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. *. mm N(BTH G! f:.. - GIA TIMES. *!»> C. N. KING, I i-mprtelor 8. B. CARTER, jf Lift). One# »thronged thoroughfare that wound afar By shining streams, and waving fields and And festal cities and sweet solitudes, All whither, onward to the utmost star: Now a blind alley, lurking by the shore Of stagnant ditches, walled with reeking * crags, ' ■<: \ Where one old heavy-hearted vagrant lags, Footsore, at nightfall limping to Death’s * <loor. —[W. D. Howells, In Harper’s Magazine. MRS. CROLY’S BURGLAR. -— . 4* v . Elijah Croly, my husband, was owner and captain of a coasting ves¬ sel, doing a good trade; aud We occu¬ pied an old-fashioned and somewhat dreary iionso at Stepney. Elijah liked the place more than I did, and it was on his account that wo stayed there so long. I thought it could make very little difference to him where we lived, for he was at home only two or three weeks out of every ten. I was often alone two months at a time; aiid lone¬ ly enough it was sometimes. “Get some one whom you Jibe to stay with you, my dear,” the captain said, when I told him one day how un* pleasant I felt to be alone so much. “Get any one you please, and before long I hope I shall be able to stay at home with you myself.” I took his advice, and after some in¬ quiry I found a woman who I thought would suit me. Her name was Emily Sands, aud she was a pleasant-faced woman of about forty. She told mo that she bad been left a widow, with no means, and had since earned her living by needlework; and although I had intended that the woman who ■ came every morning to do my house¬ work should still come, I found Emily so willing that I soon discontinued the services of the other. She was so amiable and so vivacious, that I was satisfied that I had douo the best that I could in tho matter. The captain remained at .home this time barely two weeks. On the morn¬ ing that he left to take his vessel for another trip, just after he had taken up his hat to go, lie called me into the chamber and shut tbe door. “Hero is something, Fanny,” he said, “that I want you to keep safely for me till I comeback.” And be took a paper package from his breast pocket as lie spoke. ‘ *Thero arc ten fifty dollar bills in it—$2500 in all. 1 will lock it up here in this bureau drawer and givo yofi the key.” And ho did so. “No one would think of coming here for money.” “Do you think yon had better leave it here, Elijah?” I asked. “Why not put it in the bank?” “I meant to; but I shall not have time. The money was only paid me last night. But no matter, the money will be safe where it is, and there will be no danger about it; or if you think so, you may deposit it yourself.’* The evenings were rather long, and Emily and I sat together in the dining¬ room after the table was cleared, she reading aloud aud I listening, as was our custom. When the clock struck 10 she laid down her book and 1 took my lamp, aud bidding her good night Went up to my room. My chamber occupied the whole front of tho second story, aud Emily had a back room upon the samo floor. A bell-wire ran from my room to hers, so that I could summon her at pleasure. I placed the lamp upon the bureau, shaded it, and returned and locked the door. Then I drew my easy chair to the middle of the room, put on my slippers aud sat down for a few min¬ utes before retiring. And immedi¬ ately I became vexed at myself to find that I was looking at the drawer that held the money, and that I was feeling in my pocket to see that the key was safe. I felt no alarm; I had almost cured myself of my uneasiness; bat it seemed as if that money and the danger ol its custody would obtrude upon me. In the impatience of the moment I turned my chair half round and looked towards the opposite wall. The shade that I placed over the lamp confined its rays within a small circle, beyond which the bed, tiie furniture, the car¬ pet and the wait paper were obscure. In tiie corner, to the right of the door, was an autique, high-backed chair, a favorite piece of fnrnitnre. As I turned my own chair from the bureau my eyes rested on this object; SPRING PLACE, GA.. THURSDAY. APRIL SO, 1891. and f saw by the same glance that a human figure was sitting in it. There I was, locked up in a room with a ruffian, waiting, trembling and expecting to hear him speak, or to be¬ come the object of tome violence. ‘ For although, as I have said, I could not distinguish whether it was man or woman, I did not doubt that it was tho former and one of the most des¬ perate of his kind. And presently, as my eyes fell to the floor, I saw a great pair of boots thrust out upon the car¬ pet within the radius of the light. I do not know how long we sat there in the semi-darkness of the