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Isolated.
We hold our dear ones with a firm, strd?^
grasp,
We hear their voices, look into their eyes;
And yet, betwixt us in that clinging clasp
A distance lies.
We cannot know their hearts, howe’er we
may
Mingle thought, aspiration, hope and pray
er :
We cannot reach them, and in vain essay
To enter there.
Still, in each heart of hearts a hidden deep
Lies, never fathomed by its dearest, best,
With closest care our purest thoughts we
keep A nd tenderest.
Hut, blessed thought! we shall not always so
In darkness and in sadness walk alone;
There comes a glorious day when we shall
know
As we are known.
— Elinor Gray.
THE RANCHMAN’S WIFE
BY FRANK II. CONVERSE.
“What! Another story about the
‘wild and wooly West?' I should think
you boys would got tired of hearing of
Indians and all that sort of thing. Well,
let mo think a minute.
Your Aunt Boss isn’t anywhere round,
is she? No? For she isn’t over fond of
Indians or Indian stories—and withgood
reason.
It, was way back in the seventies, I
fitted out at Fort Caspar, in New Mexi¬
co, and started off alone, fur trapping
up among the foot hills.
They told me I was crazy to venture
so fur, as the Indians worn thicker than
flies all through the section of country
where I was going; but I was used to
taking chances in those days, and game
was wonderfully plenty round the Gila
ranges. So I started off.
Well, i reached the southern foot lulls
all right, withou: seeing a sign of a rod
skin. But for all that, I didn’t get
care!oss. I used a bow and arrows,
with which 1 was quite expert in those
days, to kill what game 1 wanted, rather
than run nny risk of attracting the no¬
tice of any prowling Apache by a rifle
shot. I Wiis very lucky with my trap¬
ping, and in about three weeks had a
mule load of pelts, with which I started
back toward the fort.
The second day of my journey brought
me to the bottom lands in the finest sec¬
tion of grazing country 1 ever saw. A
branch of the Gila river wound along
for miles like a blue ribbon, through
buffalo giass half way to the horses'
knees, while on every side there was
willow and cottonwood enough to sup¬
ply fuel for the biggest kind of a settle
tncul.
1 rode slowly along, with my pack
mule plodding a few paces behind,think¬
ing, as I well remember, that I should
like nothing better than to have a nice
little ranch of my own in those parts,
and settle down there.
AU at once from behind there came a
yell—or, rather, a chorus of them—
such as a man, no matter how much
courage ho may have, doesn't care to
hear move than once in a lifetime.
Uusiinging my title and turning in
my saddle at one and the same time, I
saw a score or more of mounted Indians
coming up at full speed, whooping and
yelling like so many fiends.
Of course there was but the one thing
to do. My horse was tolerably fast and
in good condition. It was late in the
afternoon, and if I could keep well
ahead of my pursuers, I might hope to
escape them uuder cover of the night.
Leaving the pack mule and peltries
to their fate, 1 gave old Reno his head,
and then began a race for life or death.
For an hour 1 seemed to gain little by
little. Then poor Reno began to flag,
while the Indian ponies, lashed to their
highest speed, drew nearer and nearer. 1
swung half round and dropped a big
“buck” with my Winchester at a hun¬
dred yard' as neatly as you please, but
—so to speak—this was only a drop in
the bucket. On came the rest with
fiercer cries and more hideous yells, ac¬
companied by a fusillade from tlieir car¬
bines, as well as by some half dozen ar¬
rows, one of which went fairly through
my right forearm just below the elbow.
The pain was such for the moment that j
my fingers relaxed their grasp, and my !
rifle fell to the ground, leaving me, ex
cept for a huuting knife, practically un¬
armed, as, unfortunately on the day he¬
fore I had broken tli rn tin spring of my
revolver.
“I’ll die 1 hard if die I must,” I mut¬
tered, getting hold of my knife with my
left hand, for my right had ail at once
become almost useless—some nerve or
cord having been severed by the sharp
point of the arrow, as I supposed at the
time.
