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T
ir i were to me to-day.
BV HATTIE E. -S..CKESSY.
What would they say of me
If t were to die to-day.
As they wound the sableshroud
Around my slumber ug clay?
Would they' drop one word of regrit?
Would theie fall one tear
At thought or the troublous days
That I had known white here?
Would they imprint one k.ss
On my lips so shrunken ami cold.
Or my p, or, lifeless form just or ce
In their strong, warm arms enfold?
Would they tell of one kind deed
Ti.at I in kirdness had done,
To make the way more smooth
, For some poor sutiering on. ?
Or would they only talk of my faults,
And make them as glaring as day.
While they carelessly brushed the ocks
From my j ale, thin ftreliead away?
Perhaps those who hate me now,
Would feel sufficient remorse,
To make a wholesome display
Of griefi?) at tl.eir terrible loss.
Let them, twill be all the same’
So my soul is only at peace;
With Jesus I know there is rest,
And from these trials an eternal peace.
Pittsfield, Mass.
DIES IRjE.
OR
Under the Stars and Bars.
By CELESTE II ITtillXS RAKKNDAl.il.
CHAPTER XII.
•Ob, Helen,’ says Eve, laying her bend in my
lap. ‘If I could live over these months when I
was so harsh nnd cold to him. If he could only
know of my love, my contrition, if he eould on
ly know bow I prize those last, sweet moments
I had with him, I could bear it better. O,
Helen, if I did not have to contend with this
bitter regret for the past—’
•Be comforted, my sister,’ Penelope glides in
to the room and kneels beside Eve. ‘Ho knows
thac yen love him; I told him so. I comforted
him with the thought cf it."
Eva bursts into an agony of teats, while Pen
weeps softly.
Barbara comes in. Her eyes are sad with
weeping.
•What new trouble?’ I ask, thinking of John.
'Charlie’s wounded. ‘ 3he sobs.
‘How did yon learn?’ I ask, with a groan for
this D6v misfortune.
‘Maurice Hill’s in the parlor,’ she replies, in
distinctly.
Pen starts up. This is an unexpected visit to
her. She knows too well what it portends.
I go into the parlor where Maurice stands.
He has heard my steps and has thought it Pen,
seeing me be looks disappointeci.
“Eow is John?’ I a3k, stretching out my hand.
•John’s will, but looks badly, 1 he replies.
•Charley Rogers was slightly wounded last
week.”
‘I thought from the way Barbara was crying
that he was half-dead. Where now is Lila?’
‘She is in Richmond, and is very well. That
reminds me; John told me to tell yon that you
had all better go to Richmond to -your friend.
Mss. 8.’
He pausis, then says: ‘Penelope has come
back. I learn from John. I came to see her;
will she see me?’
■Of course she will,’ I return encouragingly.
•Will Hhe consent to marry me at onct?’ eager
ly. ‘Beit is dead, and the little darling has no
one to care for her
‘You are mistaken, Mr. Hill, we care for her
as a sister, and so long as John lives she will
never want a brother's love,’ I say with dig
nity.
He is somewhat crestfallen, but continues;
•Will you not help me plead my cause? Lila
entreated me not to come, she even insinuated
that Penal ’pe loved some one else. I caiinot
believe it; she would never have consented to
become my wife if that had been true. ‘
I can almost hear Pen say, ‘Thank God for the
Yankees, ‘ as plainly as I did on that night.
‘People change their minds in the course of a
year,’ I say, for I am certain what Penelope’s
answer will be.
He looks up quickly from the fire at which he
has b6en staring.
Can I see her?’ he asks, with less eagerness
than before.
I go for Penelope. I find her standing before
a window overlooking the river.
•Mr. Hill wishes to see you, Pen.’
‘Why can't he have staid away,’ she says pet
ulantly. ‘I should think that he would know
by this time that I never intend marrying him!’
‘Penelope, you—’
•Not now, Miss Helen! Let me go down and
tell him that I never did and never will love
him.‘
She goes, and in fifteen minutes she is back.
