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PRICE FIVE CENTS
BURNEDiTO: DEATH
THE HORRIBLE FATE OF A NEGRO
WOMAN AT MCNUTT-
GREAT SCALES OF FLESH
WUN LUNG.
This is the que«r name of a Chinese
lanndrymn in Hartford, but he ha*
probably two lung*, like the m«‘t it
o*. S >me crjirg babies se<*m to have a
dozen. Lungs should bssoa r d, or the
voice will bav»- a weekly sound. I>r.
Pierce’s Golden Medical , Discovery
makes strorg lungs, drives the cou;b
away. ge n eretee g >od blood, tones Uie
nerves, build up the human wreck and
inskes ‘ another man” of bim. Nigbf-
sweats. blood-spitting, short breath,
brr nubitis, rre positively cured by this
unapproachable jffinedy. If taken m
time, Consumptioxt itself can be baffled.
Iti.3 mt tbe extremes of heat and
cold so much as the sudden change in
temperature that can°e certain climates
to h» nnbeelthful. Wb«-n, however, the
sjsta n is invigorated with Ayer’s Sir
s' pa ills, these changes are rarely at-
teuued with injurious results.
Did it ever occur
S.rssnarilla, thebe
Wntchmno. . ■»*♦
ESDAY MORNING, MARCH 22,1802.—8 PAGES.
HIS CHANCE AT
Clement and Henry Waffbrtl
twin brothers. How like and yet how
nnlike! In appearance there
thing to lead one to ee®
both ray claim to fhe same
their faces were identical, fheir figx
the same. Fortune, however, had placed
them in totally distinct channels. Their
eiother in her day ffor she had been dead
these twenty years') waa an actress of
rare ability, and people had
theaters night after night
impressive acting.
Bo(h her sons had inherited her tal-
•ents in no small r-eaEnre. -nd two years
. previous to her death thr> had launched
out in tlieir first stragg’; i.o win fresh
laurels for-the name 3 c ad which all
that was gifud had gathered. Talents,
alas! may live and shii o, yet they may
live and scarcely flick r. Today these
two men were 1 r-V.hers only in name.
The gifts of the one had been recognized
by a fickle public, the ability of the
other never even had a thought.
Clement Walford! His nam-* was m
everybody's lips. The cri ( -„ivo r •:
columns in the papers, theatrical man
agers almost knelt at his feet .and paid
eagerly the money he demanded to se
cure his services; society held open its
doors, and the great actor entered at his
caw. And Henry? A straggler—^noth
ing more; a disappointed straggler.
Clever, but unknown; gifted, but nn-
hcard of. His brother's success maj
have cut him, but it never discouraged
him. He labored on, still hopeful.
■While the popular man was rich in
London', the other was hovering on the
very edges of poverty. There were
times when he had been forced to write
to his brother a letter asking for help,
but no reply ever came. The poor man’s
wife had even knocked at the great
actor’s door, but the response from a
servant's lips was that “Mr. Walford
was engaged.”
And so the brothers lived. The one
utterly oblivious to the ties of relation
ship, the other hoping for recognition
and reconciliation at last. Clement Wol
ford's triumph was at hand. Hitherto
Shakespeare's characters had with him
remained untouched, but paragraphs ir
the newspapers had just appeared an
nauncing the fact that it was his inten
tion to appear at an early date an
Hamlet. Everybody, from manager to
public, was sanguine of a great success:
it was the topic of the clubs, the conver
sation of the critics. Clement Walford
himsolf felt inwardly comfortable and
satisfied that failure with him coul<
never be. Success! Success! Success!
He harped on that word at night, saw
the dream of his life realized as he
walked the streets to rehearsal and
heard the enthusiasm of the people, and
watched them clamoring there, even it.
the empty tln-ater, as scene by scene wa
gon,> through at rehearsal on the stage
In all this he was alone with himself
He thought of Clement Walford and of
him alone. A brother! He had none.
The other had had the same chances—
why did he not take them? If a man.
even his own flesh and blood, snapped
his fingers at his opportunities, was it
for him to put them in his grasp?
7i.a night drew near. The day before
the performance had arrived and the
lust rehearsal had been held. Clement
Walford returned to his rooms. He
stool before the gilded mantelpiece and
looked into the glass. He started back!
fie felt giddy. Again he looked into
the mirror with straining eyo. He ha*'
never seen such a deathly pallor on hi.
face before. He smiled at his foolish
ness. He attempted to re~rh a chair,
but found his feet would scarcely carry
him. Make what effort he might his
head was dropping on to-his breast; he
felt his hands trembling and looked at
them to see if it was trne.
