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The Children.
They are such tiny feet!
They have gone so short way to meet
The years which are required to brea
Their steps to evonness, and make
Them go
More sure and slow.
They are such little hands!
Be kind; things are so new, and life but
stands
A step beyond the doorway. All around
New day has found
Such tempting tilings to shine upon; and so
Tho hands are tempted oft, you know.
They are such fond, dear eyes,
That widen to surprise
At every turn! They are so often held
To sun or showers; showers soon dispelled
By looking in our face.
Love asks, for such, much grace.
They are such frail fair gifts!
Uncertain as the rifts
Of light that lie along the sky;
They may not be hero by and by.
Give t hem not love, but more, above
And harder, patiei.ee with tho love.
— [Washington Critic.U
INHERITING A WIFE.
“Goodby, Helen,” said tho young
man, with a flush of anger on his hand¬
some face, as ho turned from his uncle
towards the pale girl standing by the
window.
“Goodby, Frank,” sho raid, listless¬
ly, proff:ring him a slender white hand.
IIo took the hand, and, bending over,
lightly touched her forehead with his
lips.
yjie raised her hend to address him
with a force 1 effort, and ho was gono.
“Th) young fool thinks ho can defy
mo,” said Mr. John Duncan, angrily,
but with love and pity rising to his
kindly gray eyes as he bent them upon
Helen.
Tho latter was the rich old man’s
adopted daughter, and in her seemod
centered all Bis happiness, Sho was
his idol, and ho had planned to make
her his heiress, or that sho should share
all ho had of this world’s goods with
Frank Duncan, his nephew, But this
latter contingency was to he that these
young people should have his fortune
together only as man and wife.
Helen Morley had been an orphau
ever since sho could remember. Sho
had endeared herself to old Mr. Dun¬
can by her sweet, unselfish life and her
devotion to him as her benefactor.
8ho and Frank liad boon thrown
much together, as a matter of course,
and old Mr. Duncan, as ho looked at
his favorite nephew’s handsome, ani¬
mated face, and thon at llolon’s sweet
oval picture, framed by lior mass of
bright hair, whoa tho two wero to¬
gether, declared to himself that they
were made for each other, and that it
was plainly tho work of Hoavon that
they should bo thrown accidentally in
each other’s way.
But ho had just now sorious mis
givings whether or not Heaven ever
had anything to do with such a young
•capegraco ns his nephew.
Ho lisd just received a terriblo shock,
and ho was stirred by anger, disap¬
pointment, and pity for his fair Helen.
Then, too, ho was placod in so deli¬
cate a position tlinthohardly knew what
to aay to her. Ho had no ossuranco
that Frank had over spoken a word of
lovo to this girl.
“But ho can't dofy mo with
punityl'’ growled the irato uncle, as
Helen had not repliod to his first re¬
mark about tho young gontlomau in
quostion. “I will not lcavo him a
farthing! I will mako a new will! I[o
shall be a beggar for all he’ll get from
me!’ continued John Duncan, stampiug
hit foot
“Oh, father!" said Helen, appealing
lj. "What has ho done to anger you
•°f ’
“Done? v shojnted tho old man, fairly
exasperate! by this question, forgetting
for the moment that llolen did not
•hare his new?, and therefore indignant
that she should not join with him in
condemning tho young man’s henious
crime. “Done?” he repeated, in rising
tones of freshly kindled anger. “What
hasn’t ho done? Upset all my plans 1
Destroyed all my happiness! Tells mo
ho's ia lovo with that French girl,
Elise Courtob, and that his happiness,
his very lifo depends upon his marrying
her! And he has the effrontery to ask
my approval of such a ridiculous step!’’
The old man paused only at sight of
Helen, who had suak pale and tremb¬
ling upon a sofa. Her delicate fingers
were interlaced, and there was a look
of such unutterable pain in her facs
that even Mr. Duncan’s anger fled be¬
fore it.
Then with a sudden thought his anger
rose again, and he demanded, “Has
the villaia deceived you, Helen?
Tell me the truth. By heaven, if ho
^has. Til-”
“Oh, no, no; he has never spoken to
IB* of—of-”
“Thcro, there, my dearl I only
wished to know—I meant it all for your
good,” sail Mr. Duncan, tenderly.
