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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.