolics of a pair of twin lambs, de¬
serted by thew heartless mother, whom
she was “bringing up by hand.”
“Yes,” she said, with a mechanical
glance in the direction of the beamy
West. “Who’s that a cornin’ np the
path I wonder ?”
“One of the new hands, I calculate,”
said Eliakim, screwing np his eyes. “I
didn’t ’gree to give ’em their supper
and board into the bargain, a night afore
the job begins—and I’m blessed if there
ain’t a little gal along with him 1”
“Tain’t no hayin’ hand,” said Miss
Comfort, rising and going down the steps
to meet a slender child of nine years old,
who was leading a pale, bowed-down
man, who walked with difficulty, lean¬
ing on a crutch.
“Heart alive, child,” said Miss Com¬
fort, whose kindly nature involuntarily
sympathized with all who were suffering
or in distress; “what ails you ? and ysiiafc
do you want here?”
“Please ma’am,” began the ^ld,
eagerly, “if you could give ns a r Sp¬ ht’s
lodging—poor papa is so sick ay'/tired,
and-”
“No, I can’t l” abruptly ’ />ko in
Eliakim Fairhaven. “Thjf ain’t no
almshouse, nor yet a oharjf^ place. If
ye can pay yonr way, weR *nd good—
if ye can’t, the sooner yoH-jo about your
business the better!”
“We have no monaf A timidly began
the child, while the as if stunned
and bewildered by the heartless fluency
of the old farmer’s speech, leaned up
against the fence, pressing his hand on
his forehead, “but-”
“Then clear out and be done with
it!” said Eliakim, resuming his seat
with dogged composure.
Miss Comfort looked appealingly a*
her brother.
“If I could just get ’em abowl of milk,
Eliakim, and-”
“Stuff and nonsense,” sonorously
ejaculated the farmer, “I ain’t a goin’ to
give in to this sort of thing. Once be¬
gin, and you’ll never leave off, yon soft
headed womanfolk!”
Slowly and wearily the two travelers
turned and plodded their way adown
the broad, dusty road—the languid foot¬
steps of the invalid scarce keeping up
with the tripping pace of the child.
“Oh, papa, papa!” sobbed the little
girl, turning her bine, wistful eyes td
the white, worn face, “how cruel people
are!”
He placed his hand upon her enrly,
uncovered head.
“Never mind, Essie,” he said, with a
mournful, tender pathos in his voice:
“it will soon end. It cannot be for long,
as far as I am concerned, poor child.
Bat for you--” he stopped, his voice
husky with emotion.
They had walked what seemed to little
Esther Bell a weary way, when there
was a rustle among the wild rosebushes
that overhung the stone wall at their side,
and a voice called hurriedly to them to
"stop,”
“It’s me,” said Miss Comfort Fair¬
haven, reckless of her grammar. “Elia-
SPRING PLACE. GEORGIA, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1883.
kim—that's my brother—he’s gone over
to the class-meetin’ at Squire Duudas,
and I cut down through lots to overtake
you. I tell you I can’t somehow get
your father’s face out o’ my mind.
You’re sick, ain’t you, mister?”
“I shall soon be quite well,” he an¬
swered oalmly—and Comfort Fairhaven’s
more experienced eye detected the hid¬
den meaning which the little girl never
once suspected. Yes, he would soon be
well, but that it would be in that coun
try where the inhabitants uever say, “I
am sick!”
’‘Where are you going?” asked kind
Miss Corn fort, her voice growing husky iD
spite of herself.
“We arc going to my grandpa,” said
little Essie. “Grandpa was vexed with
my mamma for marrying papa and going
to England, but papa thinks he'll take
care of me now. But t won't stay with
him unless papa stays too !”
And she resolutely tightened her
Hasp upon the thin, fever-burning
baud.
“I s’pose you want to get to Lons
dade ?” said Miss Comfort.
The man nodded. t
“Tsitfar?”
