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My Lesson.
“You have only two?” the lady said,
As she glanced at my babes at play,
And I answered her, “Only two on earth.”
And then 1 wept to say,
As my grief came surging back again,
My grief so deep, so wild,
“Alas it was only a month ago,
I lost a little child.”
A dear little girl with bright, black eyes,
Unlike the other two,
The one with eyes of hazel brown,
The other with heaven’s blue;
A dear littie girl with a laughing face,
And sunshine in her hair,
Whose lisping voice and pattering feet
Made music everywhere.
And I grieve when I miss a single note
From the music of baby feet,
And I weep for the tangle of sunny hair
That is lost (rom my cluster sweet;
For the prattling lips, the clinging touch,
The hand upon my knee,
When the chord was full, and the group
complete,
And my children numbered three.
And then I noticed the room was still,
Tiiat the children stopped their play,
That they looked at each other, and then
at me,
In a wondering, sorrowful way.
Then the oldest one, with the hazel eyes,
Came to my side in tears,
She was only five, with a tender heart,
And thoughtful beyond her years.
“What is the matter with mama's child?”
This was the answer given-
“You said that you lesed a little child,
I fought she was gone to heaven?
And why don’t you look for her every day,
Until you find her again?
And not sleep a wink ’till you bring her
home
Out of the cold and rain?”
Then I hushed my grief for the little child,
Lying under the sod;
I had learned a lesson from baby lips:
“Not lost, but gone to God.”
—Ida J. Hall , hi Atlanta Constitution.
The Mother of Marius
“And there’s an end of it!’’ said
Marius Gray, letting his hand fall de¬
spairingly on the table.
He had just returned from his weary
day’s work, which had stretched itself
far into the night—he was engaged on
a newspaper, and was beginning to earn
good wages as assistant foreman in one
of the departments—and had perused a
letter which hal laid on the table at
his lodgings.
“An end of what?” asked Harold
Morse, his room-mate and companion.
( l Of my throe years’ work,” Gray
answered—“of all that Iv'e been toiling
and striving for so long.”
“You don’t mean,” said Morse,
that you would let this make any differ¬
ence with your plans?”
“It must make a difference, Hall.”
“In the name of common sense, what
difference?”
“Don’t you see? Now that my good
old grandfather is dead, I’ve got to
make a home for my mother. I’ve got
to support her and see that life is made
easy for her in her old age.”
“Oh, I see! ’ said Morse, shrugging
his shoulders. “Alice won’t relish the
idea of a mother-in-law—is that it?”
“1 shall not ask her, Hal. My first
-duty is to my mother.”
“But the little house you’ve bought,
and the furniture you’ve been selecting
piece by piece, and the carpet that
you've laid up for yard by yard, and
the very mossrose-bush by the door-
stone—”
“I hope m7 mother will enjoy them,
Hal,” said Gray, with something like a
quiver on his lip. “But I once heard
Alice make some laughing jest about
the terrors of a mother-in-law. It
■wasn’t much. I don’t think she at¬
tached any particular importance to it,
but still it has stuck to my memory.
In the recollection of that, I can’t ask
her to share any divided empire in my
home.”
“Oh, hang it!” cried Morse, flinging
his paper on the table, “What do
women want to be so cranky for? Why
can’t they bunk in together as com¬
fortably as men do? I 11 go bail Alice
Ardley would go through fire and
water for hei own mother. Why should
she feel differently toward the mother
of the man she loves?”
“There’s all the difference in the
world,” said Gray, sally.
And so he went to bed to ponder over
this new complication of events; and
when he fell asleep he dreamed that he
had just brought a bride home to the
little cottage where the white muslin
curtains rustled in the wind, and the
mossrose-bush was in full blossom, and
somehow Alice Ardley’s blooming face
was frilled around with cap borders and
decorated with an immense pair of sil¬
ver spectacles.
“Of course, Gray will do as he
pleases.” said Morse; but. if I were he
I’d see this old lady further before I
allowed her to upset all my life-calcula¬
tions in this sort of way. Why can’t
he got her boarded out somewhere? or
admitted into a respectable ‘Home’ or
■Refuge,’ or something of the sort?’’
“I suppose,” said the man who
worked next him in the wall-paper de¬
signing factory, “because she is his
mother!’’
“Hang sentiment!” was Morse’s re-
ply.
To Marius Gray’s credit be it spoken
that he never for an instant hesitated as
to what decision to make.
He wrote an affectionate letter to his
mother, telling her of the little home
which was now at her disposal, and
offering to come to Montreal and bring
her thither at. any time which sheshould
fix.
And this lctfer safely dropped into
the nearest mail box, he next began to
consider the forthcoming explanation
with Alice Ardley.
He went to see her that very evening.
