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A BUILDER'S LESSDX.
' How shall I a habit break?’’
-As you did that habit make,
As you gathered, you must loss
Thread by thread the strands we twist
fill they bind us, neck and wrist;
Thread by thread the patient
Must entwine, ere free we ste
As we builded, stone by stoi
"We must toil unhelped alon
Till the wall is overthrown.
Cut remember as we try,
Lighter every test goes by;
Wading in, the streams grow deep
Toward the centre’s downward sweep;
Backward turn, each step ashore
Shallower is than that before.
Ah, the precious years we waste
leveling what we raised in hash
. Doing what must be undone
Ere content or love be won!
First across the gulf we cast
Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed,
And habit builds the bridge at last!
—John Boyle O'Reilley.
Tiie Teacher at Callihoon.
Three o'clock of a cold, rainy, dismal
autumn Callihoon day brought clanging up to the
station a little local train, con
sistiug of two coaches and a baggage
car. but imposingly inscribed on itsfresh
looKing, yellow exterior with i 4 Callihoon,
Bolton City and Gowanus Express,” in
bold, black, newly painted letters.
A more marred and weather-beaten
train—a train whose engine was less re¬
splendent, and the uniform of whose
conductor had not new-looking creases
down the trousers—would have been out
of place in the Callihoon station.
The station itself was a small, unfin¬
ished structure, half painted, half shin¬
gled. and redolent of freshly hewn pine;
the road which wound away from it was
newly cut, aud bore the marks of deeply
sunk hoofs and wagon-wheels; all down
its jagged length the skeletons of houses
rose high, and the noise of falling ham¬
mers aud gruff commands mingled with
the sound of the rain. Everything be¬
spoke the crude, new settlement.
The ‘6 o’clock express puffed noisily
out of the station, having deposited but
one passenger on the wet, uncovered
platform; and the aspect half-dozen of the place
promptly changed. the small A in the waiting- loun¬
gers about stove
room rose from their chairs simultane¬
ously, hurried out, unmindful of the
rain, and surrounded the new-comer; the
station master emerged from his office
and joined the group; the workmen en¬
gaged on the unfinished roof slid down
their ladders and formed the edge of it.
There was at once eager welcome and
hesitating awe in the faces turned toward
the man in their midst—a tali and
heavily-built fellow of thirty or there¬
abouts, good looking in spite of his care¬
less dress and the floridness of his face,
against which his closely cut blonde hair
looked white. The same blooming tint,
eloquent of a free indulgence of con¬
vivial tastes, characterized in a greater
or less degree the group about him.
“Well, I don’t see as you’re any dif¬
ferent, Yrecland,” said the station
master, humorously putting into words
ihe apprehension which pervaded the
circle. ‘ The boys didn’t know but what
coming into that forty thousand would
be the ruin of you—a thing of that sort’s
enough to spoil any man. But I told ’em
I reckoned Vreeland wouldn’t be coming
back and putting on any airs over his
old friends,if it was a hundred thousand
—not him 1”
V reeland’s reply to this appeal was brief
and conclusive. He made a sweep in the
air which included the circle, and ended
with a jerk of his thumb toward the sa¬
loon across the street—one of Callihoon’s
many. pattered later
The rain down a moment
upon an empty platform, and the saloon¬
keeper opened his door to a promising
crowd— cold and damp, but in high
spirits and a thirsty condition. The hero
of the occasion was introduced to the
new bartender, in accordance with Calli
hoor.'s customs; and then the chairs about
the stove were seized upon, and trays
were passed and glasses rattled, and the
pdor of the place grew prosperity stronger. the
Vreeland’s sudden was
common theme.
“Fortv thousand!” said the little bald
headed t haunce McGill, in the mourn¬
ful tone which his fourth glass always
induced; “Eve got an uucie, Vreeland,
out he won't die."
•■If it's old Farnv you’re waiting for,”
;aid the station master, jovially, “he
yain’t got enough to bury him when he
>■ >es die.”
The sally was met with loud applause,
none of the gathering being in a state
favorable to critical judgment of the
brilliancy of the remark.