‘I have told him, and ho is gone. Never ruore
will I be troubled with this affaire d'amour. He
will say no more about it. ‘
March.
The end is very near, I feel. Very near! We
have suffered bitterly, heroically,but our suffer
ing avails nothing.
No moans no groans, no prayers can save us.
‘‘The Niobe of Nations! there she stands.
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe.”
Chii.de Harold.
April 1865.
According to John’s wishes Eve, Pen, and
Mary go to Richmond. Barbara and I remain
at home.
Eve writes:
Mrs. 8. was delighted to see us. Her first
words are:
‘AU goes well with the army. It is reported
that General Lee can keep Grant in check.*
•Is it an official report?’ asks Pen, who likes
everything to be official. .
•I telieve not. Nothing is cfflcial now. The
war department is as silent as the grave.’
The next day, Sunday, we go to church, to St.
Pauls, as President Davis attends there.
We meet many friends, who are glad to see
ns and ask particularly about you and Barbara.
Every one seems in the best of spirits.
We are scarcely seated when the President
comes in Mrs. S. says that he is much broken
since his triumphal inauguration in 1861. I in
voluntarily think of Damocles sword when 1
look at him. We have every reason to be proud
of our ruler. Like all great men he has his
enemies, but it is something like one ot those
fables of onr early day reading.
The services are broken by a messenger com
ing swiftly np the aisle, handing the president
what appeared to be a dispatch He reads it
arises and leaves the chnrcn with a measured
8t people glance at each other wonderingly. A
whisper like an electric shock runs through the
congregation. Mrs. S turns to me. saying husk-
lly -it must be a dispatch from General Lee
saving that Richmond is to be evacuated. Let
ns"go - 1 cannot stand this.‘ . ,
The congregation is hastily dismissed. Meet
ing other friends we hear the omnious whisper.
•Richmond is to be evacuated.’
We are soon seated in our carriage, but is it
impossible to make any progress toward home
nnlf as we overrun excited men, women and
children.
•Sensation!' scoffs Pen. ‘They have been
guarded so well for these four years that the
least thing runs them wild.’
We at last reach home, and station ourselves
at the windows. It is our eager, excited, fright
ened crowd that passes.
A messenger comes from Mr. S. telling Mrs.
S. not to leave home on any aooount. Rich
mond has been given up; but the enemy will
not destroy anything bat Government property,
he thinks.
We know then that ours is a lost cause Pe
nelope utters a groan and goes down upon her
knees.
It is late in the afternoon when the greatest
excitement prevails. Wagons loaded with tranks
and boxes filled with Government papers are
driven rapidly by. The streets present a scene
of the wildest confusion.
The city council commands that everything
that will intoxicate be destroyed. Some strag
gling soldiers accidently get some, and all ap
pearances at order ceased at once.
Late at night the four tobacco warehouses
are set fire to.
The rams in the James River are blown np,
scuttled, burned. The bridges leading to the
city are burned. Every ona seems determined
to help in the destruction of property as much
as possible. Cries of distress, cursing, pray
ing are heard on ail sides. Morning dawns
upon a dismal sceDe, upon a desolated oity.
•The government has fied!' is the universal
cry. Imagine my surprise to behold, when I
tnrn my eyes toward the capitol, the Btars and
stripes floating in the morning breeze.
•Look, Pen! I cried.
She utters one despairing cry, goes down up
on her knees. I see that there is a fierce strug
gle rasing in her heart. She has so loved her
dear ‘Southland,’so longed for its political in
dependence that it is very hard t ► have one in
chains the other in ashes.
My own heart is very sad, for I know only too
well th'e meaning of that triumphal banner, but
I try to comfort Pen. She is so much like my
lost Roy as she raises her while, despairing
face to mine as I bend over her. O, Helen,
there are worse things in this world than
death! I realize this as I recall the lives lost—
his life that was given in vain.
•Onr Eris-iehthoD!‘ Mary says, as we stand by
the window, later, aad see Weilzel’B troops
make their triumphal entrance.