She was a music teacher, and lived in
one of those genteel, comfortless board¬
ing-houses which afford so poor a sub¬
stitute for real homes, and she came
down into the parlor, where the gas was
economically lowered, and the scent of
the vegetable soup that had been served
fer dinner still lingered.
“Oh. Marius!” she said, with a little
gurgle in her voice, ‘I’ve been wanting
to see you so much.”
“Have you, Alice?”
He stood holding both her hands in
his own.
“I ve got such a favor to ask of you,
Marius—and oh, 1 don’t kr^ow how to
do it, after all the hateful things I’ve
3aid about mother- in-laws, and that
sort of thing!” faltered she.
He stood still listening, and after a
short pause, Alice went hurriedly on;
“It’s my Aunt Alethea, I’ve got to
take her home and take care of her, for
the cousin who lias supported her all
these years can’t do it any more; and
oh, Marius, we can’t be married unless
—unless you will bo very good
and kind and let old Aunt
Alethea come and live with
UJ. I’m sure she can’t be a great deal
of trouble and I’ll keep on with my
music lessons to furnish her with
clothes. She’s a very nice, quiet old
lady, and—but if you’d rather not,
Marius, say so at once, and of course
the engagement will be at an end.”
Mariu3 Gray’s face lighted up.
“Alice, forgive me!” he said. “You
have shown g eater confidence in me
than I have done in you. As far as I
am concerned your aunt will be most
welcome in any home that you and 1
are to share together. But, Alice, I
iiad come here to ask you to release me
from our engagement.”
Alice gave a little start.
“Marius!’’ she cried. “Oh, Marius,
you don’t mean it?”
t i For the reason,” he went on, “that
it is now incumbent on mo to support
my mother, who has heretofore lived
with her father. I didn't like to ask
you, dear, knowing your opinion on
the subject of—well, of mothers-in-
law, to share your home kingdom with
any one else; and there was no other
home to bring my mother to. But
now—”
“Marius,” cried A'ice, “it’s quite
true what you say. You have put no
confiencc in me. If I could trust you
to be good to my poor old aunt, could
you not have been sure that I would
love your mother?”
“I am sure of it now, Alcie,” said
the young man, still holding her hand
tenderly in his.
“And I won’t release you from your
engagement,” declared Alice, disguis¬
ing her emotion under a very effective
pretence of gay badinage. “I’ve been
taking lessons at a cooking school anl
making up household linen, and I mean
to show your mother and my Aunt
Alethea what a capital housekeeper I
can be. And oh, how proud I shall be
when they eat the first dinner I cook in
my own house!”
“Alice, you are an angel!” asserted
Gray.
“No, I am not,” said Alice. “I’m
only a silly, chattering girl, who says
lots of things that she is sorry ^or
afterwards. But I know how good
and forgiving you are, and you shall
see how dearly I will love h our
mother for your sake until I tr ave
learned to appreciate her for her
own.”
So Alice Ardley and Marius Gray
were quietly married, and oc their wed¬
ding trip they went to 3Iontreal to
bring the old mother home.
Sirs. Gray, Senior, was a trim, creel
little woman, dressed in black serge,
with her rosy old face surrounded fay
the neatest of caps.
She came back to the cottage with
them.
“I shall be glad to see how my chil¬
dren live,” said she.
And she took a great fancy to Aunt
Alethea, who was waiting on the door¬
step to receive them—a meek, soft-
voiced old Quakeress, who moved
noiselessly about and looked like a
human dove in gray plumage.
“I wonder, ” she said, “how Friend
Alethea—for she won’t let one call her
‘M:s3 Ardley’—would like a situation
as companion and reader? She reads
aloud charmingly, That bit of the
daily paper she read us yesterday, A ice,
I declare I thought I could sec with my
everything that happenedl ’
own eyes
“I think she would be delighted,
mother,” said Alice. “It’s a dreadful
trial for her to be dependent on any one
for a living; but there arc no such nice
places to be found. ”
“I know of one, ’’ said Mrs. Ardley.
“Where?" asked Alice.
“In Montreal.”
“But I couldn’t trust Aunt Alethea
with any one but a very kind lady.”
Well, this lady is kind. At least
she’ll try to be. For she is myself,
daughter Alice.
“You, mother? But I thought you
were going to live with us!” exclaimed
Alice.
‘ M7 son Marius and you seem to
take that for granted,” said the old
lady, with a twinkle of her bright,
bkek eyes, “But you are wrong,
nevertheless. No, I am not going to
live with you. I’m very glad to have
caught a glimgse of you in your happy
little home, my dear; but I ve an idea
that young married people are better by
themselves—for a year or two at least.
And my father left me some real estate
in Montreal which has increased very
much in value, and I can live as I
please now. Some day it will all be
yours; but in the meantime I shall take
Friend Alethea back with me, and
we’ll be company for each other.
