Georgia Historic Newspapers

    THE S
THE QUEEN’S SCARF,
OK
THE STORY OF A SCARECROW.
BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURR^.
Author of "Joseph's Coat,” “Aunt Bachel,” “Bainbow Gold,” Bto.
CHAPTER V.
e in whose care y -—.,
« waa well enough pleased to be nd of
,V Tn hour and a half each evening, and
the excellent woman’s pleasure grew from neg-
“Sve when she discovered that her
Charge begun to want no *«PP" 8 ince h^
had formed the habit of running down to Cas
tle Barfield High street of an evening. P” c ®
wife had teen "used, ever «^ n * h »^ ld £
member, to see money beaten out wry nne^m^
“But, I say," put in the milder and less ad
venturous, “it isn’t ours.”
“Yes, it is. Uncle said we were wel
come to anything we found here. I asked
him if I could cut a bit off this old walnut bed
stead to carve, and he said I might have any
thing I found here. Now, then, look sharp.
You carry the picture. It’s all over dirt and
8tuff.’’
The last order was addressed to young John,
who took the picture in his arms with a thrill
of reverence for it’s possibilities, and nursed it
as carefully as if it had been an infant. In the
course of two or three minutes the milder- bov
was back with his own hat and his cousin’s.
herself had learned the art of
ve^over the Ur^st ^s^h^e‘stretch'of^hmiRej ..
John’s weekly three shillings over nothing that Darkness was falling fast. The boys stole
wm not covered by John's necessities. But to out and the elder reco “ noitred .
bTrid of him once a meal per diem, and for all « AU clear,” he said. “Come along.
meals on Sundays, was a gracious relief to her. Young John, feeling criminal and excited
John’s eveniDgs and his Sundays were passed : ran at their heels. They skirted the house,
over books in Moise Brandt s back parlor. ran down t he avenue under the shadow of the
Mindful.of hisIP"®***^ doutfroL b ‘ g r0Un - d t - he 1 -° d ? 6 -° n ti P tX ’ and
suires a wonderful squat old volume
w
ANTA. GA., SATURDAY MORNING. JUNE 18, 1887
whom to share bis enthusiasm, encountered
the old lady's smiling look.
“Exgnse me, madame,” he said; “but this if
a chewell Ob, it is beaudiful! It is the druf
Cordovan. I have zeen nothing like it foi
years—years.”
He spoke with the enthusiasm of a true am
ateur.
“You know something of lace, Mr. Brandt?"
said her ladyship. She also was an amateur,
and when two real amateurs meet, whether
they love pic mres, or lace, or old china, it is all
one. The common barriers of life are broken
down.
“Ah, madame.'” said Moise. The exclama
tion was eloquent, and went so direct to her
face of the youth, who played in the orchestra.
Nature, ever partial to those dwellers in that
land of love and sunshine Italy, seemed to have
pr xlu ;jd her chef d’auvre in this dark, proudly
beautiful Italian, for in form and feature, he
was like UDto an A poll >. Hair of jetty hue
clustered about his finely shaped brow, and a
few damp rings fell across his forehead. His
eyes were veiled as they rested on the harp-
strings, and involuntarily those lines from
Tennyson’s Day Dream, flashed into Jeante’s
head:
“Love if thy tresses be so dark.
How dark those hidden eyes must be!”
There was something else, too, besides mere
beauty in the face of this young Apollo—some-
ladyship's amateur soul that, drawing forth a thing hard to define. It was an expression, as
PJJ 8 ®* an© produced a small key with a ribbon accurately as can be stated, indicative of the
of faded silk attached to it, and opened the " —
case that the other amateur might have the sa
cred joy of inspecting i»« contents with abso
lute familiarity. "Oh!” said Moise, with a
sigh. “It is the drue Cordovan!’’
Nothing less than this absolute enthusiasm
could have so unbent her ladyship, but she
was fairly conquered.
“We have always valued it very highly,”
'she said, graciously. “It was given by the
unfortunate Queen of Scots to an ancestref* of
mine who attended her at Fotheringay.”
“Madame,” said Moise, “it is two times a
jewel. It is pel feet”
pride of birth and breeding. But then how
incongruous! Was he not a strolling musician?
Did he not belong to a class that are fonnd
among the lazzarsni of Italy 1 This expression
must be one of nature’s inconsistencies.
All unconscious of the proximity of destiny,
the Italian youth played on. The music rose
and fell; now soft and low with a sweetness al
most sad; now jubilant and riDging, filling the
heart with a feeling of thankfulness for the
grand gift of life. What were the musician’s
thought’s? Did the familiar strain of “Les
Sirenes” awaken recollections of sunny Italy?
Ah, doubtless in imagination, he hears the sil
lier ladyship took the exquisite fabric inber very nightingale of h:s native land; inhales the
amidst his stores i
written in French
r;ws , Sd‘r;»u«'s mRot
half of the las’, century. In these engravings
was set forth the art of pictorial composition
as it ought not to exist, but as it existed in
those fearfully and wonderfully artificial days;
and, as the author of the book was persuaded,
it would exist forever. Old Moise used to
translate the text and John made copies of the
pictures, which, except as light-houses of warn-
ing, were of no earthly use to any art student
in the world. But out of this pretentious and
feeble old volume came two remarkable things
for young John. The first of these two things
was that the lad took it into his head that be
ought to be able himself to read the mstrac-
tions attached to the pictures, which at that
time he believed to be works of the loftiest ge
nius. Moise welcomed this fancy, and set to
work, by the aid of a mildewed grammar, to
scoured down the broad, high road towards
the glimmering lights of the town. When
they were clear of the lodge by some two or
three hundred yards, the leader sobered down
into a walk, and turned upon young John with
a repetition of his question of ten minutes be
fore
“What do you know about picture restor
ers?”
“Mr. Brandt is one,” said John. “I heard
him say so.”
“Where did you hear him say so?”
“At his house.”
“What brought you at his house?” This
query was delivered with overwhelming scorn
“I go there to get lessons,” returned John,
feeling shy for the first time.
“What lessons?” John did not answer for
a moment. “What lessons?
“Drawing,” said John, selecting that because
he felt less of a shamefaced pride about it than
he did in his French and his anatomy.
“I shall ask him if that’s true when we get
teach his pupil the rudiments of the French : there,” said the schoolboy, and then fell to
tongue which were mastered with surprising talking in whispers with his companion,
rapidity. The next thing was that the author! “ti-ro’a \fr RnnHi'. T -*
or compiler of this misleading old work on pic
torial art had at least begun at the right end
and insisted on a knowledge of the anatomy of
the human figure as a first sole necessity for
the art student. The anatomy, from some
congenital twist in young John s mind, took
a greater hold upon him even than the art, and
he began to copy whole skeletons and single
bones, and to draw muscles and to learn their
names and actions with remarkable avidity.
