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A sailor for sea. And a -minster for tea, \ lnwyer for talk and a soldier for fighting; A baby for noise, And a circus for boys, \inl n typewriter man to do autograph writ ing. A banker for chink. And a printer for ink, \ leopard for spots, and a wafer for slicking; A crack baseball dinger, An opera singer, \ shotgun, a mule and a choir for kicking, BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY. Copyrighted by the Author, and published by arrangement with him. mil ip had been srmpiy disgusted at first, hut there seemed a terrible leer in the drunken ,\< ■■-. Could it be the man had come to ex p'sehim? What was the use of struggling ;i. um l bis destiny anv longer? If he qould have gone yesterday, he would have saved all risks. But he lmd waited just too long. Curran had returned to claim his wife. Jane Ellingsworth had discovered everything. And now this (biddings in his drunkard’s foolishness was threatening what ruin he could bring. “You are not going to do anything rash are you." said Philip, dropping his eyes in humiliation. But ( I hidings came close to him and laid his hand on his shoulder. Then he put his face close to Philip’s, with a drunken man’s false measure of distance. The young man writhe* 1 al his touch, and held liis breath to avoid biking the hot fume? of bad liquor the fellow exhaled. But he did not dare to anger the low creature. “Did you think,” continued Giddings with gushing reproachfulness, “that I aint got any conscience? You’re doin’ wrong, Mr. Breton. I aint got no right—no right to let it, go on. Did you think I aint got no conscience?” • Philip shook him off and his face grew so terrible that the fellow winced as he had done before at that look. “Don’t strike—don’t kill me, Phil — Mr. Breton, I was only jokin’—can’t you tell when a man’s jokin’. Got any money ’bout clothes, say >‘so; ’in awful hard up. 1 wouldn’t hurt you; your altogether too nice feller.” He leered affectionately at the young man, then suddenly he winked frightfully. Philip threw him a roll of bills. It was the last blood money the scoundrel would ever draw. By to-morrow morning Philip Breton and his wife would be beyond the reach of harm, or beyond the reach of help, one or the other. “There is $100; take it and go, I have business. '’ “Ten, twenty, and twenty makes thirty, ten, and twenty and twenty, here aint but SBO. Thought I’s too drunk to coun’ did you ?” “There is ?100 there.” “’S lie. Yer takin’ vantage me cause I’m drunk.” Tliis creature must be avtoiy if it cost SI,OOO. He crowded another S2O bill into the fellow’s clammy hand. “Now go, or you'll stay longer than you want to.” Biddings dried his tears and gathered his limp joints together to go. But he insisted on Philip’s shaking hands. But even after Giddings had got into the hall Philip heard the felloAv muttering to himself. He stepped hurriedly to the door of his office to catch the word, but could not. If Philip had been a little quicker he would have heard this: “Somethin’ up, I ain’t so drung but I ca’ see that. Guess ’sil g’uptothe hoy’s house. His wife ’ll know me, he, he.” Would Bertha never come? If they escaped now it must be but by a hair’s breadth. Ruin would he close upon them. For the adjust ment of a ribbon she would sacrifice every thing; It seemed a great while since Curran had left the office for the labor meeting, and he had not so far to go. Something might have delayed the terrible disclosure for a few moments, but by this time he must surely have heard the whole story of his shame and dishonor. It would stir him to madness. His noble eyes would flash lightnings, and thun derbolts of hate and scorn would drop from his lips. No human being could stand against thjulivine dignity of such a man’s righteous wrath. Philip fancied the mob sweeping up the road behind this outraged husband, seek ing out his wife for the doom that would satisfy his mad thirst for vengeance. Now, perhaps, they were bursting in the gates, now breaking down the oaken door. And Philip could not be there to protect the beautiful woman*who had only' sinned through love for him. How the color would flee her cheeks as she looked out on the pitiless faces of the frenzied mob. There was no arm now to j&ield her, none but Curran’s, whose love was “w embittered into hate. There was no pity in his white, wasted face, only insulted love, only scorn that could grind her fair life, with out one ■throb of tenderness, beneath his feet. IVhy del she not come! Philip was almost wild with mingled terror and hope. He walked the room like a caged lion. Now ho rushed to the door and glanced desperately up and down the street. His horses were champing their bits at her door, but the light ye* burned in her cham ber. There was hardly time to catch tho train at the Lockout station. The wild mob with the maddened lover, the most terrible of enemies, at their head would be at her door in a moment. Still other dangers Philip did not guess threw a gathering shadow across her path. But she lingered yet. CHAPTER XXXV. A POPULAR LEADER. Market hall was full of excited workmen when Curran pushed the door open and stepjx'd in. Some would be orator