• • Engagement—strain—anxiety — ner
vousness—overdoing it," he cried; “a
drink of water—brandy—will set' me
right. Where's the bellrope? Abl there
it is," and crawling toward the cord,
across the room, he just managed to
reach it when he fell to the ground.
When he awoke he lay in bed, the doc
tor standing by. He lifted hia eyee to
ward those of the doctor.
“Why—why am I here? How long
have 1 been here? Is this—is this the
first night?" he asked.
“You have been here for a few hours,
that is all," was the doctor’s reply. “Lie. .
quite still—keep your hands in bed,
now."
"Thank God! Thank God" the man
said. "1 was afraid it was the first night.
What’s the matter with me? What’s the
matter with me? Why don’t you an
swer? Don’t look at mo like that;, an
swer me!" » -
"Yon have been doing too much late
ly; yon are not strong.”
"Not strong!”
"And nothing but perfect reet will
bring yon around again,” the doctor
said. “Yon have”
What? what? Tell me quickly!"
“Yon hare broken a blood vessel!"
The man looked at the doctor for a
moment. Then he rose in his bod. His
voice was scarcely discernible; it was’
cold and harsh; it was not the voice of
a man whose tone had fascinated all ita
hearers. He looked the medical man
wildly in the face. He asked quietly at
first:
"Do von know what tomorrow night
No: of course you don't. But ldo.
It the first night of ‘Hamlet,’ and 1
shall be there—there, with the house be
fore me, hanging on every word I utter.
Do you think this bed will hold me from
to y triumph, do you think you, or the
warning of any man, will prevent me
from welcoming the hour of my success?
Not strong! you don’t know me. You
are * stranger to my strength. Don’t
•Peak a word. I shall only ridicule your
warning. 1 tell you, yon don’t know
rn ®- Take your hand away—tak6 it
“way. What do you say? Beet—rest
b^e, or 1 must—what! Die? Diel You
?alk madly. Mo, no, 1 shall lire! Live
“yself for years, live in the memory
” ftwevor After tomorrow night!
After tomorrow night! Give ae a drink
°f water!”
trembling hands the man re-
5“* of the doctor,-but Sifted
Jr® glass to his lipe and gulped down
the contents. Honr after hour paused,
«>• night had gone and with the Hr,t
• promise or a lave I sought,
Hta aontigbt rifting darkened skies,
A gleam of geld.
bid.
« n» was oney ing the wishes
of one for whom he could not do much
When he tamed his head he saw
that the dying man had raised himself
in the bed.
“Turn to the Third Act—the First
Scene. I enter. Listen now, and tell
me what effect this upon yon. Lis
ten!
"To be or not to ta-flut ti Ore question—
whether "tie nobler tn fhe mind, to auiTSr
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune*
Or to take arms against a see of troubles.
And, by opposing, end them* To die-te
sleep—
No more—and, by a sTeep. te say wo end
The heartache, and the thousand natural
shocks
That flesh is hetr ts-tk a consummation
Dovoutly to be wished. Te die—to sleep—
To sleep! perehsnoote dream; aye, thece*atbe
rub—
For tn that sleep of death what dretas mar
come.
“'Why do yon stars at me? Keep your
eyes on the book and not on me, .
"For tn that Steep of death what dreams "**y
come.”
Then the man stopped. He mur
mured these words yet again and again
then, turning to the doctor, ho told him
whqt he well knew—that he was dying.
"Do you know what would be my
dream in that long sleep!" he asked
wildly and yet plaintively. “I will tell
you. My brother! He would mock at
me that 1 was snapped off in the very
moment of my triumph. He would
point at me and laugh. I, who had re
fused to hold out a helping hand to Him
tn*l exert my nfflnenca to better his po
rtion. Oh, I couldn’t bear that! Harry,
Harry, old fellow, if I could only see
you again; if I could only ask you to
forgive me before it is too .late; if I—
Doctor," he cried suddenly, “I must see
my brother Harry! I must see him!
You’ll find his address in that desk—
send for him. Tell bim his brother
Clem wants to speak to him and do at
last what he has always refused. There,
in that desk.”
The doctor quietly laid the patient’s
head upon the pillow. Then he told him
that which brought a wild smile of glad
ness to hia pallid face. Ha laughed at
the news. His brother Harry was be
low waiting even then. When the doc
tor saw that the man was dying, he
asked the servants if their master had
any relations living. They only knew
of one—a brother he never saw, a broth
er who a few days before had knocked
a:: the door and had gone away unseen.
They knew his address, for he had left
it. He had come np to London, hoping
against hope that still the great actor
wouT3 endeavor to get him an engage
ment. So the doctor telegraphed to him,
and he had only just that moment come.
“Send him to me—now—at once,” the
dying man 6aid in a voice now weak.