Moise watched his boy of genius as if he
himself had been a hen with one chick, and
when young John took to anatomy
“The poy shall pe a creat toctor,” said Moise.
•‘I will drain him to pe a creat toctor.’’
With this intent he furbished an old micro
scope he had among his belongings; ami, hav
ing pinched himself woefully to buy slides for
it, the good old man introduced John to the
wonders of the great invisible kingdom. A
thousand influences were beating down upon
the boy’s nature, and until now no man could
have prophesied in what direction they would
drive him or into what shape they would mould
him. But to this last influence he became obe
dient and ductile at a touch, aud from the hour
at which be first beheld the wonders of the mi-
croscope Moise had fitted for him, he was the
slave of science. He learned French because
the few books of science Moise possessed were
all written in that language. lie started at
Latin because the scientific nomenclature was
taken from it. He went on with his drawing
because by it he could preserve a record of his
impressions. ... ... , .
From that happy hour his life was like a fairy
tale.
Sometimes Moise would interrupt study and
betake himself to a sort of prophecy by retro
spection, which John found curiously agreeable
and flattering.
“Ven 1 vas young," Moise would say, 1
game to London for zeveral years. That is vy
my agzent is so hure. If you vant to speak a
language you must alvays beg'n ven you are
younk. But that is not vot I had to zay. Ven
I vos younk in London I vos a bigture re-
utorer, and there vos a poy in the same em
ploy who vos like you like a pea. He vos also
poor as you, and be ran errands and vos kick
ed from billar to host. That leedle poy learned
to traw. He vorked, and vorked and vorked,
he vos never tired, he vos often hungry; but he
Forked, and vorked, and vorked, and now vere
is he, the leedle poy? There is a blace in Lon
don, a pig, pig palace, my clever leedle friend
Chon. Ii is s alled the Agademy of Art—the
Royal Agademy—and vorthy men are bicked
out of all the great bainters, and they are gall
ed Royal Agademicians. The leetle poy that
vos in the same embloy with me is in the t or-
thy. Ah. my clever young Chon! Vot do you
■ay? Eh?”
John said nothing, but he thought a great
deal. He was a sealed book to everybody in
the world bnt old Moise, and nobody else so
much as dreamed of the dreams which were
covered by the dome of the brimless hat.
It was autumn time, and a dim, grey, windy
evening when John happened to be sent on a
message to the .gardener. He was standing _ , - ..
alone in one of the garden paths looking at ! think he is glever, and the beguliaruy of a
the great house (which was quite a a palace to i glever man is to know he is a vool I have
him and answered more or less to all descrip- great hopes,” he continued, pointingtbis small
tions of architectural grandeur he encounter!d sermon for John’s advantage, “that one of
in his reading) when a head appeared at an! these days you will know enough to be sure
open window and an imperious treble voice i that you are an ignoramus. ”
Here’s Mr. Brandt's shop,” said John, af
ter a while.
“It looks the right sort of place, does'nt it,
Algy ?" said the mild boy.
“Oh, it looks ali right," returned the other,
“bnt I dare say he’s a duffer. Here. Go in.
John, finding himself thus signalled, en
tered first. Moise was seated behind his coun
ter.
“Aha!” said he, “is that you Chon? Vot
haf you got there, my glever leedle poy? Eh?”
“It’s a picture,” said the elder of the two
schoolboys, following on John’s heels. “I
want to know if it’s worth anything,- and if
you can clean it?”
“I can glean it if it is worth anything,
turned Moise. “Let me look at it.”
John handed over the picture, the old man
turned up the light in the gas-standard on the
counter, and drawing forth a folding gas
bracket from the side wall, lit that also and
set the picture well in light between the two.
“Wait a bit,” he said, when he had peered
at it for a time, and leaving the shop, returned
afte r a moment’s absence with a black glass
bottle and a piece of clean linen rag. He
moistened the rag with a little of the contents
of the bottle, which had to John’s nostrils
very much the odor of the old gentleman’s
nightly glass of rum, and moistened the whole
surface of the picture. “The bigture,” he said
then, “is a good bigture. It has been shame-
fnlly famished. That is all.”
“Do you know who the artist is?” asked the
elder of the schoolboys.
“It is a Dutch bigture,” returned Moise, ap
plying his moistened rag here and there and
peering closely into it. “It is Dutch, and it is
beautifully bainted. Ven the famish is away
I can tell you more, berhaps.”
“Can you get the varnish off?”
“Whose is the bigture?” asked Moise.
“Strictly, it belongs to Sir George Berny,”
said the boy. “But he said I could have any
thing I found. Yon can clean it, if you please,
and I will see that you are paid. I am Sir
George Bemy’s nephew.”
“Fery well, young gentleman,” said Moise,
setting the picture down carefully. “It shall
be gleaned.”
“Could you begin now?” asked the younger
of the two boys.
“No," said Moise, “I must have daylight
for the vork.”
The boys withdrew reluctantly after some
further questioning, and young John lingered.
“I have been a bigture restorer.” said Moise,
“for dweuty years in Gastle Parfield, and this
is the only bigture anybody every brought me
to restore.”
It became apparent, in the course of a few
days, that the boys had really made a find.
The neglected canvas was from the hand of no
less a personage than Franz Hols.
“Some chenius or another,” said Moise to
young John, “has govered one goat of famish
with another. He has used gommon house
painter’s famish, and it has gone black. He
thought he vos doing a glever thing, no doubt.
There are vools everywhere. I should be quite
happy if the vools would leave. the good men’s
vork alone. The beguliarity of a vool is to
voice called out to him:
•‘Hi! You boy there. Come up here.” The
caller was about two years John’s elder, but
his manner was that of one who had grown
grey in the exercise of authority. John start
ed to obey, but knew not where to enter.
“Go round the corner there, at the first door,”
said the commanding boy, “and come up
stairs.”
John obeyed, and found himself in a lumber-
room in the presence of two young gentleman,
one of whom was in his shirt sleeves and car
ried a lanthorn and a big saw
The two schoolboys came day by day to en
quire after the progress of their recovered pic
ture, and made such determined onslaughts on
the library at the Hollies in their search for
information concerning Franz Hols, that all
the household wondered at their suddenly stu
dious propensities. But they kept their secret
with inward exultation until the disguised pic
ture had actually come to light again. Moise
mended and re gilt the frame, being inspired
with lively hopes of patronage to come, and
when at last the work was finished, he and
! the two boys made a triumphant procession to
“Felt those ramps acwu, Aiuiur, saiu uic , . . . ;
authoritative boy, ‘and help to pull. Here, you , h 0 ^! 6
boy, lay hold of the end here. That knob on
the other side will just do. There's nothing |
better to carve than walnut. ;
John, in pursuit of instructions, laid his j
hands on the post of a massive old bedstead
which stood i t one corner of the ro mi.