There is music and wild shouts as they reach
the facade of the capitol. The goal is reached!
On the fifteenth, when expectation and de
spair culminated in the certain knowledge of
the final and unconditional surrender of the
Army of Virginia, John and Hr. S. came to us.
As I have before written John was wounded
on the third day at Petersburg. Not danger
ously we hope, but he is very ill from it now,
•We have surrendered Ailie!‘ Mr. S. said, de
spondently, to his wife.
‘Yes, dear, we have heard it,‘ she replies.
‘Dear heart, do not be cast down, * caressingly.
•The Star of the Southern Confedorcy has set,
but we have no cause to feel ashamed or dishon
ored amid our woe. We have striven and suf
fered bravely. Though our banner has beer
furled forever, there waves not one on this
broad face of this earth over a people who have
done so much, fought so well, kept unstained
the escutcheon of honor so thoroughly.
The bitter end hi s come Helen. We return
nm hri/*t-q^>kine ac<vi“ f *,
Mr. Jerome'p face is among the first of the
cavalry who come up our street. The recogni
tion is mutual, for be tows to me as he passes.
Several days later he calls. I am with John
when he is announced.
‘Let him come in here,’John says feebly.
He is shown in. I do not even rise to meet
him.
Your promise, darliDg,’ he says, coming
swiftly over to where I sit near John.
A feeling of strong revulsion conus over me;
I point to John, and say with deliberation:
There lies my brother, wounded perhaps by
your hand, and you can address me so?’
‘Eve,‘ John says, ‘if yon love him do not cast
away your happiness—’
‘Love him!’ I syllable faintly. ‘ John, my coun
try lies crushed and bleeding. I have wept over
so many of my dead I cannot think of love in
this hour—and love to one who wore the blue— 1
Mr. Jerome interrupts me with passionate
words.
I have often wondered. Helen, if I should
waver in the least when this time came. I have
often wondered if I could withstand his elo
quence, for he is eloquent.
He goes at last after I make him comprehend
that 1 cannot and will net listen to his words of
love.
•Is it because of Bert that you send him away,
Eve?’Pen asks.
I cannot answer. Is it, Helen? I only know
that the face of my dead Bert rose up between
me and Mr. Jerome, and would not be put aside.
May.
Eve, Penelope, Maurice and John comes
home. Standing in the doorway I watch them
lift John out and bear him up the walk.
It is the last bitter drop in my cup of sorrow.
•Death, death!’ murmurs the May breeze.
•Death, death!’ roars the river.
I lean forward, blinded by tears, and kiss
John's white forehead. Death is written upon
it. I catch myself wondering if this is really
John, our handsome John.
•JohD, brother, do you know me?’ I ask,
softly.
He opens his eyes, smiles feebly, possesses
himself of my ban,!.
•It is so nice to be at home, Helen.'
•Yes, John, where we can nurse you well.’
He turns restlessly, then says:
‘Where is Barbara?'
•Making her toilet preparatory to seeing
Charlie Rogers.’
•Nothing will ever take away her vanity,’
smiling.
•Nothing.’
•The negroes will be freed, Helen.’
•I suppose so.’
‘We will all be poor.'
‘What matters our poverty now, John? It will
be but in keeping with everything else,’ I say,
bitterly.
•Yes, yes. It is for you and Eve that I care—
you more particularly. Barbara and Eve, in
time, will have no fear of the future. They will
have protectors. But yon, my poor Helen, can
never forget that grave in the church-yard long
enough—’
■Don't let my future distress yon, John,’ I
interrupt, inexpressibly pained by what he
says.
Barbara comes in, and is all tears and caresses.
I am traly thankful when I see Charley Rogers
coming in at the gate.
Each succeeding day John grows worse. He
grows dearer as tbe time approaches for him to
leave us. It seems that I cannot give him np,
cannot let him slip so silently into tbe vast
beyond without endeavoring to detain him.
How hard it is to sit day after day and see loved
ones gradually leaving us, while we are power
less to keep them.
I sit in tbe soft twilight and hold John’s hand.