All at once my flagging horse rounded
a big clump of cottonwood. I saw a
neat cabin, with one or two outbuild¬
ings, not a furlong away, But at that
self-same moment old Reno’s forefoot
went down in a gopher hole, and I went
flying over his head, very much after the
manner of a diver, only that my arms
were outstretched as a diver’s never
ought to be.
Luckily, I struck on my right
shoulder; so, though badly bruised and
shaken, I was on my feet like a cat in a
second. And the instinct of self preser¬
vation, as a matter of conr.se, led me to
run at full speed toward the cabin,
though I could sec no sign of life about
the premises.
But, run as fast as I might, the pur¬
suing ponies were faster. The red¬
skins, who, as I afterward knew, were
to a man Apaches—the most barbarous,
murderous race on the face of the globe
—could easily have tumbled me over by
a carbine shot or an arrow, but no, they
wanted a white man to torture. And if
you will believe me, when I was within
50 yards of the cabin, the chief, who
was rather better mounted than the rest,
was so close at my heels that, leaning
forward with a devilish grin on his
painted face, he prodded me gently in
the rear with the point of a long feath¬
ered lance, which lie carried in addition
to the carbine slung over his naked
shoulders.
He smiled on the other side of his
ugly mouth a second later, though, for
all at once a little puff of smoke from
one of the two cabin windows was fol¬
lowed by the crack of a rifle, and the
Apache chief pitched forward to the
earth—as dead an Indian as need be!
Another report followed almost like
an echo,and another Indian bit tlie dust,
while a third discharge an instant later
drew a howl of pain from another,
whereupon the remainder wheeled sud¬
denly round and took up a position some
little distance away—far enough to be
practically out of range, Between the
increasing pain of my wound, and be¬
ing almost winded, for a moment or
two after I had stumbled in at the door
of the cabin, which, thrown open to ad¬
mit me, was as quickly closed and
barred, I was silly enough to fall to the
floor, where I lay for a moment sort of
dazed faint, I suppose some would
call it.
t 4 Here, drink this,” said a woman’s
voice.
It was spirit of some kind, and though
to tliis day I don’t know one kind of
liquor from another, that happened to be
an occasion when I felt justified in tak¬
ing it.
Any way, the fiery draught gave me
renewed strength, and brought me to
myself in a measure. I saw that the
woman who held the flask to my lips
was young, and the handsomest woman
—so I then thought and think to this
day, that I ever saw in all my life. Oh,
you needn’t laugh, boys, your Aunt Bess
knows all about it. She says she has
forgiven me for thinking so a very long
time ago.
1 got on my feet in a hurry.
“Where are your men folks, ma’am?”
I asked, quick and sharp, as, looking
around the room I saw that she and I
were the only occupants. Her voice had
a curiously hard sound. Somehow it
seemed to match a sort of wild, unnat¬
ural look in her eyes, which were just
the color of those of your Aunt Bess.
“My husband—Jim Rainsford—was
shot down iu front of our own door yes¬
terday morning, by that-.”
Her speech seemed to fail her, but
she pointed through the substitute for a
window to the outstretched body of the
Apaelie chiof lying stiff and stark a few
rods away, killed by her own avenging
hand.
“There is no one else,” she added, re¬
covering her speech; and though I have
never been called a coward, 1 have to
confess that my heart sank at the pros
pect. while Mrs. Rainsford
But all the was
speaking she stood by the window,
rifle iu hand, watching the
Apaches, who, in a sort of huddle
some eight hundred yards distant,
were evidently holding a eonsulta
tion. Aud this of itself made me pull
myself together.
“I think I can manage that Winches
ter w ith my left hand and arm,’ I said,
r ;nv ri<rht hand had already swollen
all out of proportion. She turned
euickly, and, seeing the condition of
the wounded member, uttered an cxcla
mation.