Once in awhile we’ll come and visit
you, and mind you both take excellent
care of each other.”
So vanished Mrs. Gray and quiet lit¬
tle Aunt Alethea from the scene.
“And here we are, just where we
originally planned to be,” said Marius,
as he and Alice stood at the door, where
the mossrose was in bloom, watching
the wheels of the hack that bore the
two old ladies away.
* Y-es! ’ faltered Alice with a tear in
her eye; but I never thought I could be
so sorry to see a mother-in-law go out
of the house.”
Wedding Rings.
The latest thing in wedding rings
comes from England, and is a narrow
but thick circlet of 22-carat fine gold.
This has come in fashion in America in
the course of the last year, replacing
the old style ring, which is both heavy
and wide, being sometimes half an inch
broad. These latter have been in use
as far back as I can remember. The
Germans always buy two plain gold
rings, the lady giving one to her be¬
trothed and he one to her. The “al¬
liance” ring is sometime called for, and
often manufactured to order. It is
made of two circlets fitting into each
other and coming apart something like
a puzzle, and is a revival of a very old
style. The ordinary wedding ring
costs from $7. 50 to $15, although the
English ring is somewhat more expen¬
sive. In engagement rings individual
taste is the only law, but set stones are
great favorites. A novelty is a ring of
three circlets, almost as narrow as
wire, each set with a band of different
stones, such as pearls, turquoises and
conch-shells. — St. Louis Ghbi Democrat.
Splendid Horsemanship.
The finest seated riders as a class are
the stockmem of Australia. Their
horses, when yarding cattle or heading
a fugitive bullock, gallop like race
horses, and turn of their own accord
as short and as suddenly as a sheep,
dog. Three of these horses will put
1500 wild fat bullocks into a yard
with the rein loose on their necks and
untouched the whole time. They
watch and chase each fugitive like a
sheep dog shases a stray sheep, the
stockmen merely sitting on their backs
and using their twenty-foot stock
whips. The sudden drops, step, and
turn of one of these horses would un¬
seat, and dangerously unseat, the best
horsemen in an ordinary huntimg field.
THE SLAVE-SHED.
Hapless Wretches Captured in
African Forests.
Many Become Victims of Cer¬
emonies in Congo Villages.
From E. J. Glave’s article, “The
Slave Trade in the Congo Easin,” pub¬
lished in the Century, we quote as fol¬
lows: “These hungry creatures form
indeed a truly pitiable sight. After
suffering this captivity for a short time
they become mere skeletons. All ages,
of both sexes, are to be seen: mothers
with, their babes; young men and
women; boys and girls, and even babies
who cannot yet walk, and whose
mothers died of starvation, or perhaps
were killed by the Lufembe. One
seldom sees either old men or old
women; they are all killed in the raids;
their marketable value being very
small, no trouble is taken with them.
“Witnessing groups of these poor,
helpless wretches, with their emaciated
form3 and sunken eyes, their faces a
very picture of sadness, it is not diffi¬
cult to perceive the intense grief that
they are inwardly suffering; but they
know too well it i3 of no use to appeal
for sympathy 10 their merciles3 masters,
who have been accustomed from child¬
hood to witness acts of cruelty and
brutality, so that to satisfy their insati¬
able greed they will commit them selves,
or permit to be committed, any atrocity,
however great. Even the pitiable sight
of one of these slaves-shcds does not
half represent the misery caused by this
traffic—homes broken up, mothers
separated from their babies, husbands
from wives, and brothers from sisters.
When last at Masankusu I saw a slave
woman who had with her one child,
whose starved little body she was
clutching to her shrunken breast. I
was attracted by her sad face, which
betokened great suffering, I asked
her the cause of it, and she told me in
a low, sobbing voice the following
tale:
“ ‘I was living with my husband and
three children in an inlanl village, a
few mile3 from here. My husband was
a hunteT. Ten days ago the Lufembe
attacked our settlement; my busband
defended himself, but was overpowered
and speared to death with several of the
other villagers. I was brought here
with my three children, two of whom
have already been purchased by the
traders. 1 shall never see them any
more. Perhaps they w T ill kill them on
the death of some chief, or perhaps
kill them for food. My remaining
child, you see, is ill, dying from star¬
vation; they give us nothing to eat. 1
expect even this one will be taken from
me today, as the chief, fearing lest it
should die and become a total loss, has
offered it for a very small price. As
for myself,’ said she, ‘they will sell me
to one of the neighboring tribes, to
toil in the plantations, and when I be¬
come old and unfit for work I shall be
killed.’
“There were certainly 500 slaves ex¬
posed for sale in this one village alone.