“Tell him, before be comes up, that hia
brother (Jlem is longing to see him.”
The doctor went to the door and called,
and when he saw Henry Walford as
cending the stairs he started in surprise.
How like these two men were; how won
derfully like. But one, though poverty
had lined her story upon his face, looked
strong and well, the other men was dy
ing fast. Quietly he entered.
“Harry, old fellow,” one said, lifting
a hand oat of bed with a last strength.
Clem! Clem!" the other cried, tak
ing the proffered hand and putting the
ether arm aronnd his neck and lifting
his head up. Then the two men kissed
each other.
“Harry, old boy. Pm dying! I know
it. 1 shall have missed tonight, shan't
I? But I’ve found you. Come nearer
to me and listen! Harry, Pvo been erne!
to you—you forgive me?"
The other clasped his hand.
“No, no; say it! Say ‘I forgive you? ”
“Clem, my brother; 1 forgive you,
Clem," Henry Walford said, through
his tears.
I shan’t be able to talk much, so 1
must say it quickly. A little water—
just wet my lips. Thank you—thank
yon, old fellow. Now, listen earnestly
to me. Come very near. Harry, your
chance has como at last—and tonight.
You can take it in my stead, for I shan’t
be here. You know the part? Ah! 1
thought so—you have played it many
times. Bat mine—mine is a daring plot.
There is my fur coat on the back of that
chair—put it on. Yes; nevermind about
letting go my hand—put it on, Harry."
Henry Walford did so.
“Yes—yea—it is myself. Go down to
the theater tonight. Walk in at the
stage door without saying a word. They
will touch their hats to you and let you
Go to my room—it is the first on
the left. Make up—dress—everthing is
there. Be in readiness—the orchestra
will commence, the curtain will rise,
and—and—as—yon—step on the stage
the house will nng with applause. Your
chance—has—come—at—last Thank
God—1—your brother, Clem—can give
it to you. Harry—Harry, old fellow—
Harry—hold my hand—I’m—goodby—
put your arms—round me—Harry—
The man fell back in his brother’s
arms—dead!
That night the theater was paoked.
The stage doorkeeper touched hia hat to
Hie great actor as bs passed through
without a word. The prompter’s bell
rang and the curtain rose. Hamlet en
tered and the noise was deafening, and
when the curtain fell he who played tbs
Prince was called again and again. On
the morrow the newspapers devoted col
umn after column m eulogizing a re
markable performance, “one that would
live in the memory of all who had seen
it" Then, when the truth came oat,
the excitement and curiosity were in
creased twofold. GementJfslford waa
ever remembered, Henry Walford from
that night was never forgotten. His
chance had come at last—Harry How
in Strand Magazine.
The trouble with most cough me d’-
cines is that they spoil the appetite,
weaken digestion, and create bile. Ay
er’s Cherry Pec tors’, on the contary.
while it gives immediate relief, aigifts
rather than imp tin the assimilative
process.
3EU
you
LOVERS AGAIN.
Out of the window of the old wooden
bridge, whose hooded tunnel threw a
dark bar across the moonlit mountain
stream, a man and woman stood look
ing into the pine clad amphitheater of
the cliffs, which lay in stillness beneath
the spell of a September night. The
black hollow of the bridge, with its one
moonbeam sharp across the floor, con
trastedTrith fhe awful splendor of the
granite gorge, buttressed and pinnacled
in every rising tier, under the flood of
ghostly light, and if the only object of
the couple in coming here waa to see the
view they were amply repaid.
From their conversation since they
left the hotel, which now lay behind
them, bidden by a fringe of the foreet,
it would have been difficult to say that
this was not their only object. The
small talk of acquaintanceship, friend
ship and even love is within certain
limits, and among people habituated to
each other’s conventions practically in
distinguishable. Frequently it is diffi
cult to decide why the degrees should
be of so much consequence to the par
ties.
It was, in this case, knowledge of the
world and the good temper of experi
ence that kept 1 vfe Hugonin and Ar
thur Kinnaird oJ*Vt»rfectly unruffled
terms with each other. The conviction
that he hod long ago forgiven her, grati
fying as it once had been, was now of
such long standing that it had becoms
confused with her earlier and less justi
fiable conviction that he ultimately
would forgive her.
Thus secure in vindication, the lust
for which tho dying Eve bequeathed to j
all her sex, Mrs. Hugonin could, with
out the slightest reflection upon her
widowhood, accept once more the com
panionship of a man who tolerated life
as comfortably as Arthur Kinnaird.
The imminence of the climacteric which
she knew to be threatening him was
sot to be read from his figure. His step I
was alert, his cheeks were bronzed, his !
tastes were rational, and what more :
could hs desire?