“Good Heavens!” she said, short aud
sharp; “you’ve been hit with a poisoned
agrow! I know, for Jim was wounded
the same way the year after we were
married, when we were living in Mon¬
tana. Keep your eye on those fiends—
I know just what to do!”
And before I had an idea of her pur¬
pose, Mrs. Rainsford dropped on her
knees and applied her warm, fresh lips
to the ragged puncture, which, owing
to the presence of the poison, perhaps,
had bled very little. My expostula¬
tions were in vain. Ejecting the poi¬
sonous fluid, and repeatedly rinsing her
mouth with the raw spirit, of which she
forced me to drink from time to time,
this bravest of women continued her pe¬
culiar treatment till I felt a sensible de¬
crease in the pain, and the swelling it¬
self began slowly to subside.
“You’ll do now,” she abruptly re¬
marked, rising to her feet with a glance
at my face, to which I knew the color
was fast returning. But the situation
was an almost desperate one. Night
was fast approaching, and though the
Apaches were making no definite move
toward dislodging us, we of course pre¬
sumed that they only waited the cover
of darkness to carry out their purpose.
Which shows how easy it is to be mis¬
taken—especially in reference to the
movements of the wily Apache. For,
unperceived by either of us, one of the
red fiends had separated himself from
the rest, and making a long detour un¬
der cover of the willows along the river
bank, crept up in the rear of the build¬
ing and fired it at the two corners.
The first intimation we had of this
new disaster was the cloud of stifling
smoke that came pouring through the
chinks of the cottonwood logs, which
were as dry and almost as inflammable
as tinder by tlieir long exposure to the
baking sun and rarified air. Immediately
following we heard the sharp crackle of
the flames, kindled into additional
strength by a strong westerly breeze,
and above all rose the exulting yells of
the Apaches, who of course expected
that we should very shortly be driven
from cover.
“I don’t know how you feel about it, ”
said my companion in the same hard,
unemotional voice, “but I had rather
burn to death a hundred times than fall
into the hands of those fiends.”
Before I could reply, a great tongue
of fire burst through into the interior.
A sudden thought seemed to come to
the brave woman at my side.
“This way—quick!” she exclaimed.
And pulling up a trap door in the rough
flooring, she dropped.lightly through—
I following—letting the trap fall back
to place.
There was no time for standing on
ceremony. Reaching out a small hand,
that was icy cold, though firm as a rock,
Mrs. Rainsford, taking my own,
drew me to the further end
of the rude cellar. In those parts
it was customary to construct a sort of
vegetable cellar a few feet away from the
house, in addition to the one under the
dwelling, for winter use. But Rainsford,
from some whim of lus own, had dug
his place of winter storage in one end of
the main cellar itself, roofing it over on
the outside with slabs of gray sandstone
from the river bottom, All this his
widow' hastily explained as we groped
our way to the heavy door of thick i
planking in the side of the cellar wall,
and, having entered, pulled it to after
us.
It was indeed a last resort, and it is
no wonder that for some time neither of
us was inclined for conversation. Over¬
head was the roaring of flames, followed
a little later by the crash of falling tim¬
bers and beams. The heat was almost
stifling, but luckily the wind blew the
fire and smoke directly away from the
covering above, or else, despite the
apertures left for ventilation, we should
have been smothered.
We could hear the Apaches’ cries of
fiendish joy as they stood about the
burning building, expecting to see their
victims bursting through the flames, and j
it was a trifling satisfaction to know
that they were doomed to disappoint¬
ment.
As the anxious hours went by, and
the intensity of the heat decreased some¬
what, I drew from 3Irs. Rainsford her
simple story. She and her husband, j
who was twice her own age, had moved j
southward from Montana. “He was al- j
ways good to me, Jim was,” she said, I
with a little sob, and so they had lived
in quiet contentment on their small
ranch till the terrible tragedy of the
previous day. War Cloud had ridden ;
up with Ins party aud demanded whis
ky. which Rainsford refused him with
j out ceremony. Whereupon the Apache
chief deliberately shot him through the
heart, and, strangely enough, the band
rode away without offering any violence
to his horrified wife, who, all alone, had
dug a grave under the cottonwoods, and
buried her husband’s body out of sight.
