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A MUSSEL SHELL. . ST CELIA THAXTEB. Why ait thou colored like the evening; ahy Sorrowing for (unset 7 Lovely dost thou lie, Bend by the washing of the eager brine, At the snow’s motiomeis and wmd-oarved line. Cold stretch the snows, cold throng the waver, the wind Stings sharp.—an icy fire, a touch unkind,— , And sighs as if with passion of regret The while I mark thy tints with violet. 0 beauty strange 1 O shape of perfect grace, Whereon the iovriy waves of color truce it- 1 .' ...I!v'tj of me years that passed mv by, And touched thee with the pathos of the sky! The sea shall crush thee, yea: the ponderous wave Up the loose beach shall grind, and scoop thy grave, Thou thought of God l What morn than tbou ami? Both transient as the sad wlhd’s passing sigh. Donn Piatt’s Observations. Donn Piatt writes to the Washington Capital the following * ‘editorial notes at sea We looked calmly upon the tearful leave-taking going on all about us. How frantically wives threw tbemf elves into the arms of fend husbands and wet their shirt-bosoms with the salt water of onr life’s sea. Said one, between sobs, “It was so eru-oru-el of you not to let me take Ned. Iknow-ow-ow he’ll be neglected and snf suf suffer. Ned, pet name for a child we thought, how hard to have the mother separated from the darling of her heart. Bnt the husband, his eyes wet with tears, as sured her that Ned should not be negleeted. He would see to Ned him self. “And out his meat and make his bed ?” sobbed she. “Yes, darling." “And bathe him in bran and warm water and comb and cu-ou-curl his tail?’’ Yes, there was no mistaking' it, Neddy was a little dog, a wretched poodle or blaok and tan, that was drawing from the depth these burning tears. . . . We have aboard two celebrities— Clara Morris and Eate Field. Both of our celebrities were carried below, and up to the present writing neither has put in an appearance, either on deok or at table. The sea is no respecter of persons, and genius goes under dtok howling same as the stupidest land lubber. The trembling ooean would fetoh the most dignified. Think of the greatest in that line, old George, the lather of his country, on shipboard, withhiB immortal lips blue and his immortal countenance ashy white; his patriotic legs stretched apart, and his patriots stomaoh throwing up its patriotic contents. A fit of seasickness, it is said,, saved England an invasion. The great Napoleon had made all his preparations to cross the channel in force, when the whim seized him to take a little ran out for observation. He had been to sea before, and believed he possessed sea legs, but the ohannel tanght him a lesson. The great captain threw up his boots, and returning to land swore that for all England he would not again undergo suoh an attaok. In behalf of our two celebrities we had floral demonstrations and a salute. No end of boqueta were brought aboard with oards attached, while even Will Winter, the mildest-mannered man who ever sonttled a theatrical oraft or cut an artistio throat, held out his little hand and Bpoke with a voice that bubbled up through tears. As for the salute given Clara Morris by Jarrett & Palmer from the Plymouth Book, it sounded wonder fully like an old-fashioned, brass-mount ed horse-pistol—for suoh is the kingdom of God—but it was a salute all the same, and everybody waved and the colors dipped as if it had oome from a forty- two pounder smoothbore, welcoming in the fourth o' July at or near the centen nial. ‘ While scratching away on deek in a sheltered nook on “ Smith’s adjustable table or evaiw man his own writing desk," who siioum come creeping up the gangway stairs but Kate Field, our brilliant contributor to the Tribune. This slender maiden, with her rioh ohestnut- colored hair tumbling about her teraceful shoulders, was blue about the ups, while her faoe had precisely the tiut of the stone purchased by Mal let—the mighty Mallet—with which to build the Chicago custom house. Miss Eate failed as Peg Woffington, bnt had she tried “Lost at Sea," or appeared as the seaside heroine in “ Harold Fitz KUlene: or, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main,” her present get-up og to be sympathetic. “I don’t feel like the morning star, but shoo fly, don’t bother me.” “ Do you apply that to the seasickness or to the questioner” “Tb both,” responded the seasick Eate, sinking into a steamer chair marked “Stone, N. Y.” Nothing tries one more than a sea voyage, and it is no disparagement of man or woman to say after suoh trial that he or she was not precisely the sort of parson nno would rvrnpnfc nr hnng fn mteb in iteavcu; meaning that such seafaring individual would mar the har mony of the oelestial harpists, and there by greatly depreciato that happiness of our Hebrew home which consists in walking about streets paved with pre cious stones, carrying gold harps in onr hand and singing Old Hundred forever. We make all allowance then, for this brilliant journalist, whoso far has been just tick enough to be miser able, and gives one the business end of her toague when accosted. ... We had a dinner with the- everlasting toasts, noted for a handsome speech from the captain, a thoroughbred sea man, who, daring the fogs and while we were in the ice region, never left the deck. The toasts were commonplace and speeches a bore. Oar real amuse ment came off in the evening, when, with the discovered music, Miss Eate Field presided at the piano and quite captured the ship by her exquisite music. We were quite taken aback bv the parity, strength, cultivation, ana pathos of her voice; and we marvelled mneh that if Eate Field would leave journalism, where she has been so suc cessful, why with that remarkable voice of hers she did not try opera. By the bye, as the seasickness disappears Miss Eate exhibits her better Bide, and will leave the ship with the kindest feelings from all for the part she has played in making a rather dull voyage agreeable. After all, in the straggle a woman must make who enters upon the paths to fame and wealth held sacred to men alone, there’s so mneh that is mean un- jnst in her treatment that to retain a Bweetnessand patience of spirit is really marvelous. Sandwich Islanders in the Surf. A late number of Appletons* in a sketch entitled .