She poshed back her dark hair under i
ita somewhat youthful cap and, leaning j
her elbows on the edge, gazed, without
speaking, at the haunted defile. Kin-
aaird gave a little laughed behind her.
“Margaret,” he said,- “upon my word, it
seems as if we were boy and girl again.”
“Why, particularly?” She asked, with
out turning her head.
‘Oh, all this summer,” he replied.
She didn't ask him to be more explicit.
‘It is certainly an ideal place," she said,
with a half sigh. “Yet it is foolish to
say that the beauties of nature restore
one's youth. One may feel young again,
but one is not really any the less dispas
sionate."
“1 am not so sure of that,” said Kin
naird. “1 should like to argue the point
with you—if it could be argued.”
“You men are all alike,” said Aire.
Hugonin, with an inconsistent shrug of
her shoulder. “Yon give up to logic
what was meant for conversation."
Kinnaird stroked his mustache thought
fully for a moment. “And so yon think
me dispassionate?” he observed.
“Yon?" said Mrs. Hugonin, turning
with a delightful laugh. “Why, Arthur,
there isn't a sentiment or a conviction te
whoso support- society could order you
to contribute.”
“If yon mean that," he said slowly,
•it is quite as I feared.”
“As you feared?”
"You still believe me capable of as
much mistaken self control as 1 once
was. And,” he added calmly, “I don’t
wonder.”
Though there waa no bitterness ap
parent in hia tone, Mrs. Hugonin was
startled. “Really, this is nnlike yon,
Arthur," she said gravely, but yet with
a sense of amusement “Yon petulant
with your past? You provoked with your
recollections? Indeed I have mistaken
yon.”
He laughed, but gently. “Come," hs
■aid, “yen have no right to be ironicaL
Though 1 once 1st yon go, it was because
1 feought yon wished to be released.”
“Upon my word, Arthur,” said Mrs.
Hagenin, “1 did not know yon were
—cions, or 1 should not have taken this
as a joke.”
‘1 am entirely serious."
‘Really?* said Mrs. Hugonin, and she
apoke with some" irritation. “1 thought
all had been forgotten and forgiven
years ago.” Then she drew herself up
proudly. “Can it be that after all this
time yon have conceived the chilrlish
whim of forcing me to a—to an apology?"
“No—hardly that.”
“1 am ready to make it,” she went on.
••But if 1 do”
Kinnaird moved to the window beside
her and laid his hand on her arm. “You
are much mistaken,” he said, in the un
disturbed voice which so provoked her.
“Yon must indeed think that I am tak
ing leave of my years. 1 never had
much vanity, 1 think, bat what 1 had
when 1 was younger I never made a pet
of. Look over there at the rocks and
what do you see?”
“Rocks—and moonlight. But, Ar-
Talk is cheap, listen to nothing until
see O’Farrell A Funkerutein’a stock
are and prices.
' “The rocks make me recollect,” ha
wont on, unheeding; “that one day when
yen were about seventeen yon and 1
eHmbed Less mountain together. And
whin wo .ggaohed the ravine yon insisted
eh going first,. and I let yon. Now I did
feat because I reflected that if yon felfl
could catch yon.”
“Well?”
“Tan see, that was my first
1 Should have gone first and made you
efing to my—pardon me-^coat tails.”
“Very likely,” said Mrs. Hugonin, .
half laughing. But 1 can’t think it does'
1 Calk it uvar now. *"
“After tha,” said Kinnaird, panning
am subject. "I acted oonsistectiy on ae
—me mistaken theory. And when it
came to the question of giving yon op, 1
thought always of yon first That was
why 1 gave yon np—which you natural
ly-considered a weakness.”
It did not escape Mrs. Hugontu that a
dormant weakness of her own was re
viving under tho continued stress of this
absurd conversation — a weakness for
sentiment. But it was checked by her
vexation with her friend for breaking
their ^acit understanding—and by the
feeling of half contemptuous pity that
stole over her as he spoke.
Were she a man, she thought, she
would never confess at forty to the in
competence of twenty-five. That Kin
naird did so bqt absolved her again. Also,
she reflected, she had a headache yester
day, and therefore it was very lncky
this conversation had not been started
then, or she wonld have been much
more provoked than she was now.
“1 shall uot stop-you,” she said in a
half mischievous tone. “Goon—1 won't
be angry. You will perhaps admit that
if there is anything rankling it ts as wall
for yon to abase me and have it ever,
even after all. these years, who— obitu
aries yon have written.”
“My dear, my darting." be said, his
strong hand clasping her so qnickly that
involuntarily her arm straggled like a
bird’s wing to wrest itself arway. “It is
well for me to toll the only woman lever
loved that I lojre her still and de not
mean to let her go again.”