“When I shout ‘Heave ho!’ ” said the com
manding youngster, “Full all."
Sir George, who was a lean old warrior with
a great grey moustache and a liver spoiled by
long residence in a hot climate, knew no more
about pictures than he did about Sanscrit, but
her ladyship, his wife, thought herself learned
j in art matters, and pronounced the Franz
: llols genuine.
auums tvuu 6 oK*, [ “There’s no doubt of its chenuineness, inad-
He aud his companion set their hands to the i ame,” said Moise. “It is a nople examble,
bedstead also, and at the word of command j aud in beaudiful breservation.”
they tu<’"ed altogether. The clumsy bedstead. “But you’ve no idea what a thing it was
yielded Tn inch. The two young gentlemen tug- 1 when we found it,” slid the elder nephew. “It
ged shouting, and John tugged in sileice, and I looked like a piece of a dirty old coach panel,
in a minute or so they had bleated a space two I Didn’t it, Arthur?”
feet from the wall. ! “You would seem to be a capable restorer of
“Now ” said the chieftain, “you brirg that i pictures, Mr. Brandt," said her ladyship, in
lanthorn here, boy, and give me the saw. Now i her own statelyand gracious way. “I shall be
hold the lanthorn so that I can see. Here! ; pleased if you will look at some other works I
What’s this’’’ ! have here which are sadly in need of cleaning.”
He drew from behind the bedstead an old | “I shall be jarmed, madame,” returned
picture in a frame of ancient fashion. The
frame was chipped and broken and the pic
ture was black as if with extreme old age.
‘Oh, I say,” said the quieter boy,
Perhaps it’s a Rubens.”
It was borne to the window and there ex
amined by the fading light. .
“There are figures in it, said the autbori-
tive boy “But it’s all over with dust. Where’s
a towel or something? Hete, you boy, wipe
Moise. Moise was in bis Sunday clothes and
had quite an artistic and venerable appearance.
Lady Berry had some memory of the condi
tion of the Franz Hols when it had been rele
gated—its merits and worth unknown—to the
lumber-room, and though the restorer’s task
had be:n the simplest conceivable, she had
formed a high opinion of him.
“Will you stay here for a few moments, Mr.
Brandt?” said her ladyship. “I will have some
white hands reverently, and displayed its
beauties at the full. Then she disposed it once
more in its case, and coaxing with lingering
touches and kisses of her fine fingers, surveyed
it with one last admiring look and locked it up
again.
[TO BE CONTINUED ]
DESTINY.
By Miss Kate Ware.
There is some star, I know not what,
That blends my destiny with thine.
Juvenal.
The faint rays of the harvest moon fall with
soft brilliancy upon the vine-clad cottage of ti
picturesque little Southern village. It hae
been an unusually warm day, and even the
oaks and magnolias seem dro >ping with heat,
but as evening approaches the gulf breeze—
that favored child of -Eolus—springs up, and
the oppressed, sultry air becomes cool and
pleasant. It plays in the tree-tops, and waves
the long streamers of gray moss hanging from
their branches; the creamy, odorous magnolia
blooms quiver and nod in the gathering twi
light, and the “spirit of fragrtnee breathes
sweet on the air.” In the distance great for
ests of dark green piDes meet the eye, and the
rising moon throws a glittering radiance over
the silvery pine-“needles.”
A young girl, silting on the steps of a com
modious dwelling, watches the great ball of
light emerge from behind the wall of trees; and
the moonbeams fall upon her upturned face,
which is framed in by the creeping jassamine
vines, twining arouud the balustrade. It is a
fair young face, that betokens great possibili
ties, although there is something wanting-
something, perhaps, to awaken the girl’s
dreaming life and arouse the latent genius.
There is a chord in her soul of which she. is
ignorant, that has never been sounded. When
it is touched by some master hand, the mighty
music will reverberate again and again through
her entire being, and the echoes will remain in
her heart forever.
Jeanne Irvine, for that is the young girl’s
name, has pansy blue eyes that are bright with
the lustre of sixteen years. At times they are
the color of summer skies, but now, as they
rest upon the distant horizon, the purple grows
deeper and darker, and the sombre depths of
her eyes proclaim them black. Perhaps dim
shadows of the future deepen their sunny
brightness, or it may be only the reflection of
a passing cloud mirrored ihere. Sweet maiden
“Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet”
The wind gently ruffles the fluffy blonde
hair resting on her forehead, and wafts to
Jeanne great volumes of fragrance from the
masses of southern blossoms in the garden.
Near the steps are some beds of tube rotes, and
their waxen petals, seen in the moonlight, look
as though chisselled from marble; and their
intoxicating perfume pervades the night air; a
mocking bird, perched upon the topmost
bough of the huge magnolia standing near the
gate, swells his tiny throat in an ecstacy of
song, and ponrs forth bis heart in a delightful
serenade; in the pine thicket can be heard the
plaintive cry “whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will”
of that peculiar little night-bird calling to his
mate, and Jeanne smiles as the night-wind
brings to her listening ears the faint, iar off
reply, “whip-poor-will.”
“My dear,” calls Mrs. Irvine from within,
you ought to be dressing for the party. It
will soon be time for you to go.”
“Yes, mamma, I am coming,” was the re-
jly, and her voice reminds one of Dante’s lost
ove, Beatrice, whose speech was ever soft and
angelically tuned.”
Jeanne goes slowly up the broad stair case to
her room, and in a few moments her simple
toilet of white muslin and blue ribbons was
complete!. Pierce Cleeland, a dark haired
youth of the village, was to he her escort, and
he soon arrived, and the two were presently
on their way to the party.
"Miss Jeanne,” he remarked, “did you
kno v that we hoys bad engaged a baud of
Italian harpers from Mobile, to furnish the
music this evening? They arrived this after
noon on the four o’clock passenger train, and
played a few pieces at the hotel soon after they
came. I heard them, and the music was really
good; so we’ll have something attractive in the
orchestra to-night.”
As a general thing, a few old darkeys, with
their violins and banjos, furnished the mnsic
for the village dancers; so, consequently, the
presence of an Italian band at this entertain
ment would be as agreeable as it was unusual.
The party will be a most enjoyable affair,”
said Jeanne, “and the music, I know, will be
one of the pleasant features of the occasion.”