Helen fled to her chamber to think,
and to recover, if possible, from the
sudden blow she had receivod.
There had been no spoken words of
love betweon them for the three years
that Frank had been a constant vi-itor
to his unclo’s, and yet she had thought,
she had believed; yes, she had hoped
that the first love of her puro young
heart had found a safo resting place,
and that it was reciprocated by him,
although as yet not proclaimed, for
some good and sufficient reason on his
part.
But it was all ov r now. Ilcr eyes
were open to tho mortifying truth. She
cried for pure shame at first, then for
disappointment, Her face was all
iffiamo as she thought of the possibility
of tho knowledge on tho part of others
of her misplaced love. Then her cheeka
and brow bccamo deadly cold as sho
realized that her young hopes wero all
withered and dead.
When Mr. John Duncan saw that tho
light had gono out from Helen’s eyes
his anger toward his nephew knew no
bounds. He knew that Frank had
gone from his presonco with a fixed de¬
termination to win the girl, Eliso Cour
tois, if possible, in spito of all op¬
position.
And ho knew what he could not
speak of to Helen, that she had loved
his headstrong and misguided nephew.
Tho old man was closeted with his
lawyer soon after this occurrence for
several hours one day, and tho result
of tho conference was a new will.
Those three years following tho de¬
parture of Frank Duncan in disgrace
from his uncle’s home had been to
Helen Morley joyless years of silont suf¬
fering, unsharod by a sympathetic
heart, unspoken to a pitying car. Sho
had sufferod in silence, and had tried
to walk her allotted path with outward
composure, And old John Duncan,
though ho had been moro tonder and
solicitous of her welfaro than ever, saw
that lie could do but little to lighten
her burdon of sorrow.
But John Duncan had gone now.
There was no longer even his loving
caro to shield Helen from her own
misery.
It had bcon but a few weeks since
tho old man had blessed Helen with
his dying breath aad passed away. She
was solo possessor of his wealth.
Frank Duncan had been summoned,
but was somewhere abroad, pursuing
his ignis fatuus in tho shape of fortune
aad Eliso Courtois.
lie had lost sight of the French girl
with whom ho hal becomo infatuated
about tho time his uncle had dismissed
him angrily from his house. Follow¬
ing up a clow he overtook her finally in
Paris.
It was a chance meeting on one of tho
gay streets of tho French city. Tho
young man was wild with joy as he os
pied her coming toward him. IIo
rushed upon her with far moro of en¬
thusiasm thau discretion. Eliso drew
back in surpriso at his eifusivo greet¬
ing. forgotten all the past,
4 * Have you
then, Elbe?” asked Frank, bitterly, as
ho saw by her cool demeanor that she
had changed,
“Oh, no, I never forget,’’ said Elise.
“Did you not get my letter at tho
^me i [ 0 it my uncle’s?” said Frank,
reproachfully. and
“Oh, yes; I received your letter,
ono f rom yoU r uncle about tho same
ij mo ,in which ho informed mo you wero
n0 io nge r his heir, but a—a—beggar,’’
S(dd (bo young woman, laughing aloud.
“Good hoaveas, Elise! can it be that
you aro mercenary, ----- then? I did not
think--’’
“No; I suppose you thought I could
marry a begs® 1 " jttst as well as not, and
continuo to work at milliaory for my
living, and for yours, too, perhaps!
said the girl, lightly.
“Eli o, hear me! It is not too late!
My uncle, lam sure, has not cut mo off
iu his will. Will you not return with
me, and, for tho sako of tho past, let
me call you my own Elise—my wife?”
“Hush!” said the girl, warniagly, as
a man approached. “I could do notb
ing of tho kind. Let mo present you
to my husband, 31. Fennel.”
And, to his intense disgust and morti¬
fication, Frank found himself the next
instant in the cmbraco of a vivacious
and voluabla Frenchman. The new
view of the lovely siren in her coarse
ness and mammon worship, together
with this presentation of a heavy, vul
carman psst middle age, as her bus
band was a combination of circum
stances that completely disenamored
Frank Duncam and he fled precipitately
as soon as released from tho man’s
amid peal, of l«gku> (too the
gS'JSfX.E
Old Mr. Somers sat in his dingy little
law office, scratching his ear with his j
pen, and glancing occasionally at
letter he held in his hand.