“Eleven good miles yet,” said Miss
Comfort; “but I’ll tell yo what—I’ll
make Joab get out the wagon, and with
a good buffalo-robe over the seats, you’ll
ride easy enough. They’lkbe back afore
Eliakim gets through, and while you’re
a-waitin’, I’ll bring down a smack
o’bread and meat, and a bottle of.my
current wine. ’Tain’t good to travel on
an’ empty stomach.”
And five minutes later Miss Comfort
was carrying her hospitable intentions
into effect, greatly to the delight and
appreciation of the hungry child.
“Now, see here,” said Miss Comfort,
drawing the child asido, when Joab
Imve up with the comfortable farm
wagon and stout old horse, “I don’t
guess you’ve got more money than you
can use ?”
.“We have only enough for our rail¬
road tifkets,” said Essie, her counte¬
nance falling, “but—”
“I thought so,” said Miss Comfort;
“and here’s a flve-dollar bill I’ve laid
asi-le out of my butter money that Elia¬
kim don’t know nothin’ about. I’d laid
out to have a new mouse colored merino
dress this fall, but I guess you need it
more’n I do; so here ’tis, and mind you
don’t lose it.”
The child’s eyes were brimming as
she looked up in Miss Comfort’s honest,
hard-featured face.
“Will you let me kiss you just once ?”
she whispered,standing on tip-toe to bring
her blooming cheek close to the spin¬
ster’s wrinkled lips. *
Kissing, as Miss Comfort might her¬
self have remarked, had she had leisure
for a remark, was not mnoh in her way,
but she could not resist the sweet, wist¬
ful entreaty.
“There,” she said, with a strang«
moisture in her eyes, “run along. Joab’s
waitin’.”
“Oh 1” cried little .Esther, as she sat
»u the buffalo-draped seat, “I wish
^s rich and grown up!”
_
“Why, what ’ud you do?” demanded
honest Joab.
“I’d buy a diamond necklace Rnd
a pink dress for that good lady 1”
Joab chuckled. “I don’t know as
they’d become her,” he said, with grim
jocularity. “So geo up, old Doll!”
* *
“I know I’m pretty old to be lookin’
arter a situation,” said Miss Comfort
Fairhaven, “but I can’t starve, nor I
won’t beg, so what’s there left ? We had
a good farm once, but my brother could
not rest till he speckilated it all away,
and now he’s gone and I’m all alone. So
if you know of a good place as house¬
keeper, or matron inan asylum, or gen¬
eral overseer, I don’t much care where
or-”
The intelligence office keeper, with a
slight shrug of his shoulders, broke in
on the torrent of Miss Fairhaven’s ex¬
planatory eloquence.
“What wages did you ask ?”
Poor Miss Comfort—the blank word
wages called a rusty glow to her cheek.
“I ain’t particular about that so loDg
os it’s a good home.”
“Here’s a place that might perhaps
suit you—Housekeeper wanted at Mr.
Dnponceau’s, No. — Fifth avenue.
Yon might try it, although I hardly
think a person of yonr appearance would
suit.”
“I ain’t young, I know,” said Miss
Comfort with a sigh, “but there’s a deal
o’ tough work left in me yet. Give me
the address—I shan’t give np and starve
without tryin’ for it I”
Yet, spite of all her philosophy, Miss
Comfort’s heart, like that of the Queen
of Sheba, of old, grew faint vwithiu her
as she sat in the luxurious reception
room of the Fifth avenue mansion, sur¬
rounded by silken chairs, gihje* tables,
’flashing mirrors and pictures, whose
radiant skies might have been painted
in liquidized gold, so rare and costly
wore they. /
“I’m a’most sorry I come !” thought
Mies Comfort. “I don’t fairly beliove 1
can give satisfaction here.”
While the thought was passing
through her mind, the door swung open
on its silver-plated hinges, and a tall
young lady in a blue silk morning robe
entered—a young lady with golden
brown hair looped after the fashionable
style over her brow, and deep blue eyes.
Miss Comfort rose and dropped a stiff
little courtesy.
“I’ve called to see ” she began,
but to her amazement the rest of her
speech was abruptly ohecked by the
yonng lady’s arms being thrown round
her neck.
“Ob, I’m so glad to see you,” she
cried out, ecstatically. “I thought I
never should see you again. I went to
the old farm,, but you had gone away,
nobody knew whither!”