“Arthur!”
“Margaret, l love yon more than
ever."
“It is impossible.”
“1 love yon." £
‘‘You cannot. Cannot - be in earnest,”
the stammered. , ‘‘Why, yon have never
told me."
“Never—until -now," he laughed. “1
learned something when 1 lest yen the
first time—my darling.”
“This," said Mrs. Hugonin, partially
recovering hereqlf, “ie folly, Arthur,
and it is most unfair.”
“Unfair,” he said, “to want yon fer
my wife? No, yoti mean-.unfair to take
yon off your guard. 1 wiil not quibble
with your words,” he said, smiling.
“May the hour and the aoene suggest to
yon all that they wilL May they bring
yon back to—it was twenty that yen
were—when it all happened. Margaret,
when you were tryenty-ei* I went away
from the dty of aD my hopes, bat before
1 turned my back on it 1 (fid as many a
ref ogee had done before me—1 sealed np
my treasures and hid them; and my
store is where 1 left it That is why 1
want you to marry me. All that 1 had
looked forward to telling yon—when
yon were twenty—all that I had to say
to yon, the secret hoard that 1 had been
piling up for our married life, is intact,
and now 1 want yon to share it, with
me.” He paused a moment and then
went 'oh: '‘My dear, I %to .siiqply had
to wait, that is alL But, pleas# hearen,
wo will begin again."
Poor Mrs. Hngonin’s breath come and
went, an unwilling messenger of pes-
sion, or, it might be, of sentiment. “Per
haps 1 was in the wrong,” she said.
“Bat why did not yon think more of
yourself?’
“1 am thinking of myself now,” said
Kinnaird.
Suddenly, as Mrs. Hugonin hung dis
tracted and in doubt, ths cliff before
them rang faint and sibylline with an
echo. It was the town clock of the vil
lage striking over beyond the trees; they
could not hear it, but sent from ledge to
ledge in the still night air it struck sil
very and remote en the granite facade.
As it sounded they both started, he at
its elfin suggestions, she at its material
reminder.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed, “it
is 11 o’clock!”
“It is,” said Kinnaird.
“And we must positively go back to
the hotel at once. We are a scandal,
Arthur—and yon know it, for 1 saw yon
start too.” She began to smile. “Do
yon see nothing in fire angary?" she
asked.
“The augury?"
“We are two old fools," she said.
“Think of my boy in his bed, Arthur.
Think of my thirty years; be quiet, if
yon please. 1 choose to be thirty for
formality’s sake. It is only the night
and the moonlight. When 11 o’clock
strikes we recollect that we ought to he
respectably at home. It is only an echo.
Ah, my dear old friend, we have
our past and it is over.
“Yours has been unhappy, and 1 am,
oh, so very sorry! But yon are con
tented now, and, what is mere, yen are
kind and strong; it is better as it is.
Take me back to tho hotel, and we «*>»’!
beware of echoes in the future.”
“I thought you said yon had grown
old,” said Kinnaird. “It is enly youth
that refuses the echo."
And he took her in his arms and kisssd
her.—Philadelphia Times.
Worth Knowing.
In traveling, one of the dean, new
sheets of a newspaper on the floor of a
dirty car means valuable dress protection.
And light soled shoes are most efficient
ly added to by two thicknesses of the
same thing. Stand the shoe on the pa
per and draw an outline of the sole,
which thun cut ont; this slipped in place
is as good as a cork sole and vastly more
comfortable.—Her Point of View in !
New York Times.
I
Regan Washing at Mldalght.
In England, when George II was alive,
the washing of the house was always
done at home. Ths washerwoman be-
gan her work at midnight. Why this
was so ordered 1 know not; there must
have been some reason.—Walter Bosant
in Harper’s.
Dante Bad Me Leva fer Ble Wife.
The great Dante was married to a no
torious scold, and when he' was in exile ;
he had no desire to see her, although
she was the mother of his six children.
—Writer.
The surprise ft Rin Van Winkle when
arraking from his long alnmber sould
nothsve been gr*i ter than f be consump
tive’* upon flndinv bims* If entirely re
lieved by Dr. Bull’s Cough Syrup. 35
cents.
A-pretty petur*—A sunny baired
ohildcnrirg the Newfoundland’s out
foot with Salvation Oil.
WHAT NOT TO LOSE.
Don’t bate courage; aptrtl brave
Carry wtth yoe te the grave.
Don’t toes flare la rafn distress;
Wort, ant worry, brings sneoess.
Don’t lose hope; who Ms her stray
Goca forlornly an Are way.
Don’t lose patience, come what wifi;
Patience oft times outruns «fctq
Don’t *oee gladness; every hear
Blooms for yoa seme happy flower.