The letter was from Frank Duncan,
and informed the lawyer that he, Frank
Duncan, would call upon him in a day !
or two on business relating to his de- !
ceased uncle’s will.
“The young scamp must know that I
Helen is the posse sor of tho old man’s |
estate. He will bo courting her for her
money, and ho doesn’t deserve such a j
girl anyway,” said Somers, with a
growl. “And, worse than, all, to think
John Duncan has fixed it in such shape,
that but I 11 deceive him a little.
Tho nruff old lawyer had in a sensei
taken Helen under his care since Mr.
John Duncan’s death, and watched her ;
welfare with a jealous eye. So, when
Frank presente i himself, ho said,
brmquely, “You are cut off without a
shilling, young man, and you deserve
it.”
Frank colored, but felt tho justice of
the rebuke; but ho ventured, “And
Helen—Miss Morley?”
“Oh, she is provided with a modcr
ate annuity, Tho rest goes, I believe, j
to some institution—ahem,” said the |
lawyer, choking a little at the fib. }
“Thank heavensaid Frank, impul- ;
sively.
The old lawyer sprang to his feet in
a passion and, facing tho astonished
young fellow, shouted, “You thank
heaven then that sho is a beggar, too,
do you?”
“I am glad that I may go to her and
comfort her and bo to her what I once
was, without a suspicion that I come
from mercenary motives,’' said Frank,
exultantly.
14 Ahemt That’s all right, young
man. But you must bo aware that
your past conduct doesn’t recommend
you very highly. I speak plainly, for
Helen Morley is my ward.”
Frank winced under this lash, but
all the same he was resolved to bear it
in silence, and tho scales had fallen
from his eyes now, and ho remembered
trifling incidents in their lives—Helen’s
and his own—which led him to beliova
that he had thrown away a pearl.
lie would seek to recover it again,
and was glad that tho impediment of
money did not bar the way.
He knew full well that his foolish in
fatuation for Mm gay superficial Elise,
which ho had mistaken for love, would
prove a formidable obstacle; but with
youth, repentance, perseverance, and
an earnest devotion to his purpose, ho
hoped to win nylon’s ostoem first, and
afterward, perhaps, her love.
“Confound tho young scamp, he’s got
good points, after all,” growled Som¬
And so H^lcn thought when the old
told her about it, and mado her
how difficult it woul l bs to
Frank long ignorant of the pro¬
visions of his uncle’s will.
Three months are a brief moasuro of
as tho ago* roll onward, and yet
throe short months aro sometimes so
with evonts bearing directly
upon our lives that years—aye, an ag#
—are as nothing in comparison.
Three months of penitonco, of unob¬
trusive devotion to Helen, of evident
shame for his past conduct, and an un¬
mistakable determination to atone for
it if possible, on tho part of Frank
Duncan, won tho callous old lawyer to
believo in his sincerity.
And, better than all, it began to tell
upon the hard wall of reserve that had
grown up botwocn Helen’s uaquenched
love and her pride till it fairly crumbled
away.
“You forgive mo at last, Helen; but
I can never forgive myself for being so
stupidly b li nd and for having caused
vou yoars of pain besides,” said Frank
tenderly
“Let the dead bury their dead,
Frank but let us who now live again
hve only in tho present, and hope for
compensation for our past sorrows ia
tho future.”
“And I thank Heaven that I did not
have totry to woo you as an heiress. 1
will work lor you, aad wo will bo hap
PJ-” colored and silent for a
Helen was
moment. Stcps were heard in ths hall,
aad Mr. Somers was announced.
“Cutoff without a farthing and yet
happy apparently,” said the lawyer,
brusquely, taking out a legal document
an d reading: “And if Frank Duncan
forsake his foolish object and marry my
adopted daughter, Helen Morley, within
three years and six months from the
date of this testament, I do bequeath
to him half my fortune.”
“Better than you deserved, young
man.”
Helen blushed as Frank caught her
io bi, „mb -ITbc Idem
THE best riders.