And she hugged Miss Comfort more
enthusiastically than ever, the bright
tears sparkling on her eyelashes.
“Why,” demanded the bewildered
spinster, “who are you?”
“I'm Essie. Don’t you remember
little Eisie Bell, that you gave the five
dollar bill to, in the twilight, by the
vtild-TOse bushes, when-”
“Ob, o h !” exclaimed Miss Com¬
fort. “You don’t mean to say that you
are that-”
And hero she stopped, nearly stran¬
gled by Essie’s renewed embraces, while
she listened to the story of “papa’s
death,” and how grandpapa had adopted
her; and how she was surrounded by all
that luxury could devise, or art invent.
“And I have longed to see you
again,” added Essie, “for if it had not
been for your kindness, papa nevar
could have reached his home I A’.i
you shall live with me now, and be my
darling old friend I”
“No,” said Miss Comfort, gravely,
shaking her head. “I’ve come to apply
for a situation as housekeeper, and if
you won't give it to me, why I must go
elsewhere.” ,
And Essie was obliged to consent.
“But mind,” said she, nodding the
golden masses of her crepe hair, “I
shall give you what wages I please!
Grandpa always intrusts those things tp
my management!”
So Miss Comfort Fairhaven stayed,
nominally a housekeeper—really the
trusted and revered head of the estab¬
lishment, and her declining years were
surrounded by a peace and luxury she
never dared to dream of in her loftiest
aspirations.
Miss Comfort Fafrliaven had invested
the five-dollar bill advantageously. She
had cast her bread upon the waters, and
after many days it had returned to her.
Old-Fashioned Chicken Pot-Pie.
Julia Corson . tells liow to make it as
follows: Have a large tender chicken
carefully plucked, singed, drawn and
wiped with a wot towel; cut it in joints
put it over the fire in just enough boil¬
ing water to cover it, with half a pound
•E salt pork cut in small, thin slices, and
boil it gently until it is tender. Mean¬
time, make any good plain pastry, or
proceed as follows: Sift together a pound
of floor, a level teaspoenful of salt, half
a saJt-spoonful of white pepper and a
dessert-spoonful of any good baking
powder; butter an old-fashioned round
bottom iron, pot on tho inside, strain the
broth from the chicken, put over the
fire in a saucepan a heaping table-spoon¬
ful of flour and two of butter, stir them
until they are smooth, then gradually
stir in enough of the chicken broth to
make a sauce of the proper consistency;
let it boil once, and season it palatably
with salt and pepper; when the sauce is
ready rub tiro heaping table-spoonfuls
of butter into the flour prepared as
direoted above, and then quickly mix
with it enough of the chicken broth or
of water to form a dough stiff enough to
roll out about quarter of an inch thick,
and use it for lining the buttered pot;
after the pot is lined put in the chicken,
together with enough of the sauce to
moisten it, reserving the rest to serve
with the pot-pie; wet the upper edges
of the crust and fit them with a cover of
the pastry, taking care that every part
is closed securely. Butter the lid and
place it on the pot; put the pot into a
hot oven, and bake the pot-pie until the
crust is delicately browned. - This can
be ascertained by inserting a fork be¬
tween the side of the pot and the crust;
03 soon as the crust is done serve the
pot-pie on a deep platter, taking it out
of the pot as entire as possible.
e
__
A dude returned from college to his
parents’ city apartments. As he war
undressing to go to bed at night he no¬
ticed a handsome motto on the wall,
“God bless our flat,” and it
him all night so that he oould
sleep.
THE STORY OF A SOLDIER
HOW he was treated while
HERVINU HIS COUNTRY.
Taken Prisoner, lie Makes a List ot Pris¬
oners and is Punished lor It.
A correspondent in the Graphic l de¬
scribing the services of Clara Barton,
alludes to her work in 'numbering the
graves of the Union dead at Anderson
ville, and also to a young soldier who
assisted. Our correspondent does not
recall tho name and speaks of him as a
Connecticut soldier. An interesting
story is connected with this mention.