“A Tropical Paradise " gives a lively description of surf bath ing at the Sandwich islands. It is de scribed as being a most exciting and interesting pastime, and needing in a heavy sea immense nerve and *kill. The surf-board is a narrow plank from six to nine feet in length. Legions of forms, moulded with the lithe and sin uous beauty of olassio bronzes, are seen sporting in the waves like bom denizens of the foam. A party of forty or fifty with their surf-sliding boards come out from the dusky throng, and with muoh laughing obatter prepare for the fasci nating game of riding astride the breakers. Wading ont from rocks on whioh the sea is breaking, the islanders push their boards before them and swim out to the first line of breakers. Suddenly they dive down ont of sight, and nothing more is teen of them till their black heads bob up from the smooth seas like oorks, half a mile from shore. Then the fan commences. Watching for a very high roller, they leap on from behind, lying face down wards on their surf-boards. As the waveBpeeds on, and its bottom touches ground, the top carls into a gigantic comber. The swimmers pose themselves on the highest edge by dextrous move ment of hand and foot, keeping them selves on the top of the earl and always seeming to slide down the foaming hillook. So they come on majestioally just ahead of the breaker, borne shore ward by its mighty impulse at the rate of forty miles an hour, yet seeming to have a volition of their own, for the more daring riders kneel and even stand on their surf-boards, waving their arms and uttering exultant cries. Always on the verge of enguliment by the fierce breaker, whose white crest rices above them, just as one expects to see them dashed to pieces on the rooku they quietly disappear and emerge again ont at sea, ready for another perilous race on their foaming coursers. The great art seems to be in mounting the breaker at just the right time, and to keeo ex actly on its end. The leading athletes are always vociferously cheered by the spectators, and the presence of the elite rarely fails to stimulate the swim mers to their utmost exertions. Even the maidens and old men often join in this national amusement. The Famous Bone-Setter. Writing from Oonegliano, Italy, Charles Warren Stoddard says: I have met one of the most celebrated women of Italy, Begins del Oin,%hose marvelous successes in the setting of dislocations of long standing have made her famous even beyond the sea. You can read of her in the standard works on surgery. This uncultured woman, born with an instinctive knowledge of anatomy, lives 111 ct uHLumwmw Ml/UUb v if vi i ij iliiiUo distant. She is sought by people from all parts of the world, and,' though she sometimes attempts to straighten limbs that have been distorted from birth and to correct the blunders of unskillful professionals, her specialty is the set ting of hip dislocations, and I be lieve in this line she is without a living rival. I had been recommended to visit Kegina, as she is familiarly called in this neighborhood, to see if she might not be able to regulate on arm that has troubled me somewhat since an accident I met with a year ago near Borne. The marvelous storieB I had heard of her skill, the flattering tributes paid to her character by people of all professions, nationalities, and creeds, encouraged me to believe that my salvation rested in her hands, and I sought her this morning with my heart in my throat and my arm in a state of suspense. I went on alone to the villa of Begina, with its broad, cream-colored walls shining brightly on the hillside. A maid held the door open as I ap proached the villa, and I was at once ushered into a small drawing room tastefully famished. A portrait of Pope Pius IX. hangs conspicuously on one wall; a life-size photograph of .Begina is on tho. opposite side of the room; a smaller photograph of the famous lady stood on the etagero in an elaborate frame, while a third was set in the oover of a large volume which ornamented the centre-table. This book, presented by the city of Trieste to Begina when she removed to her present villa, contains fonr thousand autographs of the best known eitizens of that place. There was also a large album, containing the photographs of for deformities of varions kinds by that lady whom I had oome to see. While I was looking at this album she entered —a very plain ’woman of forty or more; short, stout, untidily dressed. The lower hooks of her waist were bursted, and there was nothing attractive in her personal appear ance. Two of her front teeth were gone, her hair was rolled into a small wad at the top of her haad, long gold eardrops dangled upon her shoulders, and about her neck she wore a massive gold chain. We proceeded at once to business. She stripped my arm to the shoulder, touched it lightly here aud there with a touch that was exceed ingly agreeable, Her examination of my case was so slight, the questions she asked so few, yet her comprehension of my condition so complete, that I strongly suspected the lady of being a clairvoyant. She lays no elaim to any snoh