'Helen, I am nearly there—to that land we
have so often spoken of. I can almost see them
—our loved ones. Eve,’ as Eve bends over him,
‘be kind to Helen. She is more alone than any
I have deeply wronged
AN OLD MAID'S RIDE.
An O’er True Tale.
In the good old antebellum days, a l it*h old maid,
lean, lank, slender and ugly, was visiting the hos
pitable home of a family of elegance and ease in
one of the most beautiful towns of Georgia, “name
less here forevermore.” In this family was a miss
chievous little girl, now grown into womanhood,
and one of the most intellectual and’refined among
the many that adorn the society of our noble, old
State. This little one had a little companion. They
were both fond of the pretty calves that were
browsing in the pastures near the dwelling. One
day, these little teases persuaded Miss C— to visit
the pastures and the little beauties, as they called
them. She finally went. Under the shade of a
beautiful oak lay a nearly grown pet bull, calmly
reposing.
Miss C— got on the fence above and told the lit
tle ones she was going to take a ride. Gently she
put down one foot upon the sleek back of the bull.
He moved not. Encouraged, she put the other
down. Quick as thought the animal sprang to his
feet, dropping Miss C— fairly astride, and at break
neck speed he shot through the open gate into the
main street of the town, with Miss C— clinging to
his neck,her white garments flying like distress sig
nals from a ship’s masthead, and displaying more
than ever did brazen ballet girls.
As the plunging calf passed the gate the lady of
the mansion discovered her friend’s awkward situa
tion. Seizing a bundle of fodder she lit out in full
pursuit, calling, “suke calf !” “suke calf !” “suke
calf ?” but calf would not suke worth a cent. At
every call he would kick up and say “ba !” and run
faster.
The merchants, their clerks and the rabble join
in pursuit and round and round the square go men
and beast raising clouds of dust and shouts of
laughter. Nor could they catch the frightened bull
until he fairly exhausted himself and relieved the
maid from her ridiculous ride.
Mortified, clothing badly wrecked, she beat a
hasty retreat to the house, registering in her iniml
a vow, never to meddle with the cow kind again.
(Conmuniccted.)
PLAGIARISM.
It is no doubt very gratifying to an editor to find
his articles so highly appreciated that his confreres
are willing to adopt them as their own, and become
responsible to the world for their paternity. It is
a high honor, and one not to be despised. It is an
homage that ought not to be rejected or lightly
esteemed. It is proclaiming to the world that the
articles are worthy of publication, and so meritori
ous that there is high honor iu being held as their
reputed author. If this is so in regard to para
graphs and editorials, how much more intensely so
is it iu regard to more extended productions as
stories and romances' Messrs. Editors, I am led to
this reflection by seeing the wholesale capture of
the “Truisms,” and the novelette “Only a Farmer,”
from the pen of Miss Anna C. M. Blackburn, editor
of the Madisonian, by a number of the weekly-
press, and appropriating them as their own. As it
is an admission that they are better than they can
write, it pays a just compliment to one of the most
gifted and industrious writers in the South.
Burns.
of the others. Where is Penelope, darling,’ to
me. ‘Bring her to me. I must thank her for
her kindness to me.
her at times—’
‘Never mind that, John,’ I reply, as I lay my
fever-hot face against his own hand.
•Bring her to me, Eve,’ as Eve leaves the room
he says to me: ‘Bury me near Yalarie, Helen.’
He murmurs Valaire’a name over and over.
Eve does not return and I go in search of her.
I find Peneiope lying prostrate on the bed in
an agony of tears.
*My dear, John wants yoa.’
My own heart is wrung with the fiercest
anguish, bnt its burden is added to as the girl
lifts up her face.
I put my arms about her, and together we go
toward John's room. At the door we panse, for
a man is kneeling beside John, and John is say-
ing:
‘Take care of Eve. Love her, cherish her;
make her forget all tbe past. And Helen, my
poor, desolate Helen, watch over her. I leave
her and Eve to your care. It makes it easier
for me to go knowing that you will be all to
them that I could have been. God bless you,
my boy. May you reach the rich harvest you
have sown.’