The young man was a Vermonter, by
name Dorrance Atwater, now United
States Consul at Tahiti. Mr. Atwater
•vas a drug clerk when he entered the
Union Army. He was captured at Win¬
chester, Va., in i8G3, and sent to Ander
sonville. There ho was placed in the
drug room of the hospital. On the day
of his capture be had received news of
lus father’s death. Feeling keenly in
this sorrow the anxiety of his mother,
who Flight not know of her son’s fate,
ho was led to conceive the idea of pre¬
serving in some way a copy of the death
roll, to the making of which ire was de¬
tailed. At daily risk of his life he made
this copy, concealing the coarse brown
sheets whereon it was written about his
person. Thirteen thousand names, with
regiments, etc., were thus obtained.
Atwater desired to publish them so that
the families might at least know of their
members’ fate. When exchanged he
was also mustered out. Arrived in
Washington, he desired the government
to have all the benefit of his work, but
he also wished to publish it. He was
induced to re-enlist in the general ser¬
vice as a clerk, with the understanding,
as he believed, that when copies were
made liis originals should be returned.
His work was of great pecuniary value,
ns it peifected records and enabled tho
government to properly settle claims,
etc. Mr. Atwater found that the official
mind (and that being military also, it
was more than oommonly overbearing
•nSfii abogant) repudiated the agreement
and declared that the proposed publica¬
tion would be injurious. The government
copy was made. Miss Barton, who had,
in the Sanitary Commission Service, or¬
ganized a bureau for tracing missing
soldiers, was requested by Mr. Stanton
to go to Andersonville with a quarter¬
master and esoort and assist in marking
the graves of the dead. Mr. Atwater
was also sent, having charge of his orig¬
inal rolls. The work was done. Mr.
Atwater believed these rolls wero his
property, and in some way conveyed
them to tho New York Tribune office
for publication. On his return to Wash¬
ington he was arrested at the instigation
of an officer named Breck, tried by
court-martial, and sentenced as a thief'
to one year’s imprisonment at hard
labor in the Albany Penitentiary. Great
indignities were heaped npon him.
Wirz’s trial was in progress and Atwater
was mobbed on the streets while passing
under guard, the returned soldiers being
told that he was trying to save the Ati
dorsonville keeper. He went to prison
and served six months of his sentence,
while Miss Barton kept up a constant
struggle in his behalf. She got a reso¬
lution of investigation before Congress,
and then the Judge Advocate-General
reviewed the sentence, declaring it to
be illegal, as the larcenous motive was
wanting, the young man having fully
believed that the rolls were his own
property. In the meanwhile the Trib¬
une had published them. Mr. Atwater
was at once released, and soon after ap¬
pointed United States Consul at Zanzi¬
bar, Africa. He has been to the Con¬
sular service ever since.
From His High Estate.
Among the vagrants committee to the
Tombs of New York City was a man
about 63 years of age, of venerable ap¬
pearance, who many years ago occupied
an excellent position in society. He was
nn ex-Judge of the Marine Court (now
City Court).
He occupied a seaton the bench of the
Marine Court during 1818 and 1850. Af¬
ter his retirement he was a candidate for
re-election, but failed of tho nomination.
This disappointment affected his future
life. He became dissipated, and al¬
though he was a good lawyer and conld
have built np a lucrative practice, he
threw away his chances by his habits.
He lost caste in the profession and sank
lower and lower until he beoamo an ob¬
ject of obarity to those who had known
him doting his prosperity. Old lawyers
and judges remembered him and gave
him money for old acquaintance sake.
He has been several times committed to
the workhouse on Blackwell’s Island.
He staggered into the Jefferson Market
Police Court and asked to be committed.
He is a mental and physical wreck from
the effects of drink. Justice O’Reilly
committed him.
VOL. IV. New Series. No. 52.
FORMATION OF BATTLE.
Kllocts ot Ihe line iff SkiriSMS-WH*. JBreccfi-Lond n«
. Ilifles—Using the
Captain Edward Field, of the 4th Ar¬
tillery, read a paper before the Military
Service Institution, entitled “No Foot¬
steps, but Some Glances, Backward.”