An Old Cavalryman Says They
are the Mexicans.
He Also Tells How to Sit on a
Horse Properly.
“The best riders ia tho world,” said
an old cavalryman, who was giving a
greenhorn some points on equestrian¬
ism, “are the Mexicans. Buffalo Bill’s
cowboy3 are spiendid riders> but the
Mexicans are better still. And their
SU p er j or jty i 9 part duo to the kind of
saddl0 tbey U3e . That low English
saddle you’ve go: there,” he continued,
..j coulda - t ride i 3 . It i3n ’t fit for a
man tQ riJe ^ N(?w> tho great beauty
of lhe Mexican saddle h that a man sit .
t „ g in it ha3 hh log9 almost strai „ ht
dowa beside the horse, like a clothes
pin> A Mexicaa on horseb ack keeps
w# boelg aad shoulders neflr!y in line%
hi3 feet planted firmly in his stirrups
underneath him and pointing straight
ahead, parallel with tho horse. Our
McClellan saddle would he as good as
the Mexicaa saddle if it only had the
stirrups placed a couple of inches
further back. As it is, a man riding in
a McClellan saddle ha9 to bend his leg
at the knee in the Eaglish style. Now,
with tho knoe bent it is almost impos¬
sible to keep your feet pointed straight
ahead.
“This position of the feet,” tho im¬
promptu riding-master continued, after
pausing a moment to allow his casual
pupil to absorb s^hat he had already
said, “is a very important thing in
learning to ride properly. In fact, it is
the thing. And yet nine-tenths of the
riders you see about the street and
country roads every day have their toes
turned at an angle of 45 degrees from
tho sides of tho horse. As a conse
quenco, these riders can’t have a firm
seat, and don’t enjoy tho exerciso half
as much as they would if they rode
properly.”
4 » How is it the way tho toes point has
so much to do with good riding? ’ a
Star reporter who happened to he on
hand inquired.
“To sit firmly on a horse and at the
same time to have tho body erect and
free to give with the horse’s motion,”
the cavalryman sail, “you must grip
the animal’s sides with your knee?.
Not with the calvos of tho legs, mind,
nor with the thighs, but with the knees
alone. Now, if you don't keep your
toes pointing straight ahead, or nearly
so, it is impossible to get this grip with
tho knees. Turn your toes out and you
will find at once that you grip the horse
with tho calves of your legs and that
your body is thrown forward from the
hips instead of bung erect. Experi¬
ment a little when you get on your
horse and you’ll see it works just as I
say. But if you keep your feet straight,
hold tight with your knees and
sit erect, you will find you can
accommodate yourself to tho
motions of the horse more readily and
gracefully, your seat will bo firmer and
riding will not tiro you near so quickly.
If you will notice old cavalrymen when
they walk,” the gentleman continued,
“you will see that instead of spread¬
ing their feet apart they keep them
parallel. This is the result of their
habit of and it often makes
them very ungraceful on their feet.
The best and most graceful rider I
knew was Gen. Ashby, who was killed
during tho war. I never saw any man
who looked so handsome on horseback.
Off a horse, however, he walked like a
duck and was so clumsy that he
couldn’t get into a parlor without fall.
ing over all the furniture in sight A
Mexican astride his high-curved saddle
with his legs hanging straight down
rides as easily as if he were sitting in a
rocking-chair, and at the same time it
is almost impossible to unseat him. He
» clothes-pinned on to tho horse, and
tho latter can’t get from under him.
But a man riding on a flat Eaglish sad
dlo with short stirrups, his legs bent at
the knee and his toe3 turned out, has
no chance when his horse jumps sud¬
denly. Ho is ia a cramped position,
and is almost suro to be thrown for
ward on the horse’s neck or over his
head.—[Washington Star.
A Phonographic BolL
Mr. Edison has, it is stated, devised a
doll with a small phonograph inside,
which talks whea tho handle is turneu.
The phonograph is placed on a recepta
cle within the chest of the doll and t 3
handle protrudes. When it is turned
tho words appear to issue from the
doll’s mouth. Edison has also devised
a clock which announces the time by
8pea king, the talking apparatus being,
»I c.»r,e, . pb.e.grapK
Intelligence of Young Animals.