There is a slight pause, and John’s voice rings
out clear and sweet as in those other days:
‘Valaire! my wife!’
I go swiftly to his side. SttaaffiT" I kiss his
lips, tbe lest kiss mortal ever takes from them
living.
Ob, John, it is hard to give you np!
"The two-cell’d heart healing, with op* full stroke,
Life.”
—The Princess;
June, 1865.
Jnne roses are blooiring on Valaire’s grave,
and are shedding their pink petals ov9r the new
mound beside it
The soft June breeze bows down the grass
that oovers the graves of those who have left onr
household. Violets nestle over little Eliie, and
di-til their fragrance as if in memoriam.
The evening sun gilds the snowy cross that
marks where Roy rests. Roy, my Roy, only a
few more years of weary waiting—then I shall
be with you. Life's battle will soon be over. I
am waiting patiently for the time when I too
shall oe laid out yonder in the green church
yard where the pigeons are uttering their singu
lar cries.
I walch others as they circle around the bel
fry and fly upward, enviously. Ah, if I could
cn y go toe! The lime will come; until then,
we will wait, Roy, patiently.
I have made my means, I have jhed my tears,
aad it availed me nothing. It has not saved my
happiness, it has not saved my country. Both
are in ruins. But in that final day, that dread
day—Dies Ir-r! Dies Ilia!— I shi^vnave one re
stored. Feeling the truth of these words—
••Nor is it
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost.
But trim cur sails, anil let old bygones be.
While down the streams that float us each anil all
To the issue.”
I made a long and desperate fight for my hap
piness; I have hugged unweariadly my sorrow
to my heart; I have eaten Sodom’s bitter apples
with grim joy. To-day I put the past behind
me, never more to be recalled. Not that I shall
not love my dead; but I shall cease'to mourn
them as dead. I shall take up my burden of
life tc-morrow again, bnt it will not be a burden
of vain, bitter regrets. Though I shall never
sing Garrdeamus igitur, I can be contented and
make others happy.
I may never call vours, John’s, Valarie’s,
mother's, father’s, or EUie's name again, but
believe me, Roy, I shall never forget. When I
stand in the pearl uatewav emir t'ui>»
will be tne urst wbica i shafffjSck tor. Lrtii
then, Roy—!
Bert «ad Eve, Charley and Barbara, were
married this morniDg. Onr desolate condition
emboldened the young men to name an early
day after John's death.
As I write Bert and Eve sit on the stone steps.
I bear him saying, in his deep, mellow voice:
•It was not strange that you thought me ( dead,
darling. It appeared almost certain proof—as
surance doubiy sure. In trying to escape
while croasiug the river I threw eff my coat. In
it was my address and a letter to Penelope. The j ‘I—I—yes—I did,* stammered the culprit,
poor fellow who took possession cf it was after- j trembling in every limb. He saw the weapon,
ward killed. I wrote frtqueutly, but I never J and he thought his time had cotne.
received replies to my letters. I did not in-• ‘Well, well,* said the broad-shouldered, big-
tend surprising you, brt I found you alone and j hearted actor, reaching over the counter, and
dying, and I had no time to warn you that I j patting the poor, frightened fellow gently on
had come. I had always believed, notwith- the top of the head, ‘look here, bubby, you
standing Penelop’s assertions, that my love for must not do so any more.*
you vias only my Fata ilorgatxdff-j.ind I could And he left Door H to the tender mercies
not think yoa would care for my safe return, of bis fellow clerks,
only as a friend. Nay, I expected to come and !
find you Jerome’s wife.’ [
Eve raises her lovely, radiant face, all aglow I
with blushes, and says : I
•Don’t remind me of him, Bert. Forget every
thing that is unpleasant iu the past.’
•1 forget everything save that you are my
wife,’ he replies, fondly. Bending down bis
head until his face is close to hers, Le repeats.
•My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,
Yoked in all exercise of noble end,
And so thro’ those dark gates across the wild
That no man knows.’