Though be foiled yonr dearest plan.
Don’t lose faith la (tod and man
—Exchange.
THE BIG GRAY WOLF.
Napoleon’s victories had set all France
ablaze with military glory. Jean Potoir
and Antoine Savory were French boys
of the department ef the Yonne. They
shared everything, were nearly always
together.
Just before the invasion of Russia by
the emperor a number of recruits be
longing to the village were allowed to
return home for a visit, and the two
boyB heard their stories of tho last cam
paign.
As Jean could beat the dram, and An
toine was an excellent fifer, the recruits
begged the parents of the boys to let
them go to the army and share in the
glory of taking the capital of the czar.
The parents agreed, and when the re
cruits went back file boys went too, and
were accepted by the mastering officer.
He said he needed a good drummer and
fifer and was glad to see them. Long
before they reached Moscow both had
become prime favorites in the regiment
It was a dreary time for the French
army when it started away on that fa
mous retreat from the city of the czar’s.
Winter had set in, the earth was white
with deep snows, the air was bitter and
said. Before they had gone far hun
dreds of soldiers froze to death.
At night the wolves would fill the
froety air with their howls, and when a
man dropped out of the ranks they would
rush down upon him aud devour him
before his comrades. They were large
and fierce, and they came in great packs
and sometimes could not be driven off,
not even by a fusillade.
One evening near sundown Jean came
to Antoine and said he had discovered a
farmhouse near by. He thought they
■fight get some warm milk for them
selves by telling the people how ex
hausted they were.
The boys stole off, Jean with his drum
and Antoine with a musket and some
ammunition, which bad been given h 1Tn
by a soldier who bed been transferred to
one of the ambulances.
When they reached the place, instead
of a farmhouse they found a hnt nearly
ready to crumble to pieces, and no sign
of any one near.
As they passed into the-hnt tpinething
rushed ont with a snarl, and the boys
found they had disturbed a large gray
wolf.
The hungry boys started back. Night
came sooner than common. Darkness
suddenly swooped down on all the vast,
snowy plain. When they tried to find
the army they could not.
Suddenly there entered the cabin a
long, low howl that startled the young
musicians.
“The wolves have come!" cried An
toine, springing up and running to Hie
door, which they had shot.
On the snow stood a huge wolf whose
sides shone like silver, showing that he
wore a gray coat. He seemed to bead
the pack. He had brought th«m mil on
the boys’ track.
Antoine was for firing at the wolf, but
Jean said it wonld only precipitate an
attack. They had hopes that some of
Prince Marat’s horsemen would come
along and rescue them without farther
dangers.
By and by the wolves became bolder.
The boys saw them come alm<vt eloee
enonvh to be struck with a stone. They
had discovered the young musicians, and
now they began to set np their long, pe
culiar howl.
Jean seized the drumsticks and beat
the rataplan in hopes of frightening the
beasts off, but the unsie made them
howl the more.
“Here they come, Jean!" exclaimed
Antoine.' t “Look to the doorl If they
throw themselves against it in a body
It will not keep them out.”
The pack in front had risen and were
rushing forward. Antoine thrust the
muzzle of his musket through a crack
and fired into the howling, struggling
Several yelps ef pain attested the
power of ttie shot. The wolves drew
off, carrying with them a dead comrade;
and devoured him before the boys’ eyes.
Antoine had reloaded. They stood
against ths door and awaited another
attack.
Jean wized his dram. The little mu
sician ef the Yonne played as he had
never played before; bis drumsticks
flew, warming his half frozen fingers
and filling, the old shanty with strange
music, the roll call of Napoleon’s army.
The hnt was not high and its roof was
covered with heavy snow. Suddenly the
boys saw several wolves leap np and dis
appear. They seemed to have bounded
toward the roof, and when Jean cried
ont that he heard something overhead,
they both knew that the were
on the hnt.
Yes, the wolves were up there, trying
to scratch the snow away, that they
might leap down into the cabin and
make short work of the young soldiers.
Fer a moment Jean and Antoine
together aghast.
“Look! the door! the door!" shouted
Jean, dropping his drumstick. “They
are here again, Antoine.”
Once more the boy with the musket
fired at the lot outside te hear another
howl and to see the pack devour a »!«■»
comrade.
Bat this time the wolves did not fail
back; they continued to try to force tha
door while Antoine reloaded with half
frozen hands and Jean held the barri
cade.
The animals on the housetop made a
good deal of noise, and the boys had be
gan to think the roof could not be
forced, when Jean cried ont that a pair
of eyes were gleaming overhead, and
the young soldiers looked and-bofh saw
the head of a wolf. J&
“Iti
Bringing rej musser to oear on tne ap
parition. “it is the head of the wolf we
disturbed when we came to the hut.”