“I’m glad you are pleased.”
“How do the musicians look?” she idly
asked, glancing up at the starry splendor of
the Southern skies above her.
They are dark, foreign looking men,” he
replied, “and are all of them old and uncouth
except one. He is, I must say, quite a hand
some youth, and seems to be more intelligent
than the others.”
At this moment they arrive at their destina
tion, and as they ascend the long flight of stairs
leading to the hall, the sweet harp music is
borne to their ears, and Jeanne, for the first
time in her life, listens to the sad passionate
strains of “Les Serenes.”
To the girl this night will be the turning
point of her life; never again will she be still
the same as before, but she is unconscious of
Destiny’s decree. As they reach the top step,
she pauses a moment and looks hack actoss the
moonlit beauty of the town, then the hall door
opens, and a flood’ of light falls across her face.
this ” Tohn wiped the oicture'with a handful i of the pictures brought here at once for your
of bis smock frock. “Yes, there are figures in | inspection.”
it Here’s a fellow with a can in his hand, i With this she left the room, followed by Sir
What if it were to turn out a Jan von Steen.’, | George. The chamber was large and lofty,
“Wouldn’t that be jolly?” said the other, j and on one side was a great window which
“Lot’s take it to uncle and ask him if we shall opened in two leaves directly upon the circular
have it cleaned. I suppose there is no such i i awn . y 0 r many years Moise had not stood in
fellow as a picture restorer in Castle Barfield.” i any apartment approaching to this in grand-
“Mr. Brandt is a picture restorer,” said j eur> and he was itclined to abase himself
John.
The young gentleman turned upon him with
^•What do you know about picture restor-
“Mr. Brandt is a picture restorer,” returned
young John unabashed. “He is a picture re
storer from London.”
“Oh, I say,” broke in the quieter boy,
“that’s the old Jew in the High Street. He
sells curiosities and all that kind of thing.
He’s get a lot of pictures in his window, some
of them ever so jolly old—you don’t know.”
“Well, take it to him,” said the authorita
tive youth, “and ask him if its worth cleaning.
Put your jacket on, Arthur. And, I say, you
run round to the hall and get my hat and your
own, and if any one asks where we’re going,
hold your tongue.”
somewh it in spirit before the furniture. By-
and-bye he began to inspect the water colors
and engravings hanging on the walls, and the
circuit of the room, being but half complete,
brought him to a big table of ebony and ivory
on which was set a small ebony case with a
glass lid. He bent over it to observe its con
tents, and stood there with clasped hands.
“Beaudiful! Beandifnl! Beaudiful" said
Moise, half aloud “Howloaflay! Howloaflyl”
The object which so excited the old xan’s
admiration was one which her ladyship had
always preserved like the apple of her eye.
Everybody has a weak point somewhere, and
Lady Berny’s foible lay in the little ebony
case. She bad entered the room in time to
hear the exclamation which testified toMoise’s
pleasure and she was flattered by it. The old
man turning round to find somebody with
It is the day following the party, and Jean
ne, idly reclining in a hammock, which swings
to and fro in the shade of two large oaks, is
enjoying the dokefar niente of a Southern sum
mer afternoon. What a fair picture she makes!
Her face reminds one of those fair ideal angels
that Guido loved to paint, and you half expect
to see her step back into the mists of dream
land. Ah! surely destiny must have a kindly
feeling for this fair Earth-child, and perhaps
Lachesis, Antropos and Clotho add a few
bright threads to the warp and woof of her life.
Jeanne’s broad-brimmed straw hat is thrown
aside. One hand rests against her cheek, and she sees again the beauty of that dark Italian
the other gently wields a palm leaf fan. Tar- face—feels again the splendor of those slum-
co, a pet peacock, is perched upon a limb brouseyes gazing into her soul. At last, at
overhanging the hammock, and there is a last, she has seen again the face which has
bright, almost human expression in the bead- been the guiding star of her life. The girl
perfume from myrtle groves; and sees above
him the cloudless azure of Italian skies. Per
haps these remembrances have caused the half
sad, half tender smile that plays round the
prond lips. Who knows?
The Gulf breeze steals in through the open
windows, fanning the heated brow of the dan
cers; the sound of the music, the laughter, the
merry voices, invades the stillness of the sum
mer night; in the old magnolia by the gate,
Jeanne’s little serenader, the mocking bird,
twitters sleepily to himself; the whip-poor will
has fou d his mate; and—at last those splen
did dark orbs are unveiled, and the handsome
musician is looking straight into the pansy
blue eyes so near him. The girls heart flut
tered strangely; those slumbrous eyes seemed
looking into the very depths of her soul, and
she felt as thouth a new element had come
into her life. What caused her hands to trem
ble so? What thrilled her entire being with
happiness so vague and exquisite till it resem
bled pain? Ah, Jeanne, it was Destiny!
As the sweet harp music sighs around her,
brilliant soft shining star rises suddenly upon
the horizon of her existence. It is that star
commonly called Ambition, but which is, in
reality, only a longing for something higher,
purer, better.
Here is a more explicit description of the ef
fect prod act d upon Jeanne Irvine’s life by that
dark, handsome face.
There are, in this world, two dis'inct forms
of love. One fills, absolutely fills, the heart
and mind with thoughts of the loved one; and
it also affects every action, almost every wor J,
The glorious hopes, the possibilities, the aspi
rations of existence are fettered and sink into
oblivion before this all-absorbing affection. In
fact, it becomes a luminary around which life
itself revolves. Now this Jove is decidedly “of
the earth, earthy,” for often it generates sel
fishness, and is therefore not elevatiog, not en
nobling. It chains mankind down to a certain
level, above which tiere is no rising, but is
“ac lording to the fates and destinies,” aud is
the commonest form of la grande passibn.
~ This other form is more difficult to describe
because it is rarer. It inspires within the hu
man heart, a wish to become better, nobler, to
keep one’s self pure in heart, and “unspotted
from the world.” If there be genius, it arous
es ambition, and the heart is filled with a de
sire to become great, famous, renowned. Some
sleeping element, in the inmost recesses of the
heart, is awakened and life, with all its glow
ing realities, its brilliant possibilities, rise sud
denly before the gaze of the enraptured one,
It exalts the object of affection to a high
standard of excellence, and the soul, in con
tinually striving to become, in every respect
more worthy to feel this love, is in the end, it
self exalted, and male to occupy those same
ideal heights it had assigned to an ideal zed
being.
There are but few in the world who possess
the capability to feel this love, and perhaps it
is better so, for the “Lost Chord” which some
hearts lack, is this love, which they could have
felt, had not Destiny ordained otherwise
A singular combination, you will say? Per
haps, but nevertheless true.