He is the same handsome, noble Bert that he
was when he first shouldered a musket and
started off to defend his country; as tender aud
chivalrous, worshipping Eve as in those davs
of old. Care and imprisonment have touched
but slightly his face, and few would suspect
that he has been unusually trie! for one so
young.
As Barbara and Charley come toward them
Eve nestles her head against Bert’s broad shoul
der, looks lovingly up into his fosd> face, and
murmurs :
■•I smiled to think God's greatness
Flowed around our incompleteness,—
Round our restlessness, His last.”
At the far end of the verandah, Kessed in the
deepest black, Penelope stands ifitne slanting
rays of the sun as he grows ‘broader toward his
death.' She leans her head against one of the
grey stone pillars, and listens silently to the
fugue that the pines and oaks are playing.
Above the roar of the river, above the music of
the breeze in the trees, above the toft murmur
ofEve and Bert's songs and ihe common place
tones of Barbara and Chur.ay sLe hears the shoals
of the negroes and Jake’s banjo, Hr they have
been told that they are free. She looks silently
away at the purpling hills and crinson clouds
for a moment, then eomes swiftly award me.
The faint breeze flows back her dark hair,
and caresses softly her sad, sweet face. Will
the shadow never be lifted from her face? Will
the happy light never dawn again in those
beantifnl, dark eyes?
As she passes Bert and Eve she (tops to kiss
his brow and to caress his brown hair that
waves over his temples.
Great compassion looks out hig dark eyes as
he watches her as she comes toward me. Her
little brown hand rests upon my shoulder, her
soft, sad eyes are fixed upon the church yard
where the white tombs gleam in the last rays
of the setting snn, her voice, inexpressibly
mournful, repeats:
"Oh beloved voices, upon which
Ours passionately call, because ere long
Ye berak off in the middle of that song
We sang together softly, to enrich
The poor world with the sense of lore, ind nitch
The heart out of things evil ! I am strong
Knowing ye are lost for aye among
The hilis with last year’s thrush. God keeps a wiche.
Iu heaven to hold our idols ; and albeit
He brake them to our faces, and denied
That ou- close kisses should impair their white,
I kuow we shall behold them riased, complete;
Tne dust swept from their beauty, gloritcd,
New Ucmnons singing iu the great God-ligtt.”
it autl -Humor.
“Don't Do So Any More,”
A charming actress who plays light parts in
one of our theatres, who is also an excellent
wife and mother, has been annoyed by the over
whelming attentions of a young down town jew
eler. At last bis notes and bequets b<coming
too frequent, she mentioned the fact to her hus
band, who immediately fired up, and threaten
ed to punish the infatuated youth. A power
ful athlete, he armed himself with a cane of the
‘genus* bludgeon, aad left his hotel the next
PV'rrGpg witi the e.vewe-i intention of giving
his rivat a iew mows’and teaching him to miml
his own bnsiness. * Eutering the shop where he
was employed, he etrode hastily through and
inquired if there was a young man there named
H .
‘There is.* said the owner of the establish
ment; ‘he is at the window, tinkering watches.
Mr. H , you are wanted,*
As the little male flirt arose and confronted
the large man, he trembled and turned pale.
•Did you send my wife tuesa notes?* said he,
producing some'of the offending billet doux.
I—I—yes—I
Henry Asking a Blessing,
Henry had never heard his father pray. A
Christian friend while visiting the house was in
vited to conduct family prayers, and also to ask
a blessing at the table Henry wished his fath
er would do so every day.
One evening only Henry and his little broth
er and his aged grandmother sat at the table,
the rest of the family taking tea with a neigh
bor.
•Grandmother,' said Henry, ‘may I ask a
blessing ?‘
‘Yes,• she replied, her eyes filling with tears.
•0!i, God, bless our bread and milk! Make
us good children. Bless pa, ma, and grandma.
Amen !’ said Henry. He thought no more about
it; but dear grandma told bis father when he
came home. The father’s heart was touched by
the example, and he resolved to follow it and
have a prajerless home no longer.