room, facing each other, but motionless and silent; it might hare been three minutes or thirty. The thought of alarming Emily suddenly occurred to me, aud I reached out for the bell cord. I should have boen within easy reach of the spot where I sat; but my hand failed to find it. A low chuckle came from the occu¬ pant of tho old chair. “That was a clever thought of you, missus,” came forth in a deep, rough voice, and in a tone of easy insolence. “Clever thought, marm; but bless your simple soul, do you think I was argoing to leave that ’ere cord there for you to make a noise with? Not by no means. It’s well to be careful when you’re in this kind of business, marm; and so when you left mo alone here before dark—I then being under the bed, you see—I crawled out and took a survey of the place.” My strength was returning. I be¬ came reassured as I saw that the man intended no violence to myself. “What do you waut?” I asked. He chuckled again, and replied.* “Now, that’s good; you’re a business woman, marm. You come right to the point without any nonsense. I’m going to tell you what I want” He rose from the chair as he spoke aud crossed the room to the bureau, passing so close to me that his boots brushed the skirt of my dress. I shuddered and drew my chair bark. I could not help betraying my fear. “Be quiet, marm,” he said, “i don’t mean to hurt you, if I can help it. Keep still and I won’t. Let’s have a look at each other.” “You don't know me,” he re¬ marked, iu an ordinary tone. “No, of course not; it’s best for you that you shouldn't. I thought at first there was something familiar in your face; but I fancy I wa3 mistaken. Well, to business, marm!” And he assumed a sharp tone and looked carefully at the bureau. “I’ve got a pistol here, missus” — and he slapped his pocket; “but you’re too sen¬ sible a woman, I take it, to make me use it on you. I want that money. There’s twenty-five hundred dollars of it iu this drawer. You have tho key—give it to me!” I handed it to him without a word. “I’ll leave you no\y in a minute, missus,” he said, rapidly inserting the key, turning it, aud opening the drawer, “with many thanks for your good behavior. Is this it?” He took out the package and held it U * > ’ “That is the money,” I said. He had thrust the package into his pocket and was about to close the drawer, when his eye was caught by something within it. He started, thrust his hand into the drawer, aud taking out an object that I was well ac¬ quainted with, he bent over and scru¬ tinized it,holding it closer to the lamp. How 1 did wish that I could see the expression of his face at that moment! Ho held in his hand an ivory minia¬ ture of my husband’s face, a faithful picture made by an artist years before, at my request. “Whose face is this?” the robber demanded, iu a voice that trembled with eagerness. “My husband's,” I replied. “Your husband’s? Yes, yes—but his name!” “Elijah Croly.” “Captain Croly?” he demanded in the same tone. “Yes.” “The same who commanded the bark Calvert, that used to run oqt of Liverpool?” I nodded my head. I knew tho ves¬ sel named was the last one th^t my husband had sailed on the ocean be¬ fore he bought life own coaster; in fact, it was the same in which I came to England. “And this is Capt. Croly’s money? —this is his house?—you are his wife?” he asked rapidly, giving ma no time to answer his questions. “Yes, yes—I see it all. Great God! —to think what I was about to do!” He dropped into the nearest chair, apparently faint with emotion; but while I sat in deep surprise at the un¬ expected turn that this affair had taken, he said, “You have no reason to fear now; I will not rob you; I will not harm you. Only don’t makes a noise. Please open the*door, and you will find Jane—your woman, I mean, waiting In the passage.” I obeyed; I did not know what elsd to do. I unlocked and opened the door, and there, to my astonishment, stood Emily Sands, arrayed in her bonnet and shawl, with a bundle in her hand—waiting, 1 havo no doubt, for a signal from within. She started upon seeing me; but the man immedi¬ ately called to her by the name of Jane, telling her to come in. She passed by me as she did so, aud I whispered: “Oh, Emily, how could you betray me?” “I’ve a very few words to say to you, ma’aip,” said tjie man; and the boldness and insolence had goTii out of his voice, leaving it gentle am sorrowful. “Just a few words to asl you to forgive us for what we meant to do, and to toll you what has ijia& pened to change ray mind so suddenly, and why we can’t rob you, as we meant to do.” Ile took the package from his pocket with the words, and tossed it into my lap. “That'money belongs to the man that I love and honor more than any other on earth. I’m a hard customer, ma'am; we