1 When Jeanne Irvine looked into that band-
some Italian face, all unknown to herself, this
latter love awoke in her heart; she had seen
( the one face, in the world that was. destined to
Inspire her to her life's Work; to show to her
the ultima thule of her capabilities; to stir the
great deep of her soul; to “make her life sub
lime."
i
The great palace of the Princess Fondola is
brilliantly illuminated, for she gives a bail to
night, of more than usual splendor, in honor
of a famous artist who is spending the winter
in Florence—dear Florence, the fairest city of
bright, sunny Italy. Lords, ladies and prin
ces of high degree throng the grand saloons,
bat theie is one in their midst who was not
born to the purple, but who wears the royal
stamp of genius on her brow—an American
girl with yellow blonde hair, and pansy-sweet
eyes. It is Jeanne Irvine—our little Jeanne
of five years ago—now a great artist, whose
name rings through all the art ciicles of Eu
rope. She is feted, honored and admired
wherever she goes, for fame, ah! how sweet to
her. She has won, aid therefore the world
delights to do her homage; but still, as in the
time of patient striving, a dark, handsome
face, which years ago, all unknown to herself,
stirred the secret depths of her heart, is re
membered; still this face remains the inspira
tion of her life. Titled suitors, handsome and
courtly, seek her hand, but in vain. A divine
love, known to her as Ambition, fills her heart,
and ali men are to her like shadows.”
To-night Jeanne Irvine feels an unwonted
excitement, au unacconntable exhilaration,
which is manifested by a starry glitter in her
eyes, and a brilliant flush on her usually pure,
cold face. Somehow, the spell of that ideal
ized past is upon her. That summer night in
the long ago, the moonlight, the sweet harp
music, even the caressing touch of the per
fumed Gulf breeze, all come back to her, and
“memory bells chime soft and low.” Never
lad she been so fascinating, so lovely, and the
admiring throng press closer around her, pay
ing tribute to her youth, her beauty, her
world-famed genius. Presently there breaks
through the circle one who approaches her
aide, bowing low as he says:
“I come as an emissary, an ambassador.
Miss Irvine. Prince Bernardo da Vecelli is
lere, and begs the great honor of knowing
jou. Would an introduction be agreeable to
jou. I await your decision."
“I will be pleased to meet the Prince,” she
graciously replied.
The power, wealth and pomp of the da Ve
celli family, their princely estates, their patri
cian nobility are known throughout Europe;
vnd Prince Bernardo is the pride of this illus-
:rious house, the flower of all who bear this
mighey name. Although Jeanne Irvine’s
world and that of this young nobleman is the
same, although tb<?ir paths have often crossed
in the circles of European society, yet they
have never met; they have never seen each
other.
The ambassador and the Prince draw near,
and the crowd gives way for their approach.
A few conventional words of introduction,
and the fair young artist bowel, and then
glanced up to behold again—“the handsomest
face that e’er the sun shone on.” The same,
the samel Ah, heaven, what a thrill of divin
es, happiness sweeps over the girl’s soul as
like eyes that look down at Jeanne so intently.
The twelve brilliant tints of his costume glitter
in the sun’s rays, and in the blue, green and
gold of his train, flash apd scintillate the hun
dred eyes of the murdered Argus. Occasion
ally be gives vent to the strange, discordant
cry peculiarto his kind, which, though harsh
and unmusical, has an under!} ing note of sad
ness that somehow appeals to the heart of the
hearer. But Jeanne is at present unmindful
of her pet.
The pansy blue eyes rest npon the whisper
ing canopy of leaves above her bead and in
their depths is a new, strangely bright expres
sion. It was not there last evening, when in
the twilight, she watched the moon rise above
the distant pines; and listened to the whip-
poor-wills calling to each othe r. The purpose
less, aimless look is gone, and that which was
wanting to make np the “perfect whole” has
been supplied. What is the cause of this
change? Has the unknown chord been sound
ed? From whence came the new Psyche in
those pansy sweet eyes?
Last evening at the party, Jeanne was
claimed for the first dance by Pierce Cleve
land, and their feet weie soon keeping time to
the sweet waltz measure. Down the room they
whirled and as they passed the musician's
stand, JeaDne’s heart gave a strange throb,
and she looked up to behold the handsomest
face “that e’er the sun shore on.” It was the i
thinks not of the strange incongruity—that the
Italian harper, the strolling mnsician, wander-
iog in a foreign land, and this proud noble
man, should be the same. Ah, no, she is con-
teat to feel that he is near her—that again she
is In the presence of destiny.
“I am honored to be in the presence of one
ho great, so famed;” he said, bowing low be
ta® her. ,
»I thank you, Prince da Vecelli,” she re
plied, with a vain effort to stay the trembling
of her hands.
Je, too, seemed strangely affected, and
there was a slight tremor in his soft and liquid
voie. As he stood before the great artist—
sh* who had received even royal favor as a
triJute to her talents—did he, did that titled
assembly dream that it was the light of his
eye that had penetrated the secret recesses
of lor heart, and awakened the Genius sleep
inf there—that it was he who had touched
the unknown chord in her soul? Ah, if he
ha4 but known! if he had but known!
j t this moment the violins in the orchestra
ch ) a soft sweet prelude and then glide into
a tfeamy waltz measure.
-•Miss Irvine, can I have the pleasure of this
daice?" he asked, bending his princely, patri-
ciau head towards her.
«Yes,” she replied, and their feet were soon
keeping time with the music, as they whirled
doxn the great ball-room. As his arm iightly
pressed her waist, a burning blush swept over
her face, an! when his land clasped bers, an
exquisite thrill quivered in her heart The
music throbs around them in an enveloping
cloud of harmony, and together they pass into
an enchanted land, far removed from the
world—a land with all the fair beauty of Para
dise—a land where Earth-born mortals bow to
their sovereign Love.
Presently the air the musicians were playing
changed, and Jeanne Irvine, for the second
time in her life, listens to the strains of “Les
Sirenes.” As the thrilling, passionate notes
sigh in low soft cadences around her, the girl
wonders vaguely if he remembered, if he had
forgotten that summer night in the Southern
pine-lands, long and long and long ago.
The glass halls and marble courts of the
flowers were open; so, the waltz over. Prince
da Vecelli led his companion towards the con
servatories. Here, Chinese blossoms—strange
flowers that change color thrice a day—nodded
towards great banks of scarlet begonias, while
rare exotics exhaled a delicately sweet fra
grance, and orchids of every clime and color
glowed in the mellow light from the crystal
chandeliers. Ah, through what a fairy land
of beauty they wandered!