Sensation for a Newspaper.
•I have come to give you some particulars
about a scandal that, I think, will make a tre
mendous row. ‘
‘Go ahead, pray. ‘
‘I am going to elope with a married woman.*
•That's geod ! Who is she ?‘
‘I don't know her husband, bat he belongs to
the press. ‘
‘Be ter and better! If there's anything that
we like it is a bit of gossip about some one be
longing to one of onr esteemed contemporaries. •
‘I thought as much; that's why I brought you
tbe item. ‘
‘When does the elopement tske place?'
‘To-morrow afternoon. The lady in the case
has made ail the arrangements, and all will go
off as I tell yon; by way of compensation for this
news I want you not to mention any names till
we are safely across the frontier; then you can
bring oat all the letters, and so on, which I
have here. •
•Hum; that robs your news of mnoh of its val
ue for ns. However, if ifs exclusive I won't
spoil the fun. Who-s the lady?*
•Mine. X. 4
•Villain 2 that's mv wife !‘
Mrs. Smike says the reason children are so
bad this generation, is owing to the wearing cf
gaiter shoes instead of the old-fashioned slipper.
Mothers find it too mach tronble to untie gai
ters to whip children, so they go unpunished;
but when she was a child the way the old slip
per nsed to do its duty was a caution.
A young lady recently returned from board
ing school, being asked at the table if she would
• toko some more cabbage, replied: ‘By no
| means madam. Gastronomical satiety admon-
isnes me that I have arrived at the ultimate of
culinary deglutition consistent with the code of
Eocnlapius.
Belles give “tone” to society.
Business done ou a large scale should be fre
quently balanced.
It's startling to think that these pretty girl3 are
incipient mothers-in-law!
Don’t marry a widower; a ready-made family is
like a plate of cold potatoes.
It’s a “striking” peculiarity of a South Knit mule
that he kicks at botii ends.
“Laugh if you are wise,” wrote Martial, the Latin
poet, two thousand years ago.
A paper advertises: “Wanted—Girls for cooking.”
This is too awful for comment.
Widows are not permitted to marry after fifty
in Brazil. Here they never reach that age.
A parrot appeared as a witness in a London po
lice court and won a case for its owner-
Vanyofthe sermons preached by clergyman in
England, at this day are composed by their wives.
The sandal tree perfumes, when riven.
The axe that laid it low:
Let man, who hopes to be forgiven.
Forgive and bless his foe.
To any person contemplating suicide we recom
mend abasinthe drinking, it has several advantages
over strychnine.
Don’t forget the old soldier. If lie has lost legs or
arms supply him with the artificial oues. That’s
the way to re-member him.
If you desire a favor of a man. laugh at his jokes.
Ifthf re's anything the whole human family aspire
to it is to pass for wits.
And now they announce another miracle-work
ing Virgin Mary, in the .South of France. Will these
impossibilities never cease?
“Doctor will you please examine my tongue and
tell me what it needs?” asked a woman of her phy
siciau. "It needs rest, madam.”
A man in St. Paul, Minn., is so economical that he
had a coffin and tombstone made for his deceased
wife out of her marble-topped bureau.
An editor at a dinner-table, being asked if h e
would take some pudding, replied in a fit of abstrac
tion: “Owing to a crowd of otiier matter, we are un
able to rind room for it.”
A fair damsel of Eureka, Cal., pretended to have
taken poison, and a doctor was called in haste. To
him she confessed the deception, but lie pumped
her out all the same, to punish her.
Favor your horse with a curry as often as possi
ble, but never curry favors with a mao. if plain
dealing won't incline a person to your proposals,
just take the first inclined plane you come to and
slide for home.
Smithers wants to know why his wife is like a ba
ker who is making a two-ceut pie. Give it up? Be
cause she is “growing a little tart.” Somebody will
have to hold Smithers, or he will hurt himsejf, some
day, dangerously.
“Well. Bessie,” said her mother, “have you been
a good girl to-day?” “No, mama.” “Why, Bessie,
I hope you have not been a bad girl?” “No, mam
ma,” said the little thing, “not wedy bad, not wedy
good, just a comlertable little girl.”