live by dark ways aud do ings, Jane and I; and I wouldn’t tun believed when she let me in here t< day and hid me, that I could leave the house without that money; but if I’d known whom it belonged to, I’d sooner have held out my right hand <0 be cut off than come here art have; iratrHr * what I came. I used to be a sailot aud I was with Capt. Croly in the Cal¬ vert. He was the very kindest and best master that ever handled a speak¬ ing-trumpet, and there wasn’t a man aboard the bark but loved him. One night off llalturas all hands were sent aloft to reef in a heavy gale, and when they came down again I was missing. ‘Where is he?’ the captain asked, but none of them knew. They hadn’t noticed me since we all sprang into the shrouds ogether. ‘Overboard, I’m afraid,’ said the mate; and the men seemed fearful that I was lost. The captain hailed me through his speaking-trum¬ pet, and there came back a faint, de¬ spairing ciy, only just heard above the piping of tho storm. Croly never or¬ dered any one elso up; he cast off his coat and threw down liis trumpet, and went aloft before any one could got ahead of him. He found me hanging with one elbow over the foreyard and just about ready to fall from weakness and pain, for my other arm was twist¬ ed out of joint at the elbow by a turn of the ropes. He caught me and hold me there till help came up from below, and then they carried me down. It was Capt. Croly that saved me from a grave in the sea; and I would have robbed him tonight I Forgive us, madam, if you can. Wo will leave you in peace. Come, Janet” The two passed out of my chamber, and from the house, leaving me like one iu a dream. Tho woman I never saw again: and I have little hope that she ever reformed. She was one of the crafty, hypocritical kind, whose hearts are entirely bad, and who generally come to bad ends. Bat I am very hopeful that the man entered npon a new life after this occurrence. He made no promises, not even an intimation that he intended to do so; bat I have faith to think that the heart that could Treasure up a debt of grati¬ tude, and stay tbe execution of a crime, as in this case, must have some¬ thing in.it strong enough to turn it to virtuous ways.—[New York World. Defective Vision. Anxious Mother—As I passed the parlor door last evening, I saw Mr. Nicefeilo’s face, very, very close to yours. Lovely Daughter—Y-e-s, ma, lie’s so near sighted.—[Good News. A proposal.—She (piqued): I don’t know exactly what to make of you, Mr. Bland? He (eager to suggest): Er—Whv not trv a husband? "CALLE FLORIDA.” Sidewalk Life in A Fashionable Street in Buenos Ayres. Nightly Gatherings of Insipid Young Men. The Callo Florida is the most fash jonablo street in Buenos Ayres. Here are the finest shops for the sale of objects of luxury; the swoll jewellers, milliners, dress-makers, tailors, hat tors, shoemakers; the fashionable res¬ taurants, Mercer, Rotisserie,Francaise, Sportsman; and, above all, the crack Conliteria del Aguila. A confiteria, it must be explained, is a shop for the sale of bonbons, confection¬ ery, sweetmeats, and refreshments, and at the samo time a sort of cafo and bar-room, where all kinds of drinks and liqueuro may bo obtain¬ ed ; it is the Argentine equivalent of the French cafe. Shch shops abound in Buenos Ayres; there is hardly a block in tho cit L that l> a8 not its con j fiteria. Tho one iu the Callo Florida 'bearing the name of del Aguila has a [facade of white marble, surmounted by an eagle and two allegorical figures, jaud its windows form recesses along ’the sidewalk capable of accommodating teach half a dozen dandies. The door of tho confiteria can also accom a to a considerable number, and t^ 1080 w ho 110 room at tho Aguila, Struggle along the street aud seek be fhelter in that other door-steps, for it must added the Callo Florida is an ©Id-fashioned narrow Btreot, and that sidewalk will permit only two to walk abreast; hence necessity for the dandies of finding where they can stand without iinpedlng the circulation and incurring wrath of the people. And so here N*o congregate, tho rich young creoles pass their -days gambling at. the Club del Progreso, and the hard worked connter-jumper, the dudo who has dined at the Cafe de Paris, and the dude who has dined at tho tenth-rate Italian “hash mil!;” both are armed with cigarettes and toothpicks, both wear stupendous light-colored cravats and enormous diamond pins, and both aro well dressed and prodi¬ gal of immaculate shirt fronts. They stand and they smoke; they ad¬ dress each other with the word cbe, of universal use throughout the Argen¬ tine in the signification of “man”; they converse in husky or guttural tones, pronouncing tiie words with monotonous precipitation; and when¬ ever a woman passes