\ reeland himself did not join in the
laugh. His face, grown somewhat
purple with his repeated potations, wore
an anxious look; his eyes roved uneasily
among his companions’ faces.
He set down his glass as the mirth
subsided, and turned to little McGill.
“How’s Sammy been getting on ?” he
said.
There was an immediate silence, which
silence Mr. McGill did not see fit to
break. He gazed at his questioner with
an increased gloom.
The station master spoke at last, with
an effort at lightness.
“Sammy ?” he said. “Why, Sammy’s
tion. doing fine. Sammy's getting an educa¬ has.”
Started in at school, Sammy
His listener's flushed face grew a shade
paler. He passed an unsteady hand
across it, and half rose from his chair.
“Why, yes; reckoned you’d be glad
to hear it,” said the station-master,
soothingly, faltering a little over the
statement. “You see, it’s a new teacher
—a young woman from Gowanus. She
opened up school the day you started off
to take possession of your forty
thousand. I don’t know as I’ve got it
straight, but the story dewn is the that Sammy
was out chopping gatepost sbe
when she was going by one day, and
took him right along, and he's been ever
since. They say Sammy's reforming; say
he’s let up on stoning everybody that
goes by, and left off killing cats. I
don’t much believe it, but—”
The station master ceased with startled
abruptness. Vreeland, with lowering sud¬
eyes and set lips—with a face grown
denly fierce—had risen to his feet. He
settled with the bartender silently, and
turned to the door. Little McGili cov¬
ered his pink crown with Iiis worn-out
hat, and followed him waveringly, in
bland unconsciousness of his sudden
change of mood.
The group about the stove stared at
each other in feeble dismay as the door
closed upon the two.
4 4 He’s bound for that school-house,”
said the saloon keeper, solemnly.
“He’s very unreasonable, Vreeland is,”
said the station master; “that boy of his
is going on ten, and it’s time he knew
something beside deviltry.” ain’t
“Young to have a boy that age,
he?” said the new bartendeiq who'’had
looked on uncomprehendingly, and was
thirsting for enlightenment. than when he
“He wa’n’t more twenty
married Beth Lambert; Callihoon was
just backwoods then,” the station master
responded, his tone implying that Calli¬
hoon was a metropolis at the present
moment. “She wa’n’t much good. Beth
Lambert wa’n’t—shiftless and kind o’
flighty; nobody reckoned Vreeland lost
much when she died—died when Sammy
was born. Well, Vreeland hadn’t noth
ing left but that baby, and the store he
set by it was wonderful. Took care of
it himself—wouldn’t let anybody else
come necr it; and that’s the way it’s
been ever since. He’s got old Bobbin’s
widow keeping house for him, but
she don’t have a word to say to Sammy.
He’s come up wild, that young one has,
and he shows it; but Vreeland won’t
have it no other way. The minister’s
wife offered to take him and bring him
up, but Vreeland wouldn’t hear of it.
He’s never let him go to school for fear
he’ll get weaned away from him.
Thrashed one teacher for proposing it as
polite as he knew how. Well, I don’t
know,” the station master concluded,
drowsily, “but I kind o’ reckon that
young woman from Gowanus ’ill drop
Sammy like a hot coal after Vreeland
has tackled her.”
The same conviction was forming
itself in the muddled mind of little Me
Gill at the same moment. He stood un
der a year-old maple, half a mile up the
road—the sole ornament of the bare lit
tie schoolyard—happy in the belief that
he was keeping dry; His eyes were
fixed upon Vreeiand’s tali form looming
up against the unpainted door of the
schoolhouse. He had an indistinct idea
that he himself should have undertaken
the duty. he was persuaded condition that Vree- for
land was not in a proper
interviewing a lady. And so thinking,
he fell into a light and comfortable doze,
with the nuddle at his feet slowlv deep
*
ening.
Vreeland’s heavy bang at the door
brought no response. hands, He pushed it
open with his powerful and plant
ed a muddy foot upon the sill.
A hot fire in the square stove filled the
room with a soft warmth; a bunch of
autumn flowers in a tumbler on the desk
made a bright spot in the dimness. But
the round clock, hung high on its nail,
pointed to half-past four; the benches
were empty. huddled
All save oue. A small figure
together in a corner, with its chin on its
knees aud its hands clasping them,
turned at the sound of the opening door,
and said, sharply;
» * Stay out if you’re muddy. We've
just been sweeping.”