had been trying to voice the wrongs of the people, but when the whisper ran along the seats that Curran was at the door every head was turned. Then, as if by a common impulse, the whole audience rose to their feet, and the building seemed to the cheer that burst from the brawny throats. Here was an orator indeed, a man who could sot before them their sufferings and wring their hearts with self pity; who could make each *oul of them wonder at his own patience. He made His way slowly up the aisle with simple greetings for his friends, as they stretched out their grimj’ hands to him. But his smile was so sad and hopeless that every glad fdee sobered as he passed. ’ He mounted the platform and tunned his face toward Drim. He seemed but the .ghost of his former magnificent manhood, but tlie people cheered him again* and those in rear leaped upon their seatslh the eagerness to see >heir hero. Then all held their breath to lis ten; even the girls in the gallery stopped ■h'*ir excited whispering while they waited H>r his grand ringing tones that had thrilled ! Jbe faintest hearts so many times before, o ould he never begin? “What is this meeting for?” > The orator his coming had interrupted, Was only too glad to explain. “We don’t get our rights. We get a little, but that’s all, and we mean to fetch - tjje /ouug boss to his milk to-morrow; don't we, lads?” A shout of.eager assent went up from tftp crowd. Then all was still again. J'fow would com * the torrent of words of fnwn<\ Ytes, Curi an had stepped forward to tnc- very edge the platform, in his old habit. Bui who ''as the fellow with bandaged hind pushing ms way so rudely up the main a*sle, as iijlui' buce tidings? It must be ill tidingsdo ako him in such haste. But Curran had begun tu speak. “You are making a mistake, my frienas r groat mistake. The young master has done weK by* you, and he will do better, if you will give him time to think. Such mighty ideas as have got intA his mind can’t be Stopped. They will not let him halt long; he must be swept forward. But you must wait for him. You have waited for your cruel and heartless masters thousands of years. Will you only' show yourselves impatient and insolent to the first one who shows himself kind toward y ou? Do you want to make his name an example and a warning for bis class? 1 have heard their scoffs and taunts already—the air is full of them. Look, they say, at tin* way the people treat the man who tries to help fhem. Friends, you are making a terrible mistake.” iJM vf kk-m. V x\ V But Curran had begun to speak. The light of the mail’s noble genius had flushed bis pale cheeks and flashed beauti fully in his steel blue eyes. His voice, that had seemed weak and unsteady as he be gan, rang out its bell like tones again as he saw the sullen faces soften under liis match less power. “He has made your village blossom by his low*; he has brought smiles to your weary children’s faces; he has planted hope in a thousand desperate hearts. Do you ask me how I know? I see it in your eyes. I see it in the way your lieads’rest on your broad shoulders. And will you use your new manhood to do him injury ?” But the man with- the bandaged head lmd reached the platform, and at this very mo ment, when the orator paused to let his meaning sink into the hearts of the people, he touched Curran on the slioulaer and whis pered a few hurried words in his ear. The people saw their hero’s face blanch. Fie turned to the fellow with a look that would break a man’s heart, and seemed to be asking him a question. As the agitator lis tened to the repl} r his knees trembled under him and he sank into a chair, and still tho messenger of evil bent over him and kept whispering with poisonous breath into his ear. At last Bailes stood back from his vic tim, w r ho bowed his head upon liis hands. Curran’s whole body' shook with the violence of his passion. The inert people waited. They knew noth ing else to do. Their hero might h ire died before them, they would never have thought to stir from their seats. But he rose at last, and Bailes grinned diabolically' behind him. They wmuld hear another story now. “Friends, you have heard wlmt I said.” He spoke as if a great weight was upon him and his voice came slowly. “I repeat it, be patient with y'our young master ; he means well by you.” But Bailes rushed forward and, tearing the bandages from his head, threw them upon the platform at his feet. Disease had settled in his bruises and his face was frightfully swollen mid disfigured. Ho might have been a ghoul or a gnome instead of a human being. “Revenge him, men,” he screamed, throw ing up his arms, “if you have any spirit in you. I have just told him—some of you liew it—how that boy has stole his wife and spit on the laws, as if they were not for the rich like him.” It was more like a groan than a shout that went up from the crowd before him, which only waited a word from the bowed, broken man they' loved, to become a bloodthirsty' mob. Would he give them that word? He had leaped to his feet and thrown out his long right arm in its grandest gesture, and the murmur of the people died down. His face was as white as a dead man’s, an ashy white, but his eyes flashed