“When there is so much loveliness, so much
purity and goodness in the world,” be said,
as they paused near a marble Aotinous,
which reigned over a world of gardenias, and
gazing, not at the flowers, but at the fair face
by his side, “how can the cynics aver, Miss
Irvine, that life is a hollow mockery—is, in
fact, as false, cruel and delusive as that—
‘ fair enchantress.
Who 'ured onward with her smile
To their deaths the fated sailors.
With her sweet but fatal guile?’ ”
“Let me give yon an illustration of a cynic’s
disposition, Prince da Vecelli,” she said.
“Have you never seen a flower that from some
freak of nature, grew with its bead downward,
so that the rays of the sun did not touch it,
while others of its kind looked ever upwards
towards the warm, glittering beams? So it is
with the cynics. Let ns not be unjust toward
them. They are so cons ituted that they can
not see the bright side of life, and like the
flower, live only amid the shadows.”
“Granting what you say to be true, Miss Ir
vine, what benefit can a cynic ever be to man
kind? It is said that nothing was ever created
without an aim for some good to be accom
plished, but in this case I fail to see the anal
ogy.”
“Ah, Prince da Vecelli, they unconsciously
teach us the lesson of gratitude ti God. We
turn from a contemplation of their dreary lot
with a feeling of thankfulness to our own hap
pier fate, and are grateful for the gift of life,
for the loving kindness of our fellow creatures—
grateful that we, too, have the joys and sor
rows common to mankind.”
“Well, Miss Irvine, you have convinced me
that there is a special niche in the world for the
cynics, and that they, after all, perform a good
mission for we mortals here below.”
They passed on, talking the while, to where
the musical waters of a fountain fell splashing
into a marble basin, wherein tiny gold fish
darted and swam. He spoke to her of her be
loved art, of her success, and finally the con
versation turned upon literature.
“Which of the poets has succeeded most in
depicting the depths of sime divine despair?’
he asked. “To whom belongs the palm, Miss
Irvine?”
“To Milton, I think,” she replied. “The
very acme of hopelesss misery, of utter despair
are portrayed in that passage from his Paradise
Lost where the proud Lucifer, so lately fallen
from his high estate, seeks to address the hosts
assembled around him. ‘Thrice he etsayed,
and thrice, in spite of scorn, tears—such as
angels weep—burst forth.’ ”
“You but echo my opinion," he exclaimed
with pleased animation. “Our ideas are alike.
We must be what the world calls congenial
spirits.”
His proud lips, firm, yet tender, were
wreathed in a smile of surpassing sweetness as
he gazed down at her; and Jeanne, looking up
into his slumbrous, dark orbs, sees an express
ion in their depths which causes the white lids
to droop over her own pansy-blue eyes and a
brilliant blush to tinge her cheek.
“I have seen your face before,” he said, as
they paused in their promenade and seated
themselves in a little alcove near where the
armless Cupid of the Vatican smiled at them
from amid the roses of a hundred leaves. “I
was one of a band of Italian harpers who
played for a dance in a little Southern village
in your native land five years ago. It was
there that I saw your flower like face. Do you
remember me?”
“Yes,” she murmured; and then, as she real
ized the difference between that wandering mu
sician and the Italian prince, continued: “But
how was it that you, a nobleman, could ”
“It was during our exile,” he interrupted.
“Through the evil machinations of political en
emies, our family were for two years banished
from our own dear land, Italy; and I, in my
youthful, impetuous resentment, would not
even remain on the continent where we had
been so unjustly treated. So I crossed the seas
and dwelt in a foreign land. There it was that
I, with my talent for music, led the life of a
strolling Italian harper, for music was then my
only comfort, my only joy.”
“How strange to think that yon, with yonr
illustrious title, your vast wealth, should be
that wandering musician. It is like some tale
from the Arabian Nights.”
“It is rather an unusual story. Although I
did not even know your name,” be continued,
'I went again and again to the village; but I
never saw you any more."
“I was gone. I went soon after that night to
study art in Rome, and remained there three
years.”
“Ah, if I had but known !” he exclaimed,
"but I dii not. So when our family were re
stored I sailed over the summer seas to my na
tive land, with the memory of a face fairer
than the fairest enshrined in my heart, and my
soul was sad and weary, for I could net forget
you and infancy. I often lived again the few
brief hours of that summer night in the pine
lands. Ah, I did not know, when I heard on
every hand of the young American artist, that
you and the bright star irradiating with such
brilliancy the art circles of the land, were the
same. Ah, no.”
The divinely sweet fragrance from the flow
ers float around them, and far off through the
glittering flower land the happy strains of the
music are throbbing in joyous measures on the
perfumed air.
“Oh! love, why longer stay the words that
are trembling on my lips?” he cried. “Soul
of my soul, I love you. That night in the long
ago, when yonr flower l'ke face dawned upon
my existence, your pansy-sweet eyes lured
away my heai t, and since then I hive wandered
weary through the world for your sake—dear
love, for your sake. Can I ever hope to call
you mine own? First and only love, do not
tell me nay, for without you I cannot live.”
Jeanne listened, entranced, to his impas
sioned pleading, and then, as he paused for
her answer, gave him one shy glance from her
true, sweet eyes; and in that glance the “old,
old story” was told again. Prince Bernardo
kissed her soft lips with rapturous delight; and
then, as the last faint notes of the music quiv
ered forth, drew her bonny fair head to a rest
ing place on his shoulder.
On! life, oh! love, how beautiful!
woul< ! tur ? l 5 eir backs and rebuke the
slanderers. Ingalis has been to Texas, and
gone home disgusted with the prospect of ed
ucating the negro co vote—that is, to vete for
the republican party. They don’t take enough
interest in politics to please him. Sherman r
came down to organize his party and break the
solid South, but they failed in their mission. ’
Sherman was sweet on us when here, but has
gone home belligerent, and is breathing out
threateuings and slaughter.
But they can’t beat Mr. Cleveland. Ho
stands like a rock on his first declarations, and
the people are for him and for Mrs. Cleveland
too, and all their children. We like the Btock.
We have got Cleveland's and Folsom’s down
here, and they are high-toned, and sure grit
wherever you find them. The Cleveland’s all
descended from Oliver Cromwell, it is said,
and Grover has got the firmness of Jefferson
Davis, and I hope will die with a good record-
the(oi/ntf^y
^PHILOSOPHER
[Copyrighted by author. AU rights reserved.]
Note.—By special arrangement with the author of
these articles aud the Atlanta Constitution, for which
p-per they are written under a special contract, we
publish them in the Sunny South under the copj-
right. No other papers are allowed to publish them.