Vreeland stamped his feet on the oute
step, and closed the door behind him.
He knew the tiny figure, and the odd,
crouching posture; he knew the queru
lous voice, and the sharp-featured, unat
tractive little face turned toward him.
“It's me, Sammy,” he said, half iiu
ploringlv.
“Well, I know that,” was the impa
tient response; “what you here for?”
i 4 Aiu’t you glad to see me, Sammy?’’
He had come across the room with iong
strides and gathered the small form into
his arms.
The displeased frown on the child’s
f.vce relaxed. Two weeks had been a
long time to him—long enough to know
a new affection and to half forget the
old. But now the sight of the flushed
face bending over him, the familiar
fumes of the hot breath, brought reached it back
to his childish heart. He up to
rub his hand over the stubby chin—his
old form of caress. The clock seemed
to tick more softly for a moment.
4 4 Ain't you coming home with me,
Sammy?” said his father, breaking the
silence gently.
“Fm waiting for her,” said Sammy,
pointing to a door in the corner. things, “That's
where we hang our hats and in
thcre, and she's putting her’s on. I’ve
been helping her sweep,” be added,
proudly. “I always help her sweep; And
and help her bring iu wood. I
always wait for lier. I’m waiting for
her now,” he repeated, looking * up in
vmrnrise at his father’s Vrcelaud,* silence
4 4 Sammy,” said hoarsely,
“don’t wait any longer; don’t Sammy,
Come home with me; I’ll carry you
home on my back. And don’t come
here no more, Sararnv.”
The child stared into the beseeching
face above his own. Then he stiffened
iiis slight body, and slid from his
father’s Sammy.”* arms
4 4 said Vreeland, half wildly,
“I’m rich now, Sammy; I’ve got everything a pile
’o monev, and I'll get you
vou want. I’ll buy anything you say,
Sammy, if you’ll come.” There
Sammy’s coldness returned.
was annoyance and determination in his
f ace
“I ain’t coming,” he said firmly; “I’m
waiting for her.” standing help¬
Vreeland turned away,
less for a moment. Then he took a step
toward the little cloak-room. All his
despairing changed love for blind the small creature her
in into a fury against
who had taken him from him. llis
large hand clinched itscif.
“There!” said Sammy, goiS«!” eagerly. “Now
she's ready; now we’re
Vreeland looked up. The door had
opened, bird, and a cL-stood young girl -slenderly She
and poorly there.
gazad at him with startled eyes; one
hand fluttered up to her parted lips, and
she shrank back.
Vreeland stood stolidly motionless,
But his hand unclinched itscif slowly;
the fierce light faded from his face, and
left him dully staring. meeting his
It was not that her eyes,
own with a shade of horror, were clear,
and yet childishly soft; it was not that del¬
har head, turned half away, made a
icate outline airainst the dusky wall.
Ten years of strangeness and indiffer¬
ence to womanly graces had rendered j
him wcllnigh insensible to such influ
ences.
It was her dismayed recoil from him—
her instinctive terror. He realized, with
an inward wincing, that the oder which
pervaded him had filled the room; that
his thick tones might have reached her.
He read in her frightened face what he
must seem to her—a drunken ruffian;
an d something like shame stirred in his
heart.
Sammv had slipped from his seat and
opne to the girl’s side. He pulled her
hands down'gripping them in his own
small, brown ones in a protecting way.
“You’rescairt,” he said. “Youneed’nt
be. That’s my dad. that is. He’s got
back. But I'm waiting for vou,” he
“
reassuringly. flushed. She drew
The girl s fair face
herself together haslilv, and came across
'
the room
“I—I was expecting to see only Sam
mv,” she said ; “I was a little startled.”
She held out her hand timidly,
and Vreeland took it. He was
filled with wonder at this gentle
ignoring of the true cause of her fright,
and he felt a quick thrill of gratitude, the
“Sammy is doing wonderfully,” school
gj f r ] W ent on; “you come in when
s j n se8s i< m and hear him.”
she had moved back to the stove, and
lifted off. its covers, and was trying Vreeland to
hoist a huge knot into it.
took it from her, and dropped it into
the glowing bed within.
