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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.