Goi.d Cake.—One-half cup of butter, one
and one half cupt of sugar, two and one half
cups of flour, cne-balf cup of milk, one-half
teaspoonful of soda, ond teaspoonful of cream
of tartar, or two teaspoonfuls of baking powder,
yolks of six egge, and one teaspoonful of
vanilla.
If you experience a bad taste in the mouth,
sallowness or yellow color of skin, feel stupid
and drowsy, appetite unsteady, frequent dizzi
ness, you are “bilious,” and nothing will arouse
your liver to action and strengthen up your
system like Dr. Pierce's “Golden Medical Dis
covery.” By druggists.
Mother at Tea-table—Jack, who helped you
to those tarts?
Jack (aged seven)—The Lord.
Mother—The Lord? Why, what do you
mean, Jack?
Jack—Well, I helped myself; and father
said yesterday the Lord helped those who
helped themselves.
The Beecter Memorial Committee have de
termined to place the statue of the great
preacher in the Brooklyn City Hall square.
The sum needed for it is §J5,000, of which
nearly two-thirds has been secured.
Dr. Mcffctt’s Indian Weed Female Medicine
gives bloom to the cheek, elacticity to tne mus
cles, mental vigor to the brain, an! joyous,
happy smiles where all was despondent gloom,
sadness and depression.
A woman woke her husband during the storm
he other night and said, “I do wish you would
top snoring, for I want to hear it thunder.”
Bnled Icing.—Whites of four aggs, one pint
of sugar malted in water and boiled to a clear
thick syrup, add to it the eggs and beat uuti
cold.—Eransville, Ind. Van’
Well, I suppose that we have got to go
through it all again. Another national cam
paign is impending and the red shirt is to be
the banner. Already Sherman has raised it
on a pole and we see it. We thought for awhile
that the tariff would be the issue, but no—they
can’t unite the party on that. Fighting the
South is the last resort. It is funny and it is
sad. Every four years the South gets awful
ugly and don’t know it. We think we are
behaving very decently. IV e don’t think that
any judge in Christendom would bind us over
to keep the peace. When any of our big men
make a big speech on a big occasion, and says
anything about the North be speaks as gently
as a sucking dove. Our folks keep on inviting
them to come down aud see us, and bring their
knitting. Was there ever such a kind hearted,
long-suffering people as our people. The ene
my smited us on one cheek and we turned the
other. They took away our coat and we hun' -
ed up the old cloak and gave it to them. We
are helping to support their invalid soldiers
and their widows and orphans and to keep up
their cemeteries, but still they are not happy.
They don’t like us and they don’t want to.
They didn’t want to give us ground at Gettys
burg to build a monument to our dead. Gov.
Curtin is an old man and lives in the state of
brotherly love, and be made a venomous speech
the other day and said it was possible to for
give the rebels who fought through ignorance,
bnt the leaders were arch traitors and had no
claims upon the charity or the clemency of the
nation. I would hate to take his chances when
he knocks at Sr. Peter’s gate. There is a cur
tain between him and heaven sure. If such
men are saved, it does look like there will have
to be a purgatory and a long probation in it.
There is the Rev. John libey Thompson, who
made a decoration speech the other day that a
Northern paper, the Kansas City Times, says
was grotesque, extravagant and blasphemous,
and its central idea was eternal hate. This he
never forgot nor cast aside for a moment. He
said the South alone was responsible for the
s n and the curse of slavery. The South made
slavery and then made war, and God had to
raise up Grant and Sherman and Sheridan to
put down the infamous rebel ion. Well, now,
it won’t do for the good concervative men of
the North to apologize and say: “Oh, this
fellow Thompson is but one man. He does
not reflect the sentiments of our people.” He
does reflect them, or they would not choose
him for the big gun of the occasion. They
knew his sentiments before they selected him,
and they admire him for his boldness in dar
ing to utter the sentiments they try to conceal
on account of policy or business. Our folks
are trading with thousands at the North who
are juet as mean and devilish, but smother it
so as to get our custom. They will go up and
congratulate Thompson as soon as he comes
off the platform. Now we pat up our demand
on the minutes. That sort of talk has got to
stop, and stop ail of a sudden, or we of the
South will go to talking and hating too. We
have been holding out the olive branch about
long enough.
Thompson says that Grant, Sherman and
Sheridan, were raised up by the Almighty to
save tbe nation, and they saved it, and that
Grant has now an office that suits his full-
grown energies among the stars of heaven.”
The Times touchingly says: “An office—
given an office! If it were not that this fellow
Thompson is a paroxymal fool tbe irony of
that expression would be horrible. Grant’s
highest reward in glory is to hoid another of
fice. After having had everything in that line
while in the flesh that was great enough to
tempt mortal ambition, he is gone into tbe of
fice grabbing business again over beyond the
wonderful river.”
Thompson leaves out General Thomas in his
idolatries became he was a Virginian and a
slave owner, and the Times says, “Did he not
know that the curse of slavery was a divided
curse ana that equally with the South, the
North should have been made to share in tbe
torments of its uprooting? The North owned
slaves, traded and trafficed in them, was up to
ter eyes in the slave trade, but when slave la-
ber no longer paid she sold all she had bodily
to the South and then went into the emancipa
tion business, then folded her hands meekly
across her belly and sanctimonously cried
aloud:
Pin Wing, the fireman’s son,
Was the very worst boy in ail Canton.
He ate his mother’s pickled mice,
He threw the cat in boiling rice,
He ate her up, and then said he,
“Me wonder where that mew cat be.”
Isn’t that splendid, and all the more splen
did because it is the truth. It is history. We
thank the Times for saying it. What a con
trast to the utterances of tlm average northern
republican politi’.ian. The Times thinks that
Grant, if living, would be disgusted with such
talk, and that even Sherman, once an impecun
ious school teacher in Louisiana, shaking with
the swamp ague aud dus'ng with quinine, but
afterwards great, famous, sung of in song, told
of in story, general over all, rich, happy, aud
loved by tbe sweet girl graduates, wouldn’t
tbauk hnn for sucb utterances.