lightning. “Whose wrong is it then, this hideous crea ture’s or mine ? I will settle my own griev ances, I need no mob to right me.” Then Curran paused a moment. When he began again it was in a lower tone. “Besides, the man is wrong,” his voice trembled like a child’s. “I have no—no,” he almost broke down, “I have no wife —Ia am not well, I must go to my bed, but before I go I want to be sure y'ou will make no mistake to-night or to-morrow.” He folded his arms across his broad chest in a sublime effort of self controL His blood boiled in mad fever, every moment was worth a world to him, agonizing pictures floated before his dimmed vision, but he would not stir from his post till he had conquered this mob. “Philip Breton ha 3 shown himself fair to you, be fair with him. If he never did another thing for you—he—he has y'et deserved your—y'our patience. You will excuse me now, I will see you to-morrow, but I need rest. Can I depend on you?” He did not even look at them; liis attitude, as he waited with downcast eyes, was of a man who talks in his sleep. “Yes—yes,” shouted the people, and then he turned and stepped off from the platform. He came down the aisle very strangely. At first he would hurry and notice no one. Then, ns if by a mighty effort, he would walk very slowly, then faster again. Then he would stop short and put out his hand to some perfect stranger. Many eyes watched him curiously when he separated from his eager friends at the door of hall and walked rapidly away. If CurrSti had turned off to the road that led to Philip Breton’s house on the hill he would not have gone far alone, but he did not even look that way so long as the half tamed mob could see him. And the people scattered in disappointment to their homes. But Curran is no longer walking in liis first direction; he has turned on his heel and mile a route for himself across the fields. Flis faco is pointed toward the lights that yet shine down at him from the stone house on the hill. And the roads are not straight enough for the ernuid he is on, nor is walking fast enough, he breaks into a run. Now he falls over a low fence so violently that a limb might have been broken, but he only loses his hat anil runs on, his long hair shaking down over his pale set face as lie runs. His breath comes like the puffing of a locomotive; he can hear his heart throb louder than his foot falls. What Joes he seek? What will he do when he looks again on his faithless and dishonored wife mid on the man who has put this dead liest shame upon him? Punishment can wipe out nothing, vengeance never assuaged oik* [>ang of human anguish yet. But mercy or pity or reason are fled from Iris maddened soul to-night, while the furies whip him on. CHAPTER XXXVI. TOO FOND A HUSBAND. The drunken lawyer very nearly fell as he tried to step off the counting room piazza, and almost made up liis mind it would be more desirable to lie down in some soft spot rffid'go to sleep, than take the long walk he had se.t himself. But the cool breeze seemed to refresh him marvelously, and in another moment he despised tlie green hollow under the elm that had looked so inviting, and hurried up toward Philip Bretonis house. He shook his head wisely as he walked. It took a pretty smart man to get ahead Of Jjhn Giddings, drunk or sober. The young mfll owncy wasn’t nearly as frightened as usual. Something was in the wind. He ought to have watched him closer lately, but Gkldihgs concluded he was in. good time yet frith Breton at one end of the village, his wif% at the ether, and himself, the acute lawyer, between them. The lawyer had walked as far as Silas Ellingsworth s house, when he caught sight o£ a pair of horses on a fast trot, drawing a close coupe. Elegant pairs and chariots of that description were not so common in BretonviHe a.- to make it doubtful who might own this one, and besides it must have been an occasion of peculiar necessity that called for such unaristocratie haste. Giddings was perfectly delighted with his own sagacity. He knew human nature pretty well. When a man gets another in an unpleasant situa tion, he must count on the unfortunate struggling to escape. If it happens to be a woman, he need not l>e so watchful—women fire all fatalists. But it takes a pretty smart man to get ahead of John Giddings. “Whoa, whoa, I say.” The lawyer had thrown himself infrontof the exe’ted horses, and the driver had to pull up to keep from running over him. “\\ hoa, I say.” Then he stepped to the door of the carriage and turning the l*nob threw it wide open. The moonlight revealed a woman surrounded with carpet bags and shawls. A thick brown veil concealed her features, but Mr. Giddings took off his hat to her. “Mrs. Breton, I beiieve.” “Why yes,” she did not recognize him, “but lam in a hurry,” she said nervously drawing back. “Drive on Henry.” “No, you don’t,” insisted Giddings, mount ing the steps. “I guess you don't know me.” His liquor began to overcome him again, “name’s Giddings. aint goin’ fur, are you?” “To Europe,” she answered quickly, recog nizing him at last. “I have no further occa sion for your services, I have paid you, haven’t I?” “Not s’much as t'our second husband's paid me Since,” he gurgied. “If