The next moment the cabin was filled
with smoke and the boys saw the head
vanish, and fhe stars only were seen
through the hole in the roof.
The assaults of the ravenous beasts
now began to toll on (he strength of the
door. Jean placed his body against ft,
and Antoine fired as often as he could,
but the wolves appeared ten times
fiercer.
“Listen!” said Jean, suddenly, and ho
bent toward the door, making an ear
trumpet with his hands.
The little fifer looked through a crack.
He turned to his friend, crying out with
joy:
“I see dark figures moving over the
snow. They seem to be horsemen.
Whatever they are, they are coming this
way. They are too tall to be more
wolves.”
Jean picked np the dram and beat a
wild tune, which went out over the
snow. It was answered by shouts, and
now both could see horsemen galloping
forward.
“They are Cqssacks!” whispered An
toine, his shonldcr to the door. “Wo
shall never see the grand army again."
The wolves were making a final effort
to force the door. Antoine mechanically
met them, firing away his lAst charge
and dropping Iris weapon.
In another moment a party of wild
looking Cossacks swooped down upon
the hnt and surrounded it, while the
wolves drew off.
“Come out!" cried the Cossacks.
•‘Come out, you who are within! Sur
render to the soldiers of the great czar!”
Jean and Antoine opened the door and
walked forth. When the Cossacks saw
the two boys they set np a loud laugh,
and their hetman, a fine looking feHow,
satirically touched his cap in the way of
a salute. They had expected to capture
a number of men soldiers.
“Yes, there is the big wolf on the
roof, said Jean to Antoine; and sure
enough up there lay the big gray mon
ster, the cause of all their trouble. One
of the Cossacks palled the carcase from
the roof and threw it on the snow.
“Play for ns,” commanded the leader
of the wild band.
Jean and Antoine drew np together in
the snow, and in a moment the lively
airs of France were wafted over the
dreary waste. For awhile the faces of
the Cossacks clouded..
But at last they swung their great
caps over their heads and cheered ths
boys of the Yonne. 1
“You shall go back to yonr army,"
said the hetman. “Yon shall not be
taken to prison. Yon have been brave.
We like brave boys like our own.”
The next day the rear guard of the
grand army saw approaching them with
a white flag a troop of wild horsemen of
the steppes, and the regiment to which
Jean and Antoine belonged was over
joyed to receive once more into the ranks
the little musicians.
The boys endured the horrors of that
retreat, and in after years, when they
sat w ii!i old playmates nnder the spread
ing trees of the village and related
stories of Napoleon’s ill fated campaign,
they never failed to tell how they fought
the big wolf and his pack, and their res
cue by the Cossacks of the Don.—T. L.
Harbough in Boston Globe.
A Piece of Glace in Her Laryax*
A lady, while eating a piece of pie, feH
into a terrible fit ef coughing. A physi
cian could find no cause for the trouble,
and thought that whatever foreign sub
stance had produced it had been swal
lowed; but the patient insisted that
there was still some obstruction which!
not only choked her, but impaired hei
power of speech. Fer six weeks she re”
mained nearly speechless and under con
stant treatment. After that time she
slightly improved in health and voice,
bat without permanent relief.
At length, nearly two years after the
accident, Dr. Ransom, of New York,
was consulted and removed a piece of
glass from the larynx, hanging between
the vocal cords, ft was triangular in
shape and measured on its three edges
seven-eighths of an inch, one inch and
l M inches respectively!
The woman's voice at once improved,
and fhe irritation mainly disappeared,
though a slight swelling rriiiaaind
Thus the permanent results were anossii
ingly slight, though so big a fragment
of glass had remained in the larynx for
a year and nine months.—Youth’s' ~
panion.
How Green Came to BoChana,
The early Celts worshiped the db
and the sunrise. It is more
ble, therefore, that fheir
color green, which we see la
sashes, ete., arose froae a mistake
those who had lest a thorough knowl
edge of the Irish language. The sun, fa
Celtic, is called by a word pronounced
exactly like our word “green,” and It is
likely that the Irish fondness for that
color arose through the striking similar
ity of the two words. In tho same way,
when we talk about a greenhouse we
think they are so called because {Hants
are kept green in them during tits win
ter; yet it is far more probable that the
word is derived from the old Celtic
word for sun, because greenhouses are
so built as te catoh the rays and heat of
the.sun and store them for future use.—
tit. Louis Republic.
A DUtinrtlna.
The story is told of an American girl
who was stopped one morning by an
English railway porter beeasue she at
tempted to carry a pet rabbit eu heard a
train.
“Why," said she, “there’s no rale
against taking a rabbit. Rabbits ace
harmless. A friend of mine carried a
turtle on toe train the other day.”