She was intending to make her way to
the nearest settlement on the following
morning, and after communicating with
her people in Montana, decide upon her
further course of action. Then I had
appeared upon the scene. In
return, I told her of myself as
far as seemed necessary, and I
need hardly say, placed myself entirely
at her service, as the faintest of returns
for all she had done for me—saving my
life in a double sense, as it were, for
not only had she afforded me protection
from the fury of the savages, but had
undoubtedly prevented my dying a hor¬
rible death from the poisoned arrow.
It is probable that the Apaches pre¬
sumed that we had both perished in the
flames, for, after day dawn, when I ven¬
tured to push aside one of the slabs
of stone covering our retreat, they bad
gone. And two hours later a party of
homebound prospectors with a four horse
mule team and complete outfit hove in
sight, and I need hardly say, after hear¬
ing our story, they extended every kind¬
ness toward us.
We reached El Paso with them in
about a fortnight, and their I said good
by to Mrs. Hansford, for a time at least.
Did I ever see her again?
Why, yes. I married her the
year after, and we came
East to live, for it’s your aunt Bess I’ve
been telling you about—didn’t you mis¬
trust? No? Well, those are the facts
in the case, as the lawyers say, but—
there she comes across the street. Better
not mention that I have told yon the
story; she never likes to talk of that ex¬
perience, or hear it mentioned. Bather
hair has been as white as it is now ever
since that night in the cellar of the burn¬
ing house,— The Argosy.
An Abused Image of Washington.
Sypher, the New York dlder in art
relics, curios, etc., has in his establish¬
ment a wooden statue of George Wash¬
ington with a history. The statue was
set up at the Battery in 1794 and there
it stood for 40 years or more until it got
badly battered and became an eyesore to
artists and art lovers. It was then put
up at auction by the city, and the city
got soundly berated for the indignity.
A French dealer in relies named Jacques
bought the figure on speculation for
$250 and failing to realize upon it
stowed it away in the attic of his
country-house at South Norwalk, Conn.
M. Jacques died in 1863 and at the sub¬
sequent sale of his effects the wooden
George fell into the hands of a Yankee
curiosity hunter, who paid a mere trifle
for it and sold it at a considerable ad¬
vance to one Frederick J. Theobald,
who placed it in front of a modest es¬
tablishment in Ilarlem, which was
henceforth known as the “Washington
Cigar Store.” Every 22d of February
and 4th of July Mr. Theobald religiously
decorated the statue with flags. One
day, not very long ago, Mr. Sypher
heard of the ignoble use to which the
father of his country was put and opened
negotiations which resulted in his get¬
ting possession of the same. The figure
is 8 feet 10 inches high, and is a credit¬
able work of its kind. Washington is
represented as standing in an easy pos¬
ture, holding a chapeau at his hip. The
Continental costume consists of a bluish
black coat, white waistcoat, buff
breeches aud top boots. The old-fash¬
ioned fob is in its proper place, and the
expression of the face is benignant.—
The President’s Exchange Reader.
The official at the White House who
does the President’s newspaper reading
and clipping is Benjamin Montgomery,
the telegraphic secretary.. He is one of
the most valuable officers of the force,
as in addition to his knowledge of tele¬
graphy, he possesses a wonderful ac
quaintance with men and measures, and
is singularly active in clerical work.
He now attends to a duty that was for
merly performed by Col. Lamont, name
ly, perusing the newspapers of the
countrv and transferring to a scrap book
;1 q ar *; c j e3 regarded as worthy of the
p res iq e nt's consideration, either because
of their praise or criticism of his ad
ministration.