you’re goin’ so far, guess 111 go to, I like your family, Miss Breton.” “Drive on, I command you,”she screamed, and the horses started. Giddings lurched forward, and Bertha put out her white hands and tried to push him back. He clutched, with an oath, at something to hold to, but she loosened her India shawl and the man carried it with him into the ditch. But he lea[>ed to his feet. “Hold! stop! police! police!” but Giddings had no sooner spoken than the village police man laid his hand on his arm. “Here I am, sir, what’ll you have?” “Stop that carriage; arrest that woman, she is a criminal.” Giddings had shaken off the policeman’s grasp and started to run after the carriage. “You must be very drunk,” said the other, overtaking him, “that is Mr. Breton’s wife.” “I know that,” screamed the lawyer, “and I tell you to stop her, let me go.” “More likely you’re the criminal. Hallo, what you doing with that Indy shawl. Guess I’ll have to lock you up. Come along quiet, now.” But Giddings was perfectly frantic. He fought with his feet and hands, and with his teeth, kicking, tearing and biting like a wild beast. “Don’t let her escape, I say. never mind me, I’ll give you a thousand dollars. I’ll tear your heart out, you villain. Stop her, stop her!” Tho officer grew angry at last, and drew his billet, but still the fellow struggled and screamed like a wild creature, till blow after blow paralyzed his arms, and finally stretched him unconscious and bleeding on the ground. “Tremens,” growled the policeman, as he lifted him to his feet soon after,.and led him along, subdued at last. But a woman had stood in her window as the carriage had rolled by, and she had rec ognized the equipage, too. A sudden change came over her face. “Where n - e you going, Jennie?” Her hus band looked up calmly from his paper. “Out a minute,” she hardly looked at him, “that is all.” “But it is almost 9 o'clock, my dear, what can you want out?” Her breath came fast, and two bright red spots burned in her cheeks. Mr. Ellingsworth had never seen her so pretty. He must keep her so a few moments. Fie stepped to the door and turned the key, then he put it in his pocket and threw himself back on liis chair again* She faced him with flashing eyes. “Flow dare you—am 1 your slave? I w'ant to go out.” Her husband settled down cozily in his seat, and smiled his old brilliant smile. She had never seen him laugh any more than the rest of his acquaintances. Fie might, per haps, have laughed before an intimate, but men like Silas Ellingsworth have no inti mates. “How lovely you are when you are angry. I see 1 have made a mistake in being su ami able with you. What treats I have lost. Why, you are better than an actress, my dear. Such coloring as yours does not hurt the complexion.” Precious time was flying; the carriage had rolled away out of sight; her victim hail out-, witte<l her —her hate would be balked for ever, and all for her husband’s foolish caprice. She stamped her foot at him. “I must go.” There was yet time to rouse the villagers, and fetch back the fugitives from justice. Oh, what devil of stupidity had possessed her wise husband to-night? “Give me the key.” She had come close to him, but she did not scream when she was angry, her voice grew low and almost hoarse, “or 1 will leave you forever. ” He had laid aside his paper now, with quite a serious air, and Jane felt vaguely fright ened; she hud never seen him solier with her. Could he do any more than others when they are angry? She did not reason about it; she only began to be afraid of her own words. His was the only nature in the world could have tamed her so completely. Every moment Philip Breton’s carriage was bearing the woman Jane hated to safety and peace tiiat her false heart had never de served. But there wen* fleeter horses in Bre tonville than his; they could be pursued; they could be overtaken and dragged back in greater ignominy than ever, it would bp more terrible for Bertha even than if the blow had come while she sat serene in her own home. To be overtaken in flight would cap her shame. Jane threw herself into her husband’s arms. She kissed his eyes, his mouth, his white neck; she covered his smooth hands with kisses; twining her arms about his neck she lavished the tenderest of carressing epithets on him. The % she dryw herself away. Her black hair had been j tart ly loosened, and as she stood hung well down her flushed cheeks. She had raised her hands and clasped them over her bosom; her lips parted; surely no human being can resist such wistful beauty as hers. “Please let me go.” But before he could answer she heard a noise like thunder and rushed to the window. She sees nothing, but the sound comes on nehrer and nearer; it comes from the hill. Something white gleams in the moonlight. “What do you see?” asked Mr. Ellingsworth carelessly, returning to liis newspaper. She holds her breath. Nearer it comes, Philip's white horse Joe on a mad gallop. But Philip is not upon him. Who is that rider, with long, uncovered hair and pale, haggard face? He strikes the maddened ani mal every moment for better speed, though now they seem flying faster than the wind. The man is Curran. Let him be his own avenger, then. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE OF HAPPINESS. The Breton carriage had passed the last house in the village, when Philip leaned out for one last look at the home of his childhood and the scene oi the only work he should ever do. He was almost a boy yet; it seemed only a few days since he had looked at the great world only as a play ground. It was a short work L e had done in the few days of jhi.s manhood, and even that had ' been con demned. Dear old mills, with their bold towers and massive walls, but his no longer. His heritage was sold, his birthright lost. He turned his eyys away; it was more than be could bear. Uo the hill back above the vil lage he saw for the last time, as the road *u>und off toward Lockout, his house, that was. “Deserted” seemed wri -tea on its stone walls. It had never looked so noble to bun, aso nr of hate seemed to float aoove ft. He could see the window of the room where was born, but; for what a worthless life. “Good-by.” he murmured. The road as it followed the winding river made another turn, and tho lights of the village were shut awi%' Rom liis misty eyes. The hors*s were trotting -t the’r best. There was none too much time. It was far better than he had hoped. The dangers bad gathered so thickly, there had seemed at one time hardly more than a chance for escape. Peril seemed on every hand, enemies to spring from every covert, and stretch out their hand .to stop the fugitives. But the village was far vhind now. A few moments more and the steaming horses would draw up at the Lockout station, and they would lx* whirled away faster than any pur suer to peace and safety and honor. “How odd it all is. setting out in this way as if we were eloping.’’ Philip was reaching forward to take her hand, but be drew back, as if he were stung. Flow terribly thoughtless she was. “I explained about the steamer’s early morning start.” “Do you know,” resumed Bertha softly, “how pleased I am to have- this trip to Eur ro;x> ? It is a sort of wedding journey isn't it ?” ' Flow good God had been, to let him keep the awful truth from her. It would have crushed her. the very thought of her shame. It was crushing him. “I shalPenjoy it very much,” she said, put ting out her hand to him, in unusual fond ness. “I am afraid 1 haven't returned your goodness very well.” No more she had “Where shall we go first?” “To the south of France, God willing,” he added solemnly. Bertha looked at his face with anew anx iety. The moonlight seemed to bring out all the marks of his terrible care and suffering. But lie gazed at her in astonishment; lie had never seen an expression so near love in her eyes for him. Was her heart softening, would she yet make up to him in her new love all that he lost for her sake? But her lips were moving. “I shall be better with j’ou than I used to be. I—l—’’she dropped her eyes before his passionate joy, the sadness had gone iii an instant from his face, his future seemed beau tifully radiant again. “I feel different to ward you, dear.” He bent forward to draw her to his heart. He was paid for everything. He had taught his wife to love him as he dreamed she could love. She had lifted her rapt face toward his. It had come —the moment he had given his life for. But suddenly his heart stopped beating; there was a sound of a galloping horse. Philip kissed liis wife, but as solemn ly as if she were dead, and put her away from him. He leaned forward and looked back over the road they had come. He saw nothing at first, but he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. He put his head far out. It might have been a white speck in. the road, but as he looked the speck became larger and clearer. It was a white horse, at a dead run, on their course. Philip Breton’s heart, that had just been almost bursting with its new happiness, was a great, cold stone in liis breast. And he fancied he could escape, with enemies like his and a whole vil lage against him. Ho could see only one pur suer. Ah, he knew who it must be. And that pursuer grew nearer every moment. “Drive faster,” he shouted to the coach man, “run the horses.” How like the wind his pursuer came. Philip had thought there was but one horse that could leap so mightily. Why this was that one, his own horse Joe. Why it might be a servant from his home with something that had been forgotten. It need not be the worst peril his fancy Could picture? Buthe dared not hope. “Isn’t this delightful,” exclaimed Bertha. “There can’t he any danger of our missing the train at this rate.” “Whip your horses; don’t spare them— faster. ” If anything should break their troubles would all end that night. And the strain on the harnesses and the groaning axles was be yond all calculation of the makers. Tlie horses, too, had got past the control of the driver. He had no more occasion to urge the wild creatures; instead, he was pulling at the reins with all his strength, but to no pur pose, except so far he had kept them in tho road. The rider of • tlie white horse was hatless, and his long, loose hair and his swinging hand, as he struck the panting white flanks of the horse, gave him an uncanny look as if there were no deed of horror too blood