gift; was born with the genius for bone-setting, which she is continually exercising, uses the simplest possible remedies, and in all eases performs her operations without giving any pain whatever. I had proof enough of her marvelous skill. In the hall I saw a heap of crutches, braces and straps, iron stilts, and ether horrible aids suoh as eripples are forced to 6eek. These were left at the villa by sufferers who had found complete relief under her roof, and many of them bore touch ing inscriptions in token of gratitude and affeotion and as voluntary testimo nials to her skill. The place looked like the shrine of some saint with its multi tude of votive offerings. There was one steel shoo with a sole at least a foot in thickness. Knowing me to be an Ameri can, she called my attention to the in scription on it. I found that a gentle man of New York city had left it. certi fying that he had been “ cured of a dis location of the hip of seventeen years’ standing, instantly and without pain.” It is her custom to ask no fee for her services. You pay according to your means. Those who deBire it, and for whom it is necessary, lodge in the house and receive her constant attention. She says at once whether she will or not at tempt a cure. The good woman, after muon persuasion, consented to give me her autograph. My conscience smoted me for urging her when I saw the great beads of sweat starting out on her fore head as she bowed over my pocket al bum and wrestled with her pen. Her signature is as unhandsome as possible, and under the circumstances I don’t wonder that she has never attempted to write anything else. When it was time for me to leave her I hated to go; her atmosphere is wholesome and strength ening ; her home beautiful aud full of peace. The Home of Thomas Jefferson. Monticello, the once beaurifnl home of J* fferson, is situated on the toD of a mountain n it)W mites from Charlottes ville,'and commands the most extensive view I have ever seen from a private house—on one side one hundred and fifty mileo of the Bind Ridge, on the other a landscape so broad and far- stretching that the eye can scarcely fake it in. The old mansion is large, with wings, piazza, dome and some singular half-underground passages and offices on each side. It is empty and deserted now, save by squatters, who “show the house for a quarter.” Nothing is left in the poor, lonely mansion save a mirror, the* top of the horse-chair or gig in which Jefferson drove around the grounds during the last years of his life, the old antique plaster moldings over the doors, and the large square clock in the hall whose balls swung down and marked the days of the week set in panels in the wall. There is a light ladder in the hall whioh Jefferson made with his own bunds, and used for the purpose of winding this clock, which is placed high up over the front door, with a dial on the ontside of the house as well as within. The bed rooms are all made with recesses in the old French style, where the frame of the bed is built into the wall and forms part of the woodwork of the house. To Monticello, during the owner’s life time, came distinguished visitors from all lands, among them Lafayette. Jefferson was then old and infirm, un able to walk, but he was driven to the edge of the plateau where the road be gins to descend, and there he waited for Lafayette’s carriage, which was coming up the mountain. A number of people had assembled to witness the meeting. The two old men were as sisted from their carriages and went to meet each other. With the single word, “Jefferson!” “Lafayette !” they clasped hands, and all saw the tears in their eyes. The view from Monticello resembles 'in many respects that from Lookout Mountain. A short distance below the house is the burial ground; here the author of the Declaration of Independ ence lies at rest, surrounded by his family. But the gates have been broken down, the horizontal slabs over the graves of his wife and daughter are gone, and the small obelisk to Jefferson himself is so defaced and broken that it is but a shapeless block, where even the name can no longer be traced. Originally the inscription was as fol lows: “Here lies bnried Thomas Jefferson, Author of the Declaration of Independence, of the 1 Statute of Vir ginia for religious freedom, and father of the university of Virginia.” The family burial-ground had its origin ip a boyish promise. Jefferson and his friend Dabney Oarr, who afterward married Jefferson’s sister, were in the habit as boys of climbing up a particu lar tree on the side hill, and sitting there together for hours; they agreed to be bnried nnder that tree, and ex changed a promise that in ease of death the survivor should carry out the wish. While Jefferson was in France, Dabney Garr died, but on his return, finding that his friend had been interred in an other place, he ordered the body ex humed, and buried it nnder the hillside tree, near whioh his own tomb also was afterward made. In these centennial days, would it not be well for the nation to put in order this little mountain burial-place of Thomas Jefferson?— Correspondence Cleveland Herald, Hadn’t Time.—A citizen of Vicks burg who wanted a lew hours’ work done abont his yard the other day, ac costed a colored man inquired if he would like the job. “ I’d like to do it, bnt I haven’t time,” was the answer. “ Why, you don’t seem to be doing anything.” “ I don’t, eh ! Well, now, I gwine a a fishin’ to-day. To-morrow I’ze gwine over de river. Next day I’zs gwine a huntin.’ Next day I’ze got to get my bntes fixed. Next day I’ze gwine to mend de table, and the Lawd only knows how I’ze gwine to get frew de week onloss I hire a man to help me.”— Vicks burg Herald,