Teacher—“It seems you are never
able to answer any of my questions
How is this, my little boy? Little
Johnny—“If I knew the things you
asked me, ma’am, dad wouldn't go to
the trouble of sending me her*. ”
The Roses by the Run*
The roses and the clover
Are very sweet and fair,
And I love the fragrant odors
They breathe upon the air;
But the sweeter seemed the blossoms
Beside the meadow run,
The time that you were twenty,
And I was twenty-one.
How fondly I remember
The time we culled them there,
And 'neath the shady maples
I wove them in your hair;
How there in bliss we tarried
Until the set of sun,
The time that you were twenty,
And I was twenty-one.
It may have been the flowers,
Or a look benign and free,
That bade me whisper softly
How dear you were to me;
I never stopped to question,
I only know ’twas done,
The time that you were twenty
And I was twenty-one.
^We’re had our summer, d i rling,
The fields of life are brown.
We’ve traveled up the hillside,
We’re on our journey down;
Yet oft I wake from drearning
Those days have just begun,
That you again are twenty
And I am twenty-one.
When life and love are over,
And I am laid at rest,
I hope some one will gather,
And place upon my breast,
Such flowers as used to blossom
Beside the meadow run,
The time that you were twenty,
And I was twenty-one.
—Merchant Traveller.
HUMOROUS.
A sign of summer—Keep off the
grass.
“You look so much like your
brother,” said Dennis to Phelim, “that
I could tell yez was brothers if I’d never
seen aither av yez. ”
Officer to Court—The charge against
this man is false pretences. lie shouted
he could do up the whole ward, but I
guv him one meself and flured him.
i
“However could you think of falling
in love with such a homely fellow? His
figure is something awful.” “Yes,
but be has a lovely one at the bank.”
A Florida shark swallowed an eight
day clock that had accidentally been
dropped into the water, and seven days
later ran ashore to have it wound up.
Fond mother; “You must remember,
Emeline, that fine feathers don’t make a
fine bird.” Daughter: “True, mamma,
but they do make awfulLy pretty hats.”
It is not good to take tea in the
middle of the day. The man who tried
it in a Texas grocery store when he
thought the clerk was not looking is au¬
thority for this.
An Irishman was planting shade trees
when a passing lady said, “You’re dig¬
ging out the holes, are you, Mr. Hag¬
gerty?” “No, mum, Oim digging out
the dirt, an' lavin’ the holes. ”
Mr. Kenwood—I hear you are engaged
to Mr. Tallboy? Miss South Park—
Who told you? Mr. Kenwood—I have
forgotten, but I understand the infor¬
mation came from Jack himself. Miss
South Park—I wish he’d tell me.
Great Lawyer: I cannot manage a
ease unless I know all of the facts.
You must tell me truly whether you are
guilty or not. Accused party (scornful¬
ly) : D’ye s’pose I’d be fool enough to
hire a high-priced lawyer like you if I
was innocent?”
A discussion arose between the con¬
ductor and the driver in a Boston horse
car. It grew exciting, but at last the
conductor, turning to go to his end of
the vehicle, said in a withering manner;
“You have only personality; I have in¬
dividuality.”
Customer—“I see you are advertising
full sets of teeth for $8.” Dentist
(cautiously).— “Y-e-s, sir. Do you live
at home?” Customer—“No, I board.”
Dentist (with dignity)—You certainly
cannot expect an $8 set to be of any use
in a boarding house, sir. My charge to
you will be $25.”
“Will you vote for my bill?” inquired
the lobbyist of the legislator. “No,
sir, ” replied the latter; “your bill is a
swindle.” “Why, man, you must have
the wrong bill in mind. I mean this
fifty-dollar bill!” “Well, this appears
to be a good bill,” said the legislator,
after examining it critically, “I’ll vote
for it, of course.”
That was Just the Trouble.
“What is it, dear?” asked his wife,
passing her cool hand over his troubled
brow: “what is on your mind?”
“Nothing,” answersd the poet, mourn¬
fully, gazing at the blank sheet of paper
before him: “Nothing, I assure you.”