“1 always doit; it makes coals to
start the fire in the morning,” said the
gi,p looking up with a smile,
She fastened a window, and took up
]j er empty dinner pail; aud the door
closed upon the three.
Little McGill, startled from his drow
siness by the sound, stood looking after
them as they went down the path—
staring in dull bewilderment from \ ree
land's broad shoulders to the slender
form of the schoolmistress, and thence
to the little figure which formed a con
necting link between them.
Two theories were advanced in expla
natiou of the remarkable occurrence
which Mr. McGill related, to a Callihooni* congenial
gathering of representative
ans, in the little saloon across from the
station, the next evening, had
One was that the schoolmistress
defended her principles, settled matters
in her own favor, aud reduced Vreeland
to meek subjection by resorting to the
prompt ami spirited course of knocking
him down. The second and more
widely credited was, that Mr. Me*
Gill, not having been in a responsi
condition at the time, had, ob
serving Vreeland in the act of leaving
the school-house after a successful Imlly
i«g of the teacher, magnified his retreat
iug figure into two, the second having
gradually taken on the form of the
schoolmistress, and Sammy having been
thrown in as an afterthought by an effort
of fertile imagination, of alhhoon, hav
The representatives (
in* settled the point satisfactorily, were
totally unprepared for the series of events
which quietly ensued, and which, being
duly reported, aroused successively, in¬
credulity, amazement and alarm.
The reports, in their order, were: that
Sammy’s education was peacefully pro
grossing; that \ reeland had visited tno
school \ that he had taken to hiackiot^
his boots and wearing a hat with a nar
row brim; that he had driven the school*
mistress home to (towarms at the end of
^he term, and gone after her at tae be*
ginning of the next; and that he bad
consulted a Bolton C ity architect about
the buildingof a new house. And these
reports were unpleasantly substantiated with¬
by the fact of Vreeland’s gradual
drawal from his old haunts, and neglect
of his old companions, who, having by
sad degrees given up all hopes of him,
resigned themselves to observing, with
i,in,lze ' 1 and compassionate interest, the
P r »f «“.°f «>'» backshdmg. reached, when
The cl,mux was one
“ ,ld »P"”S d ** w h 08c w '" m »'f i™ 1 W, ‘ e
aky Beamed to soften . , even Call, boons
ruggedness, the station-master cam.
across the stree to announce solemnly
h “t the “Callihoon Bolton Ci ty and
"Sis^vSi and
the young woman from Gowanus,
Sammy.— Emma A. Oppcr.
A Cure for Sea-Sickness*
A new and assuredly a very pov
argument has been found in fav
vegetarianism. It is (credo Dr. Neuhaus,
of Berlin.) an almost sovereign remedy
for seasickness. The discovery will
carry consternation to the breasts of the
flesh-eating heathens who have been
wont to prepare for a channel trip by
consuming a lean steak and half a pint
of Bass; some of them even drink a pint,
The vegetarian may stuff himself with
lentils and stewed prunes, and then ga
ar , 10 f , ow j 1 ?? one Slt * < Wlt “ “ ,9
“' y
head , very low and his knees drawn up,
aa “ en Wlt “equanimity to the groans
the , unregenerate flesh-eaters who
surround him. I)r. Neuhaus statesitas
a tnatter of fact thai vegetarians rarely
®*? r / rom sea-sickness, although it is
ddhouB to divine upon what data the
statement rests. it is interesting to
know, upon the same authority, that the
horrors oi a channel passage are most
acute, not when the vessel rolls, as many
unscientific s title re is had believed, but
when she descends into the trough of the
8ea - Tt is a pity the ' .ertnan doctor has
no alternative remedy to propose, since
there are a great many obstinate people
who will go on with their beef-stejks
“ nd * r b * .absurd impresston that
the ant.dote ,.. is worse than the banc. —
St. Jamet ’ Gazette.
The depression of the coal trade m
South Wales is so serious that over 40,
000 men are affected by it.