they look at lior and say: “Hermosa rubia” (Beautiful blonde); “Quo cabecita tan lindal” (What a pretty little head I); “Que boca tan adorable I” (What a lovely mouth!); aud other insipid words. That is all. They stand; they smoko; they make their silly observation*; and at ton o’clock they disperse, and Florida, liko the other streets of Buenos Ayres, re¬ mi empty until midnight, when the people returning from the theatre give it a momentary supplement of animation. There Is a rush for the last horse cars, a clattering of hoofs of Russian trotters, a banging of the doors of elegant coupes, and then onco more all is silent and deserted; the bright polished tramway rails glisten and vanish in the long prospective of tiie dark and narrow streets; and with the moonlight silveriug the blue and white glazed tiles of the church domes and towers, and forming strong contrasts of vheen and shadow amongst the irregular masses of the houses* and shops, Buenos Ayres becomes for the moment clothed in mystery and charm, and resumes that tinge of Orientalism which suggests itself iu the distant views of tho town from the river. Such is sidewalk life in Buenos Ayres, or, as it may be called in Spanish, Bidewalk and candy-shop life—la vida de confiteria y de vereda.—[Harper’s Magazine. How a Convict Poet Saved a Tree.* But life in tjie bush was not al made up of tragedy, or even of misery. To the fioet there was consolation, and almost happiness, in the glorious opep air, amid the grand primeval trees, and tho strange birds and beasts of tiie antipodes. The land about him lay at the world’s threshold. Strange mon¬ sters of prehistoric form still peopled (lie forest, monsters of tho vegetable ss well as of the animal kingdom. VoL XL New Series. NO. 13. One incident will illustrate his love of nature, which, curiously enough* found more frequent expression in his prose tli|n iu his verse, and was still more a part of his life than of his writings. For, while he passionately loved and keenly enjoyed all the de¬ lights of communiou with nature, tis joy and love were personal pleasures. They formod no part of tho sermon which it was his mission to preach. The text of that sermon was Human¬ ity. To that he subordinated evory impulse of mere sentiment. This long preface to a short story is excusable, because the criticism has beou made, aud with justice, that O'Reilly’s poetry is strangely wanting in tho purely de¬ scriptive element. The only long poem to which that criticism least ap¬ plies is his “King of the Vasse,” in which arc many wonderfully strong and beautiful pictures of nature. It happened that tiie road gang witii which he was working, in following the course laid out by tho surveyors, came upon a magnificent tree, a giant among its fellows, tho growth of cen¬ turies, towering aloft to tho sky and spreading enormous arms on every side. Tlio wealth of an empire could not buy this peerless work of nature. The word of an unlettered ruler of a convict gang was potent enough for, its destruction; for it lay right in middle of the surveyed road. The order was given to cut it down. O’Reilly argued and pleaded for its preservation, but in vain. All that he could obtain was a reluctantly granted reprieve, aud appeal to a higher power. He went—this absurd poet in a striped suit—to the commander of the district, and pleaded for the tree. The official was so amused at his astounding au¬ dacity that lie told Ids wife>-.:/ho, being a woman, had a soul above sur¬ veys aud the right of way. She in¬ sisted on visiting the tree, and the re¬ sult of her visit was a phenomenon. The imperial road was turned from its course, and a grand work of nature stands in the West Australian forest as a monument to the convict poet.— [Life of John Boyle O’Reilly. The House’s Symbol of Authority. Tho mace remaius upon its pedestal uutil the House goes into Committee of the Whole. Then it is lowered aud remains lowered till the committee rises. Notwithstanding its prominence and significance, a man might serve six months iu the House of Repre¬ sentatives without noticing it. But let a storm arise; let tiie pulses of the members be quickened with passion aud hot words be uttered; let clinched fists be shaken and members rush toward the main aisle in rage and fury aud the mace will appear. It will be born aloft majestically over the arena iu front of the Speaker’s desk, up the main aisle and down the side aisles, calming the tempest,cooling tiie disputants, calling tho House to its sober self, and causing members to resume their seats. They recognize its significance cs a symbol, and sub¬ mit to tiie authority which it repre¬ sents. It was used for this purpose five times during the Fifty-first Con¬ gress. It was carried around the