There is one characteristic implied in
Prof. Vogt’s argument which seem? to
bear more favorably to his thesis. It is
that the young ape, the orang or chim¬
panzee, for example, is more intelligent
than the adult. This, wo might say,
is becauso it i3 descended from a more
intelligent ancestor than recent apes.
But greater intelligence is a rule with
all young animals, as well, if we take
the circumstaacos into account, as with
man. The brain is at that period larg¬
er in proportion to the body; it is in
some sense virgin, more impressiona¬
ble; it grows excessively, and asks only
to absorb, to work, to turn the blood
it receives to account. What is more
marvelous than the way our children
learn to talk, read, and write? Would
we adults bo capable of the amount of
rapid memorizing which tho mass of
words and ideas inculcated into them at
that ago exacts? Young Australians
are equal to Europeans in the schools,
and retain languages with extraordina¬
ry facility; but, as ago comes on, their
savage nature reappears, they tako off
their clothes, they join their like again,
and they manifest no more intelligence
then if they had never been among the
whites. If at our age wo appear so
capacious, intellectually speaking, it i3
because wo have been accumulating for
many yoars; because we reason in great
part by habit, automatically; because
we are incessantly excited by tho strug¬
gle for existence, by the society of our
likes, and by the use oflanguage which
apes do not possess. M. Vogt’s last
argument, that the young ape is more
humane than the adult ape, does not,
therefore, convince me. — [Fopular
Science Monthly.
Concrete-Filled Wells for Foundations.
The opinion has lately been expressed
by Sir R. Rawlinson, the eminent archi¬
tect, that the old Eastern plan of so
curing foundations by forming deep
welh and then filling them up with con¬
crete has been too much neglected, for
in this method security is afforded for
the loftiest structure in the most diffi¬
cult ground. Misses of concrete or of
brick or stone work placed on a com¬
pressible substratum, however cramped
and bound, may prove unsafe, solidity
irom a considerable depth being alone
reliable. Enlarging tho. area of a base
or foundation by footings can bo re¬
sorted to, but mere enlargement of area
may not in itself bo sufficient. A lofty
structure which is to stand secure must
have solidity sufficient to maintain each
part in tho position in which it is first
placed. Again, a heavy embankment
or heavy pile of building frequently dis¬
turbs the surface ground at a distanco
of many yards, the subsidence causing a
corresponding rise around on either
side, as tho case may be. According to
Rawlinson, the depth of a foundation
in compressible ground ought not to be
less than one-fourth the intended height
above the ground; that is, for a shaft
of 200 feet tho foundation should bo
made secure by piling or by well sinking
and concrete to a depth of 00 feet,-—
[Star Sayings.
An Operatic Italian Cellar Bigger.
A gang of Italian laborers were dig¬
ging up the ground for the cellar of
a new house in Harlem. At the noon
hour they 3 at around munching their
bread and sausage, and, when this
wa 3 ended, one of them arose, and, in
plaintive voice, began to sing. In a
few moments the eyes of his compan¬
ions were fixed upon him a3 he pro¬
ceeded with tho melody, IJe was
singing the “Miserere” in Verdi’s
operatic masterpiece, “II Trovatoro!”
Ho did justice, then and thero, on tho
edge of the cellar, to that sublime and
pathetic improvisation, and, when ho
reached the end, his fascinated com¬
panions wero too much overcome to
applaud. B.-fore they resumed work
another one of them raised his voice,
for a few moments, in a bravura pas¬
sage from another opera, after which
they seized tho picks and shovels
which they plied under the eye of the
stern boss of the gang. — [New York
Sun.
A Sixth Century Sarcophagus.
At St. 3Iandrier, near Toulon,
France, a sarcophagus has been discov¬
ered with a silver plate on which are
engraved the words: “Sagittaveras
Tu, Dominie, cor meum caritate tna.”
Above this inscription is also engraved
a heart transpierced with two arrows,
and there is a bishop kneeling and
holding in either hand his miter and
crozier. The tomb is supposed to be
that of St. Flavier, who, in 504, es¬
tablished with his friend, Maadiier, a
hermitage in the peninsula, with whom
he was massacred by the Visigoths in
512.