curd ling for him to do. The horse dropped big flakes of foam from his mouth, foam mingled with blood; his eyes and nostrils were dilated with agony; his breathing was like fierce gusts of wind in a tempest. Philip Breton knew' the rider as well as the horse. His pur suer was Curran; and the implacable laws made him yet the husband of the woman whom Philip Breton had made liis wife. They were almost at Lockout. The car riage gave a terrible lurch at a turn in the road. The horses were almost taken off their feet, but still there was no accident; the win dows of tlie carriage grazed the solid wall of rock without being broken, and in a moment the horses, now subdued, were trotting down the hill toward the city. But the fugitives had hardly escaped the cut through tlie rocks when the pursuer en tered it. He had almost overtaken them. He struck tlie horse’s white flanks a pitiless blow. It was at the very spot where Curran had saved Bertha’s life from the mad dog, that tire old horse, forced beyond bis strength, stopped as if lightning had struck him. Tho blood welled in torrents from his mouth and nostrils; he quivered like a leaf, and then fell dead in his tracks. The rider shot over the creature’s head with the gathered mo mentum of that rnad race, and struck the jagged rock with a sickening crash. Curran was dead. CONCLUSION. As the dawn broke in the east that Thurs day morning, Philip Breton stood on the deck of the steamer Salvator. The look of feverish watchfulness, that had never left his face for so long, was gone at last. The great fear that had chased smiles from his lips, had given place to a great hope. A divine calm and peace had come at last upon his soul. Fate had seemed invincible, lie had pitted his beautiful mills and his home and his hopes of glory against it, all for the love of a woman who had no heart for him. lie had conquered, and he did not begrudge the price, this royal lover; for he had won the love of his bride at last. Below in her stateroom, weary with her unwonted exciten ent, Bertha was sleeping; sleeping like a child unconscious of the terri ble peril and infamy she had escaped by only so much as a hair's breadth. The hurrying ship rocked her gently in the great cradle of the deep and bore her to lands of undreamed of beauty: where the light of anew eternal Jove would be on everything. THE EXD. A Visit to Gibraltar. Before saying adieu to Spain the trav eler should pay a visit to Gibraltar, that wonderful key to the Mediterranean. The fortifications, which are almost impreg nable, were begun in A. D. 711 by Takik, the Moorish conqueror of Spain, and have been added to and improved on from time to time ever cincA There is always an English regiment stationed at Gibraltar, and a good deal of pleasant gayety goes on, but the place is under martial law and the gates are ri’g igly closed at Bp. m. Perhaps if the sea son is winter or early spring the traveler may cross over to Algeria and Tunis, to feast cn dates and the little mandarin oranges and to gaze wonderingly on* the cosmopolitan population, the wandering Bedouins, fresh from the desert, the half wild looking Zouayes, the swarthy Moors, and amongst these eastern personages a goodly sprinkling of European ladies, in the most elegant of and men in light and airy costumes. —Cor. San Francisco Chroniele. * College “Tree Planting.” Ivy planting planting make college commencements the true time of “arbor days." Some love for trees may be the result of the ceremonies,' and arbor day orators may be produced from tho graduating classes. CHILDREN OF ISIIMAEL HOW INDISCRIMINATE ALMSGIVING ENCOURAGES IDLENESS AND VICE. The Short Sightednc-s of Public Charity. A Chart Which Illustrates Social Dp* gradation— Hereditary Influence—The Unwisdom of the Charitable —Prevention. The children of Ishmael are still with us. They are uot the roving Indians or reckless cowboys of the western plains, nor the desperate “moonshiners” of the Tennessee mountains. They live near us in New York, or wherever our homes may be. Their garments touch ours in the public places. Strangest of all, we may be responsible in one sense for the Ish maelitish madness in their blood; and yet, if we recognized that responsibility, wo would complacently count it to ourselves for righteousness. For we consider alms giving a cardinal virtue, while we are too short sighted to estimate the effect of much indiscriminate almsgiving in en couraging moral flabbiness and mental and physical inertia, in increasing pauper ism and crime, in multiplying the number of the children of Ishmael throughout our land. This isonoof the most suggestive topics treated at conference of charities and correction recently held in Buffalo, and elsewhere considered at some length. The speaker, Rev. Oscar C. Mc- Culloch, of Indianapolis, illustrated his study in social degradation by a chart showing the social condition of thirty families through live generations. This meant some illustration of the life history of 1,G92 individuals. Their history had been followed for fifty years. There had been several murderers in the group, arud thieves without number. The ma jority lived by begging or petty thieving. The children died