“That’s different,” persisted the man.
“Rabbits is cats, and oats is dags, and
they’s excluded; but forties is insects,
and they’s goes free.”—Printers’ Ink.
Peal (from Her Body-Uzzle Heater
Ues Down to Sleep, and
Awakes to Find Herself
Rnolrcled With Fire—
A Horrible
End.
A woman burned to beath!
Such was the news<^talked on the
streets of Athens Saturday morniog,
and a Baxnxb r p >rter investigated tho
facts, and found the following to be
trim.
Geo. Hester ar-d his wife, l iatie
He-rtsr have been living st McNutt for
sometime. Tbeir house was a little
cabin, and during cold weather, it is a
c<dd place.
Geo. Hest-.r went to work in the field,
leaving his wife at home, she saying
that she was not feelirg will. Some
time after be had gone, she built up a
large fire, and lay down on the floor ia
front of the fire placa to flc*p.
How long she lay in this p isition Is
not known, bat at some time her cloth
ing caught fire, aud when she a’,' oke her
body was comphtaly enoircl.d with the
flames.
Tha frightened woman arose, and
screaming at, the top of her voice, ran
into the field, * where
her husband and Mr.
Sam McLaughlin were at work. Mr.
McL ughlin got a bucket of water ard
threw it on the burning woman. Gee.
Hester, her husband, began tearing the
clothing that remained, from tho un
fortunate’s body, and as ho did so, grert
scales of charred flesh pealed off, r*»
vealing in places the b>ne.
The’fira was extinguished, and tho
woman earned to h< r bom.*, where she
suffered in terrible agony fo* about ten
hours. Death relieved her rfter much
sufitring fiom the in tela* able pains.
DECLINES THE HONOR.
Judge Emory Speer win not Deliver
the Address-
Judge Emory 8p*er w : l! not d*'iv r
the commencement; oration bef n the
I terary s cieties oiT the University.
This position of honor was offered •' u g&~...
Speerby the D-mosthcman Soci- ry.of
which he" was a memb -r while in e i-
lege, but toe Ju-'ga is too fcu?ily en
gaged with his courts to scoept the
place.
So the honor falls upon, the site na'e,
Col. Bennett J. Conyrra.of Atlanta, who
graduated a few years since with, hon
ors from the University. If Mr. Con-
yeis should accept, the sud’enca at
Commencemet t will • enjoy hearing a
splendid speech, as be has quits a repu-
tiou as au e'.c quent orator.
A SENSATION BREWING-
A Duel Hey a.tur «-* die High Sou of
Abroad.
Atlanta, March 19.—A Washington
special to The Constitution says: •
The Now Yofk Sun today publishes a
London dispatch which gave the sorrea-
tienal Art ails of a quarrel which exists
between Atoms Coleman Drayton and
Haltatt Jdeup Borrows, well known
Am ei leans. Beth mem are passengers
on lh» White star steamship Mnjelie,
’^Mh fafh Qosenstowa lor New York
WsfotsaSaj flight, and it is thought
pemfKe feat the trouble between the
men may culminate fa a tragedy ca
shipboard.
Beseewe is toe sen of Samuel Bor
rows, vice president ef the Equitable
Assuranee assist?. Mr. Drayton as a
aatfere ef Fhttsdelptais, and is of am ex-
celest famfl|r. Bb wife, Augusta, is
the third daughter ef Kr. sad Am.
Wffiiam Storr. Fer two zsemths the
Amarieaa aaiaadee ef Leadea and
Paste have hoard vagas rtunara of a
between Mr. Borrows
wimg aak ef anapieloas
yto* warding Har
wich Mrs- Drayton,
alw v* dealared to
Pasyten endeavored te briag
abend a dam. Hr. Borrow* was ready
eaeugh, but bis mooed*, Harry Yaae-
laMisafl and EMwasd Fax, redased to al
low hia te fight, en the gyeaad that
•zoften's conduct in accepting money
aad toe fast that be had raspictons of
Ms wtfs fire yearn before he hod chal
lenged Borrow*, forfeited his right to
ask fer the snttefaetion ef s. gentleman,
fa this dsefeiea the seconds were upheld
by as fas authorities than AarclUu
faheel and the Due de Moray, two ef
ttio most celebrated duelists in France.
Mevsrtoilpii, Drayton has not hesi
tated, smsag hfa friends, te elaas Boc-
zawe’s conduct as eewardioe. Mr.
Dxaytea has taken his ehildrsa from bis
wife and faft them with friends ia
Wales. Mrs. Drayton ts in Loudoa.
living fa Mayfair. Her mother and
father, are in Paris. It is probable that
to* p-essnt conditions will result in a
diverse.