And of Sheridan siys: “Would he, a stunt
ed captain of iufautry, playing seven up with a
greasy deck of cards on the frontier, half way
in notion of putting on a breech clout and
turning Indian, dwarfed by barrack life, sick
of alkaii water, no future by a jimerow fort
and nothing but sagebrush forever in sight—
afterwards Grant’s right bower, one of the
north’s idols, the Winchester man, the mao
that swept the Shenandoah valley and was in
at the death at Appomattox, and to-day isOgen-
eral over ail the army, rich, happy and content
with bis scars and his laurels—would he thank
the Rev. John Rhey Thompson? Ought not
these three generals bless luck, fate,chance, or
the slavery cursed South for the opportunity
to wm all this glory, grasp all those sugar
plums, hear all this praise and have all these
monuments? ’’
This commentary of the Times upon Thomp
son and all of his sort, is rich, racy and pecu
liar. It says that most all these decoration
orators were sunshine fellows during the war,
with as many gew-gaws and trappings as there
are ribbons to a prize ox. and when pinned
down to name his company always evaded an
answer by assigning to the secret service de
partment tbe giorv of his valor. But the mod
est soldier, one who fought according to the
faith that was in him and never boasted; who
was patient in defeat and merciful in victory,
is the man who deserves the praise, and should
be chosen to do the decoration honors.
We will all stand on that hand. Blaine may
bluster and Sherman may howl, but if we can
find ten men in a town at the north who will
talk that way, we will pray the Lord to save it
from fire aud brimstone. We don’t care a cent
whether a man is republican or not, the ques
tion is one of eternal hate. Sherman ana In
galls and Blaine might just as well make hate
the issue, for it is the issue. Ttey may cover
it up as they please and write what they please
on their campaign banners, but in its last an
alysis it is hate. Then these notable men get
on the stump and abuse the South the people
say amen and hallelujah. If they didn’t hate
A Printer’s Poem.
THE BELLE OF UTICA.
An 8 A now I m<“sn 2 write
2 y< u. sweet K T 4,
Tne virl wilbutT a jj.
The belle of U T K.
11 ter If vou N terrain
The cilm 11> A blight,
Th»i sT miles irom vou i must
M this chance 2 write.
& 1st. •hould N E N V U,
B E Z. mind It net:
If Ny triendshlp sh'<w, B sure
The; shall not B 4iot.
From virtue nev“ r D V8,
Her ii fluence B9
A'>ke induces lOuerness
Or 40:ude divine.
& If U cannot cut a —
Or excite an !,
I hone you'll put a .
2 17.
R U for anXatlon 2
Mi cousin, h-mt & jyr
H« i Hers in a
A J broad of .and.
H» «ays he loves U fo X S,
U e »lrtnous h-o Y’e;
In X L N C, U X L
All others in his i’s.
Tnis 8 A. urn 1 ’ I U C,
I pray U to X Q’a,
Aud do not b on in F I G.
My quaint and waywaid muse.
Now. fare U van dear K T J,
I tiuit th •' U R trr»;
Wher tMs U C. men U can say
An S A 1 O U.
The following is an old story, but well de
serves repetition. In a pleasant company each
one asked a question. If it was answered the
questioner paid a forfeit, or, if be could not.
answer it himself he paid a forfeit. An Irish
man asked:
“How does the little ground-squirrel dig his
hole without throwing any dirt about the en
trance?”
When they all bad given it up, Pat said:
“Sure, do you see, he begks at the other
end of the hole.”
One of tbe rest exclaimed:
“But how does he get there?”
“Ab,” says Pat, “that’s your question. Can
you answer it yoursell?”
The Ingredients.
[Chicago Rambler.]
A leant, square foot of flannel blue,
Some ribbons white,
A tassel and a bow or two,
OI colors bright.
Some apertures where arms go through
Which ribbons deck;
A vacant space In which to view
A snowy neck.
A tap'T waist that Is laeed In
T ght as can be;
A pair of rronseis that begin
Above the knee.
A Jaunty cap of colors, brleht
As dre> ms oft dream pr.
And s cklngs tb t an aucuorlte
Would surely tempt.
A smile so sweet that for l>s sake
Yourself would sbool;
These articles all go to make
A bathing suit.
A colored man taking oat a marriage license
was asked the usual questions:
“How old is the woman you wish to marry ?”
“Well, boss, I s’pose she’s ’boat 15.”
“Then she is under age and you will have tev
get the consent of her parents.”
“O, boss, you know de gals alwa} s tries to
make darselves young, but I kin swar she’s
20.”
“Do you swear to that!”
Up went the hand.
“How old are you?”
“Well, Use thirty-five, but I kin be oider If
necessary.”
The First Dolly Varden.
Upon the appearance of the first Dolly Var
den, worn by Nancy Hall, an old washer-wo
man of colored extraction in the village of Mag
nolia, Miss , Mr. R. J. R. Bee, who then lived
there (since deceased), wrote the following—
clipped from the Magnolia Gazette:
Old Nancy’s dress; ohl ye gods, ’Us a wonderful
thing:
Each breixith Is a wonderful rtory—
There are l zaids and snakes, there are birds on tbe>
WlDfif,
With huntsmen and dogs In their glory.
There are Jolly hay makers wllha donny brook row.
And (I moopsrly beg Nancy’s pardon I)
Bm mere is a bull that Is chasing - cow
Down the side of her gay Dolly Varden!
Za tbeiy made Iod, and old Nancy got mad—
And (to her companion) tneae words I heard:
“L ze, don’t lake any skeer of that teller.
Lot him take blmself off-1’.| i ut a head
On him with my new un brreiltr.”
Van Sportt goes by on the Avenue with his
new Siberian bloodhound. jgj.
Miss A.: “SDlendid brutes, arn’t they?” . 1
Miss B : “Which?”
Miss A.: “Both.”
Homer’s Case,
rrtxas Siftings.]
Old Homer’s case was very sad.
Aid commentators all agree
That blindness wa» tbe ill-'e-’ad
And this Is very Odd—I—see ’
Landlord (to stranger). “The properly is
worth thirty live thousand dollars. I wouldn’t
take a cent less. ”
Stranger: “1 don’t want to buy. I am only
the tax assessor.”
Landlord: “Oh, I beg your pardon. I should
consider myself a very fortunate man if I could
get seventeen thousand dollars for that prop
erty.
I am going ro a ball,
Baby mine, baby mine I
Don’t you dire to pot np the equall,
Babj mine, baby mine 1
D id will stay at home with yon
He will spank yon if yon do—
Sjshk you till yi u’re black and bine,
Baby mine, baby mine.
For
Why do ducks go below the water?
divers reasons. Why do they come up? For
sun-dry reasons. Why do they go down
again? To liquidate their little bills. Why do
they bob up serenely? To make a run upon
the ban! s.
“A demise, love, makes teeth of booe
For those woom late has left without;
Ami nars provision for bis own
By pulling other neop e’s out.”
A little girl in the primary school was asked
to tell the difference bitween the words “foot”
and “feet.” She said: “One feet is a foot*
aid a whole lot of foo.s is a feet.”
The woman with a disagreeable bang is she
who haiLiners on a piano is the house next
door.
Patti has returned to Europe, and the United
States Treasury at Washington still lives.