young. Licentiousness characterized all the men and women. From this came mental and physical weak ness, general incapacity to work, and in certain cases, hopeless idiocy. MGJiIJTD HEREDITARY TENDENCIES. This study of hereditary morbid ten dencies is most interesting, but it pro sents nothing absolutely new. Maudsley, of England, and Charcot, of Paris, have naturally included the subject in their study of mental pathology. In fact, in the present century —and especially since Galton developed the study of heredity into a science—hereditary influences of all kinds have received the most careful consideration, not only by medical stu dents of pathological states of the mind and body, but also by novelists. We need recall but one instance, the Rougau- Macquart series of Zola, in which that uncompromising realist has essayed to do precisely what Mr. McCulloch did upon the chart—that is, trace the development and effects of morbid tendencies from generation to generation. But Mr. McCulloch himself has used this study of heredity merely as an illus tration of his striking declaration that the tendencies to mental weakness and general incapacity which he describes are met and encouraged by the benevolent public with unlimited public and private aid, which is practically an incentive to an idle and vicious life. He charged that our elaborate systems of public charities are in a large degree responsible for the perpetuation of this idle and vicious stock, and what public relief failed to ac. complish private benevolence supple mented. “The so called charitable people who give to begging men and women and children have a large sin to answer for.” The remedy indicated by the speaker was to close up official outdoor relief, check private indiscrirainatf charity, and get hold of the children. The last is an ad mirable suggestion. There is no practical way of restricting private almsgiving, save by educating people to the idea that unwise alms foster pauperism the bringing of more paupers into the world. It would be impossible to do away with the great public charities of New York even if it were desirable. But the ten dency of charitable work can be modified and turned toward prevention rather than cure. Children who are early taught a spirit of independence and self reliance will not become paupers. If public char ities encourage this spirit and rigidly in sist that nothing can be had without working for it, if work is possible, their evils will be reduced to a minimum.— Frank Leslie’s. How to Utilise Grasshoppers. The grasshopper plague iu Minnesota has assumed so serious a character that the farmers around St. Paul have decided to pay $1 a bushel for the insects in order to stimulate the efforts for their destruc tion. In Venezuela a prize of $4,000 was offered to anybody who would invent a means of profitably converting locusts into grease or any other useful article. We cannot claim originality for the idea, but why not adopt the Indian system? The aboriginal farmers of the plains, we have been told heretofore, do not regard the grasshopper as an unquali fied evil. When their wheat crops grow undisturbed by these insects the Indians eat tlie wheat after it has been prepared in the usual way. When the grasshop pers come and eat the wheat, however, the Indians eat the grasshoppers. In this way they are always sure of-a good crop of one kind or the other arid are happy in any event, There is authority for the statement that fried grasshoppers are not unpalata ble, the testimony of white men who have dined on them being that they have a “rich, nutty taste,” not unlike peanuts or something of that sort, and that the most squeamish person would enjoy them if they were served up in batter or under some other name. We do not care to press the subject too far, but why not give the frisky visitors a chance to redeem their reputation by transferring’ them from the field io the kitchen, from the furrow to the frying pan? The Indian holds the oyster and shrimp in scorn, and his, we know, is a blind and unreasonable prejudice. Why not learn from him, at the same time that we teach him to es teem our delicacies? Let our friends in Minnesota, then, name the grasshopper the' “prairie shrimp, instance, and gather him in and make the most of him. Charleston (S. C.) News. When I.t Is Too Late. A gTeat many of Nature’s laws aro written so plainly in consequences, that it seems very odd thai ao many of us pass our lives without paying the least regard to them , too often it is only when they are written in our very life’s* blood that we heed them at all, and then it is too late. The anxious man of business-, the fretting, over-solicitous mother, the worrying housekeeper, each iu his or her way is laying up a debt against vitality, and becoming involved in a very serious oontest? with nervous force, in which they are sure to come off worsted; ,and for what? Often for the most ridiculous causes.