Large canoes were constantly arriving
Irom down river with merchandise of
all kinds with which they purchased
these slaves. A largo trade is carried
on between the Ubangi and Lulungu
rivers. The people inhabiting the
mouth of the Ubangi buy the Bololo
slaves at Masankusu and the other mar¬
kets. They then take them up the
Ubangi river and exchange them with
the natives there for ivory, These na-
tives buy their slaves solely for food.
Having purchased slaves they feed them
on ripe bananas, fish and oil, and when
they get them into good condition
they kill them. Hundreds of the Ba-
lolo slaves are taken into the river and
disposed of in this way each month.
A great many other slaves are sold to
the large villages on the Congo to sup¬
ply victims for the execution ceremon¬
ies.
* ‘Much life is lost in the capturing of
slaves, and during their captivity many
succumb to starvation. Of the remain¬
der, numbers are sold to become vic¬
tims to cannibalism and human sacrifice
ceremonies. There are few indeed who
ire allowed to live and prosper.”
His Progress.
Dashaway—You say you are going to
call on Miss Palisade. What! in that
shabby outfit?
Cleverton—My dear boy, I’ve got
way beyond the point where she notices
what I wea*
John Chinaman’s Diet.
There is a time-honored impressioal
the effect that the average Cainata
can live on next to nothing, can m
anything and can grow fat on a
that would starve other men. i
almost cruel to upset old traditions, b
if a local merchant speaks ■
there is very little in this particular ■
t r
dition. s
“It’s all bosh, this talk of
living on a bit of rice or something H
that sort,” said thu gentleman to a
porter. [
“It is true that the Chinese are N
gal and that they do not throw
away. But it is not true,
that they slarve themselves. 1
had a good deal to do with them, gH^
I am free to say that they are
customers than a good many of
critics. Chinamen like good food I
well as other people, and if they
afford to buy it they have it. They^l
so constituted that they do not
as much of certain kinds of fool as
Americans, but do not for a monjJ
imagine that they do not know vJL
good food is or that they cannot
it as much as other mm. What
more, when John buy3 he buys the b
article of its kind in the market s
pays the best price. He has his 01
dainties, -which he gets at the Chim
groceries, but he is also partial to soi
of the goods sold in American stores,
“I am of the opinion that t
Chinese, as a rule, have better foo
and perhaps more of it, than most
our ordinary laborers, for mo3t Chin
men have money and most of
spend it more freely than the gene;
public believe.
“No, sir,” continued the speaki
“John Chinaman is by no mea
giving to starving himself. If
hasn’t the money to buy rich food,
course he can only take what comj
cheap, but when he has the money, l
attends to the demands of his stomai
quite as cheerfully as do other men."-
Mail and Express.
Facts About Watermelons. I
The watermelon appears to be divide®
into two distinct classes—one adapt®
to very hot localitaes an 1 the other n®
able to bear well more than a limit®
degree of heat. As a rule,
melons bear large seeds and vice vers®
but there are exceptions. The mo®
dtdicious melons, generally
are those w T ith thin rinds and pink «T
deep red flesh. Such melons, howevej
do not bear transportation very wdj
Large, tou^h- rinded melons of goo
quality, which have the addition?
merit of carrying well and being god
keepers, are now produced in larj
quantities in the southern states. ,
now produce a greater variety of lard
watermelons than ever before, some at
taining to 100 pounds and over i
favorable seasons and localities.
Formerly our melons were moitl
long and oval in form and dark greeil
or striped, and bore largo black a I
brown seeds. Seeds from Spanis
melons produced our first thin-rinde
melons. The French gardeners, whe
they want to keep melons a long time
cut them with long stems, The
stems are coiled up and covered wit
brown sugar to prove nt them from dr?
ing up by exposure to the air. Melos
from Spain and Italy thrive here, bl
there are not many varieties -worthy .
cultivation.— Y. World.
A Wise Clerk.
A stylishly dressed woman was r« I
cently brought before a New York cit I
magistrate on a charge of stealing rib I
bons in a store. The chief clerk b jl I
observed her talking freely with M I
counsel, and was puzzled when sh< I
looked at him blankly when he a s ’ ie< I
her name and residence, and replio* I
with a shake of her head. I
“She is French,” explained the la*
yer, “and doesn’t understand English
Put it down ‘Marie Latouche. ? »>
The clerk frowned incredulously.
“What age is sh'_?” he asked. \
“Twenty-two,” .replied the lawyer. I
Then the clerk’s eyes twinkled as 3 I
said softly: “Thirty-two?”
“No, twenty-two!” snapped the &
prisoner.
“Umph!” said the clerk, You ci
speak English, if you don’t
stand it!”
Little Encouragement
would .
Softas—Do you think Miss R.
marry me if I should ask her?
Van Riper—Well, she looks like <
smart sort of a girl—still, she might.-j
Life.