It was devoted to a consideration of
changes in formation for battle which
will probably be produced by the use oi
breech-loading rifles. Captain Field
said that the only war in which wo had
really an opportunity to judge of the
effect of the modern breech-loading rifle
was the Russo-Turkish. War, and then
the effect of the Peabody-Martini rifle
was most deadly. The feasibility of
making the skirmish line tho formation
to bo used for a line of battle was care¬
fully and fully considered. *
“The objections were said to be the
difficulty of directing a large body of
men deployed as skirmishers, the diffi¬
culty of rallying them when once thrown
into disorder, and the loss of that stead¬
iness and concert of action with which
men move to battle when elbow touches
elbow and the electric thrill of the con¬
flict passes from man to man. If this
style of fighting is to be employed sole¬
ly, ” said Captain Field, “war would de¬
generate into a barbaric conflict like that
carried on by the Indians of the plains,
or else soldiers would refuse to move with
oq| protection and become like those de¬
generate Roman legions who protected
themselves behind shields of wicker¬
work. As examples of people who fight
independently and those who fight in
ooncert take the Indians,and the ancient
Scandinavians. There never was a more
war-loving people or a people more brave
persqpally than the Indians, but what
are their shonts of conflict and songs of
war compared to the measured clash of
armor and the steady chaut with which
the devastation of tho world moved to
battle?”
In concluding this part of his paper,
Captain Field recommended the em¬
ployment of a lino of men deployed as
skirmishers with a guidon for every
company borne in their rear, these
guidons to have conspicuously displayed
on them the letter of the company, to
servo as rallying points in case of need.
He believed that troops should be moved
on to the field in double columns, and at
the proper moment deployed into line
and precipitated through the curtain of
skirmishers upon the enemy. Captain
Field also believed that when large
bodies of troop3 were brought into
action armies operating on exterior lines
had an advantage over those operating
on interior lines.
Electricity’s Deadly Work. .
A Mexican paper says: A shocking
tragedy occurred on Sunday night in
the Zoealo, where the beautiful concert
pavilion has been erected for the festival
of All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. It
v,-as a case of peculiar interest. A man
known as Pantaleon Estrada, a worker
on guitars, tying a stone to the end of
an ordinary wire, threw it over the
electric wire. Estrada immediately fell
dead in his tracks. The contact of the
two wires killed him. A policeman
standing by and a street car conductor
had much of their clothing burned off,
and wero themselves so seriously in¬
jured that their lives tremble in the bal¬
ance. The electric current affected
others more or les3. The scene succeed
tog the tragedy was demoralizing. For
a moment the dumb terror of seeing
strong men totter and fall, as if struck
by some invisible hand, held the crowd
spellbound. Succeeding the terrorized
apathy came a wild rush for life. For¬
tunately, the exits were plentiful, and
to that was dne the fact that many were
not stamped to death.
John Herbert, of the electric light
company, mounted a ladder, with a silk
handkerchief in hand, to remove the
wire thrown by the unfortunate Estra¬
da. Thq rain was falling heavily at the
time, but he did not notice that the
handkerchief was becoming damp. He
applied it to the wire to remove it, and
received himself a severe shock that
threw him from the ladder. Falling to
the stone pavement, his head was ent
open. He will recover. ‘The police be¬
lieve that Estrada represents a gang of
pickpockets and thieves; that his object
in throwing the wire was to extinguish the
electric lights and give his pals a chance
to operate. Whether that was so or not
is not known, for he who could have
told has had his lips burned to silenoe.
A Veteran.— An old lady has lately
died at Benares who was in many re¬
spects one of the most remarkable per¬
sonages in Northern India. She was the
wife of a General in the Bengal
and was in her ninety-seventh year. She
was married at fifteen, had eighteen
children, eighty grandchildren, seventy
three great-grandchildren and five great
great-grand children. She had
been out of India a single day.
A BATCH OF GOOD THINGS
FOUND FLOATING IN THE HUMOKOU
COLUMNS OF THE PRESS.