House twice in the Fiftieth Congress. Runs on a Hero’s Name. “It is very remarkable,” says a St. Louis clergyman, “how many parents are in the habit of naming their chil¬ dren after some popular hero. This is well illustrated in the case of the late Bishop Marvin of St. Louis. -A gentle¬ man in the interior of the state uotio ing the frequency of the name among Methodist children, inserted a request in one of the church papers that the names and address of all persons who had been named after the bishop be sent him. He received abont 1200 answers, and, considering tho numbers who probably saw nothing of the request and those who saw bat paid no attention to it, I have no doubt, from the omissions of which. I havo knoWlcdgo, that between 2000 and 3000 boys in this country are named Marvin.”—[Times-Democrat. The Trichina's Vitality. Experiments recently made in France with a view to discovering the amount of vitality in specimens of trichinae show that, though they be subjected to a temperature of twenty-five degrees below zero for two hoars, they again become as lively as ever on a return cf a normal amount of light and heat. —[St. Louis Republic. , I Will Not Let Thee Go. I wilt not let thee go. End all our month-long love In this? Con it be summed up so. Quite in a single kiss? I will not let thee go. I will not let thee go. If thy words’ breath could scare thy deeds As the soft south can blow And toss tbe feathered seeds. Then might I let thee goy I will not let tbee go, Had not tbe great sun seen, I might; Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false* to light, Then might [ let thee. go. The I will not let thee gh stars that crowd the summer skies Have watched us so below With all their million eyes, I dare not let thee go. I will not let thee go. Have we not chid the changeful moon, Now rising late, and now, Because she set too soon, And shall I let thee go? I will not let thee go. Hava not the young flowers been content Plucked ere their buds could blow, To seal our sacrament? 1 cannot let thee go. I will not let thee go. I hold thoe by too many bands; Thou sayest farewell, and lo I 1 have thee by th« hands, And will not let thee go. —[Robert Bridges. HUMOROUS. IIow to make an army fly—Break its Wings. A nervous affection—A man on tho eve of proposal. A place for everything—The old fashioned garret. The buyer who tries to boat you down Is a price-fighter. Our spare hours are well named; they seem the shortest of the day. The only chance for tho vory fat man as an athlete is oil the all-rouud class. What a wife, who thinks her hus¬ band has told her all, hasn’t been told, is simply appalling. We all respect those who know more than we do; but we don’t wish them to ran our business. Some women wear. their lives out tryiug to look young, but they dot not tiro themselves half so much as they tire other peoplo. The mun who is a long time making up his mind, may arrive at a correct judgment; but it is generally too late to be of any use to him. Quidnuuc—What makes your hair so much grayer than your whiskers? Bulfiuch—Why, my hair is a great deal older thau my whiskers. “Mr. P. Cunions is a bright, breezy fellow, is lie not?” said Hobb, and Dobb replied: “I should think he might be, he is always trying to ‘raise the wind.” She—He is a person of perfect ease aud self-possession, and is thoroughly at home anywhere. He—Yes, he even has the faculty of making you feel a total stranger in your own house. Miss Dogood—My dear little boy, if you want to succeed in life, always take pains with everything you do. Boy—Oh, I do, mum. I took seven this morning with this bean-shooter. Dora—I showed my portrait to tbe Mayor yesterday, and lie said that it didn’t flatter me. Bosom Friend— Ob, but it does, dear, and so did he I (They are noton speaking terms now.) Little Johnny—Say, father, what makes a baby cry every time it wakes up? Pa—Well, from what I know of babies, It cries from vexation to find that it has kept still for a reasonable length of time. Patient (wofully)—Oh, doctor! I’m all twitted up with tbe rheumatism and uenralgia. Ob, do you think, doctor, yon can get all tbe pain out of me? Doctor (kindly)—Well, I will try to get all out of you I can. “I am going to be your hub,” said the young carriage-builder from Bos¬ ton, as they stood before the altar. “Yes," said his blushing bride, who intended always to have the last word, “and I will supply the spokes.” “And I,” wound up tbe clergyman, as he joined their hands, “am the tie-r.” “Five years ago,” began the stranger to Weutman, “I sought that woman to be my wife. I believed her congenial, light-hearted and beautiful. Has our married life been pleasant? No.” “No? Why not?” asked Wentman. “Why not? Because she declined to me.”