—Demorest’s Monthly. Interview With a Coin Collector. “What are the main requisites for mak ing a collection?'' “Patience, energy and cash. To a be ginner it is an unknown world; let hirm trust in Divine Providence, find a re sponsible dealer, and let him and ex perience and intercourse with advanced collectors be his guides. Avoid the dealer who knows everything. Buy the best ; it, as in all else, is the cheapest and most satisfactory, n and will hold its vr.lr.c 1 cst.” “What, after all. is the good of it?” “Let me, Yankee like, ask, what is the harm? 1 look on it as an efijoyabid in vesit-nent, and, it is true, a hobby, but a fascinating ono. A person not ‘afflicted* can’t appreciate it, but we collectors, be ing possibly pitied by the outside world, form a little world of our own. There exists a good will, rivalry and Free masonry among us that is honorable, grateful and sincere, and go where i will, from Maine to California. I find ‘coin cranks,’ aud am welcome and agreeably and hospitably entertained. So those coming here hunt me up. No other intro duction than the fraternal, numismatic feeling is required, aud it is my pleasure to exhibit my treasures and ‘do the right thing.’ Then, again, ihe old couplet says; The intrinsic value of a thins Is just us much as it will bring; and a dollar that will realize the holder SSOO has an mu.vidualify different from one worth only 100 cents. Coins are not us perishable as paintings, nor as fragile as china, and’ 1 am mercenary enough to be lieve that an a vestment of money in rare coins will certainly prove remunerative, as evidence. 1 by the. past. More collectors are constantly joining the fold, and coins are becoming rarer aud rarer, and while in the past few years pursuit was a pleasure, wo in w have too much pursuit and too little possess.oil.” “What corns me most in demand?” “United States coins. Copper first. Sil ver next, gold very far last. There are three very good reasons for the collecting of United States coins. First, familiarity with the types, coins, * etc., which pre vents imposition cf counterfeits; second, our coinage began in 1793, is yet procura ble and not interminable like old foreign countries; third, patriotism, as possibly the coin I now hold may have been in Washington’s pocket once, and my wife adds, the greatest advantage is she can, when I am tired of them, spend them for face any way, whereas the foreign coins, etc., wouldn't pass current.” “You wish your granddad had care fully put by a lot of old coins?” “Just so, but had he,done so, and many more granddads the same, the supply would bt greatly increased, their present and prospective value impaired, their rarity lessened, and collecting would, to 'a large extent, be devoid of the pleasura ble excitement that now exists.” —Frank G. Carpenter. Hunnieutbs Rheumatic Cure En dorsed by the Medical Profession. A GREAT BLOOD PURIFIKR, Atlanta, Ga., Nov. 4,1887. H. R. C. Cos.; Gentlemen — 1 have used five bottles of your H. R. C., and cheerfully recom mend it as the best blood purifier and tonic I have ever used Bince taking yourcuiel have gained twenty pound® in weight. Yours triffy, Wm. Turner. . AN ATLANTA PHYSICIAN SPEAKS. Atlanta, Ga., Oct 26,1887. H. R. C Cos : Gentlenjen —I have used your Rheu matic Cure in several cases of the worst type, and lam glad to say it had the desired effect in every case. I take great pleasure in recommending your medicine to those who are suffering Horn rheuma tism audits attendant complications, and if tri and I am confident of its efficacy. Respectful Iv, P. O Box 62 J. A. Nelms, M. EL A CURE IN EVERY CASE. H. R.C Cos.: Gentlemen —I pronounce your Rheu matic Cure a success beyond question. I have tried the great remedy in three cases, and find a cure in every case. I pronounce it good. Very respectfully, Dr’. W. l>. Clay. 432 Walnut St , Louisville, Ky. FROM THE AUTHOR OF UNCLE REMI’S. Atlanta, Ga., March 3, 1888. H. R. C. Cos.: Gentlemen—l take pleasure in saying that your Hunnicutt’s Rheumatic Cure is the best I have ever seen. My mother, who had been suffering with rheumatism for thirty years, was entire y relieved by a few bottles Yours truly, Joel Chandler Harris. A PROMINENT ATLANTA LAWYER** TESTIMONY. Atlanta, Ga.. IX-c. 28,1887. Hunnicutt Rheumatic Cure Cos.: Gents—l have taken your Hunnicutt’* Rheumatic Cure for Inflammatory Rheuma tism with great benefit. It is, in my opinion, the best medicine for rheuma tism I ever took. Jxo. D. Cunningham, Ex-Judge U. S. Court of Ala. A u. s. marshal tells his experience. Atlanta, Ga , Feb. 4, 1888.. Hunnicutt Rheumatic Cure Cos.: Gentlemen —It affords me pleasure to add my testimony to that of the many who indorse your Hunnieutt's Rheumatic Cure I had been a const ant sufferer from rheumatism for year's, when 1 determined to try your cure, and to my surprise and delight one bottle w 7 as all I found neces sary to relieve me of all symptoms of rheumatism, and I deenrit but justice not only to those who originated this cure, but to all others who may be suffering from the same cause, to say this much in confirmation of wTrat is claimed for this medicine. Yours respectfully, John \V. Nelms. Price —$1 per bcttle Bix bottles $5. Prepared oily at Laboratory of Hunnicut Rheumatic Cure Cos., Atlanta, Ga. JilpFor sale by all Druggists Send for book of valuable iff formation and testimonials of well known citizens. Ketter Than Bloody Battles. 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