In His Own Interest—A Christmas Contri¬
bution—A Foolish Question—Full ot Do
ccil—In a Quiet Way—Ho Would Ue an
Owl, Etc., Etc.
IN HIS OWN INTEREST.
"If you do not at once remit the $100
yon owe our firm,” wrote a dun tiro
other day to a delinquent doctor, “we
shall be obliged to put the bill into the
hands of a lawyer.”
“My dear sir,” replied tho doctor ur¬
banely by the next post, “if yon are
happily acquainted wifi; a lawyer who is
able to collect $100 from me I beg you
to send him to me at onoe, for I shall
be glad to employ him in my own in
‘torest.— Chicago Tribune.”
HE WOULD BE AN OWL.
“I wish I was an owl,” said the young
lawyer as he gently felt the dimensions
of her alligator belt.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because then I could stay up aF>
night, you know, dear,” he replied.
“What would you want to do such a
a ridiculous thing as that for?” she tit¬
tered.
“To wit:—To woo 1” — Pittaburcf
Chronicle.
ALL IN A QUIET WAY.
“I wonder the English allow them¬
selves to bo governed by a woman,”
said a citizen the other day.
“Why not ?” said another. “America
is governed by women.”
“Governed by women? How do you
make that cut ?”
“Why, don’t yon see, this is a govern¬
ment cf the people.”
“Yes; but the women have no hand
in i! The country is governed by the
men.”
“Certainly; and tho men are governed
by tho women.”— Boston Courier.
rCLL OF DECEIT.
“The world is full of deceit,” said old
Mr. Squaggs, “and wimmin is mostly at
the bottom of it.”
“I know it,” said old-Mrs. Squaggs:;
“it is after a man gets a wife that he be¬
gins to practice deceit. If he hadn't a
wife ho wouldn’t need to lie so much
about where he spends his evenings.
You are perfectly right. It’s the women
that the deceit. ”
cause
Old Mr. Squaggs became very thought¬
ful, —Boston Gazette.
SHE DIDN'T OARE TO REMEMBER.
“Miss Jonkins, permit me to intro¬
duce Mr. Smith.”
Miss Jonkins is a lady whose alabaster
brow has begun to fade, and whose eyes
have grown dim in vain looking out for
a husband.
“Delighted, Mr. Smith.”
“Why, Miss Julia, what a pleasant
surprise. I am sure you must remem¬
ber me. It is so delightful to recall
pleasant moments. I well remember
our first meeting. We danoed together
at a ball at Mrs. Jones’s in ’56. Don’t
you remember?”
But she didn’t, and he wondered all
night why she was so cold and distant.
_ San Francisco Chronicle.
A FOOLISH QUESTION.
“Lend me your ear a minute,” re¬
marked Mis. Brown to her husband the
other evening.
“Will you give it back to me ?” ho in¬
quired with mock anxiety.
“Of course I will, you idiot 1 Do you
suppose I wan *- to start a tannery ?
She got the ear.— Graphic.
SOME OF US KNOW HIM.
A well-dressed young man was seen to
stare at a woman impudently, hail a
street-oar imperiously, pay his fare con¬
descendingly, seat himself fashionably
and expectorate furiously.
“Who is that distinguished gentle¬
man ?” whispered an awe-struck passif
ger to the conductor.
And the conductor replied; “He s
the janitor of a West Side flat.”— Mer¬
chant Traveller.
HE WAS JUST LIKE OTHER MEN.
They were coming out of a dime
museum.
“I don’t believe that wild man of
Borneo is a wild man at all,” she whis¬
pered.
“Why not?” he asked.
“HoY civilized just like other r'en.”
“What makes you think so ?”
“Didn’t you see the manager pay /' in
a lot of moqey ?”
“Yes; a $20 bill and a lot of small
bills.”
“Well, didn't you notice how oarofnl
the wild man was to fold the twenty
j outside ?”— Chicago Hews,
A Butter.— The plea of a Nashville
negro, convicted of butting an enemy
almost fatally, was that in infancy he
had been fed on milk from a notoriously
belligerent goat. Tho Jndge said he
conld not regard that fact os an extenua
tiou.