Professor, lecturing ou psychology;—“All phenom
ena are sensations. For instance, that leafappears
green to me. In other words, there is a sensation
of greenness within ine.” Of course no harm was
meant, but still the class would la^gh.
Never use slang. It may not always be agreeable;
“How do you like my shoes, love?” exclaimed a
youthful bride. “Oh, they’re immense,” replied
the partner of her joys; and the look she hurled at
him was enough to have melted the heart ofasuow.
ball.”
Gideon Cook, a Baptist preacher, was a man very
eccentric in speech, even to his last earthly mo
ments. A few hours previous to his death, his broth
or, also a preacher, came to his bedside and asked:
“Doyou think you are dying, Gideon?” And the
reply, sharp and quick, came: “Don’t know—can’t
tell; never died.”
Iu the kitchen—“Rosalie,this going out incessant
ly I cannot have; next Sunday you must stay at
home all day.” “But madam, I have promised my
aunt to spend the afternoon with her,” Baby, in
terceding—“Do let her go, mama; her aunt is a ser
geant, and has got a new coat with stripes on it, and
a great long sword.”
A venerable clergyman said that lie once atten
ded a meeting in which a man arose and said he in
tended to speak; that hitherto he had been preven
ted from speaking iu public by his wife, but that she
being dead, he should speak with freedom. “He
did so," replied the clergyman, “and it was not
long before all the audience mourned over thedeath
of his wife.”
“How did you like the hymns?” asked Charley of
his city cousin, as they left the church together one
Sunday. ‘‘One of them was just splendid,” replied
she, with enthusiasm. “Ah, which one?” "The
one in the next pew with black, curly hair and such
killing black eyes Ob, I think lie was the moat fas
cinating of them all.” Charley became too much
confused to continue the conversation.
“Mister, your sign has fallen down,” cried a tem
perance man to a grog-shop keeper before whose
door a drunken man lay prostrate. We do no 1
know whether this temperance mau was the
same into whose store a customer reele.1, exclaim
ing, “Mister do you—keep—anything—good to take
here?” “Yes, we have excellent cold Water—the
best thing in the world to take.” “Well, I kuow
it,” was the reply: “there is no one—thing—that has
done so much for navigation—as that.”
“Here we have the great Egyptian wonder, cap
tured in the wilds of South Africa, with a loss of
5,000 men and an expenditure of millions of treas
ures.!” exclaimed the showman, shaking his whip
iu a threatening manner at a stuffed hide in a glass
cage. “Don't go too close,” said a mother to her
son; ‘ it may sieze you.” “Have no fear for the safe
ty ofyour offspring,” observed the showman, elo
quently; “For does not the good book tcaeb us that
wonders never seize? Pass rapidly ou to the next
cage and see the living skeleton, or the man who
married his mother-in-law.”
The Briggs (colored) and Mulliganuy (Irish) are
neignbors. Mrs. Muiligauny holds the colored sis
ter in abhorrence, but if Mrs. Briggs didn’t crush
her last .Sunday, nobody ever was crushed. Mrs.
Briggs’ little boy playing in tue street when his
mother, observing Mrs, Muiligauy Standing on her
steps discoursing some of her friends, came out and
shouted: “Look here, you James Alberry Briggs, you
come right in yer dis minet. De ideah ob you bein’
out in de street in your bah feet on de Lords day.—
You want folks to tink you Irish ilou't you?”
Some of the wealthy people of New York send
poor children out of the city and to the country for
fresh air, fresh milk and a good time. It is a noble
charity. A squad of the little folks went out the
other day. They were starved for green fields and
clear sunshine, and gratefully welcomed thechange.
The New 'York people deserve hearty praise for this
act. The boys enjoy it hugely. They have pulled
all the green g nines, stoned oflf the premature pears,
carried off gates, pulled off pickets, scared the cows
half to death, made the liens so nervous they can’t
lay, and given nearly every country boy a back eye
apiece—city cut.