Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

%»*•+* WttSHKAHK W!CKKI> FOLKS HUHIKD *T«*!I top, gr»r-lie»ilod sextos,” 1 uid, "WtK*rp in tilu field in the wicked folks laid t 1 have wandered the quiet old graveyard through, An*I studied the epitaphs, old and row; (futon monument, obelisk, pillar, or atone I read of no evil that men have done." The old sexton stood by a grave newly made, With his chin on his hand, his hand on a spade; 1 knew by the gleam of his eloquent eye That hie heart waa instructing bis lips to reply. “Who is to judge when the soul takes its flight? Who is to judge 'twixt the wrong and the right? Which of us mortals shall dare to say 9 That our neighbor was wicked who died to¬ day? “In ©nr journey through life, the further we •peed, The better we learn that humanity’s need Da charity's spirit, that prompts us to find Bather virtue than vice in the lives of our kind. ♦Therefore, good deeds we record on these .atones; The evil men do, let it die with their bones. I have labored aa sexton this many a year, Bat I never have buried a bad man here.” —Truth Seeker. THAT DAY IN HIS BOAT. II was a wild night. The wind blew, the rain drove, the waves roared in the distance. it had been a fateful day to me. Grandfather Delmar, with whom I had lived ever since I could remember, had been earned to his final home that after atmon, and now I was the last representa¬ tive of onr name. The wide acres of the Delmar plantation, originally one of the largest estates on the eastern shore of Maryland, had come down to me as sole heiress. To me also had descended the Delmar diamonds, whioh had blazed on the persons of the Delmar ladies. I say descended, bnt I am hardly correct, for theae broad lands and these priceless jewels were mine only^mnder the will of my grandfather, and that will contained m proviso which I had just learned for the first time. I was to marry Randolph Heath, the ward, and adopted son of my grandfather, or else the entire property waa to go to this self-same Randolph. The will had just been read. The fu¬ neral guests, or at least, the most im¬ portant of them, had listened to it in the gieat drawing-room below, the wails of whioh were hung with portraits of my Delmar ancestors, handsome men and lovely, golden-haired women. “Charlotte,” said my aunt, when the reading of the will was ended—“Char¬ lotte, my dear, yon must invite our triends for the night. You are mistress now.” “I shall never be mistress of Delmar flail, Annt Mordaunt,” I said, firmly. She clutched my arm, her eyes wide with wonder. “And why not, pray ?” “Because of the proviso. I will never wed Randolph Heath.” Her faoe whitened to the hue of death. She was a lone widow, and 1 was her idol; and she Coveted all those :jewels and rich acres for my heritage. For a moment we stood breathless. “But Randolph Heath’s in Australia,” suggested a friend, “and you are mis¬ tress at least until he returns.” \ Poor aunty oaught at this last hope with a gasp of relief. “So you are, my dear,” she put in; “we’ll leave all these disagreeable things to be settled in the future. To-night, friends, we will shut the doors against the storms and be comfortable.” She swept off toward the glowing parlor, followed by her guests, while I fled away to my own chamber. The afternoon, as I have said, had turned into rain and the waves thundered on the shores of the bay close by with .» hoarse cry, like a human heart in gtoMn I paced my room restlessly. I . oould not marry this Randolph Heath, .whose lace I had not looked upon since clays nt my early ontatnood. i uouiu not do it, for another face arose before me, in the face of the man I loved. A poor man, landless and unknown, yet who had grown so dear to me in the feu* brief months of our summer acquaint# anoe that to give him up were worse Delmar, ( than death. Yet 1 was a It .« • Bore total to loie my to lone Uie Delmar joweta. All tho Del mar women before me had worn theae ST? SLftrSLS&ZTJi dowarlee. ? **Yes, cheerfully,” I said; “since to keep them I must give up the choice of my heart. Dear, dear summer days 1” For it had been during a visit to a school friend, who lived in one of the loveliest oonnties of Pennsylvania, that I had met, the preceding June, Herbert Stanley. For the first time in my life I had found in him a perfectly congenial soul We liked the same poetry, pre¬ ferred the same music, admired the same aoenery. Ah 1 what delirious d» 7 . those were. HWe rode, we walked, we •ailed, we read together. Our acquaint¬ ance soon passed into intimacy, and from that ripened into love. Never eould 1 forget the day, the blissful day, when my hopes became a certainty. Herbert had asked me the evening before if I would go with him in his boat. No knight of old oould have handed me into the little vessel more reverentially than he did. How manly he looked! How strong and self-con¬ tained I My heart beat fast, for some¬ thing in his manner told mo what was ooming, but I was inexpressibly happy, nevertheless. He rowed for about half bk hour; then stopping, he lay upon his oars, and looking me in the face like a brave heart as he was, told his tale, though with many a hesitating word and many a look of anxiety. Should I give such a one up ? Never! Yet the temper of my thoughts was such that I could not stay in-doors ! I left the house and ran down to the shore of the bay, having first thrown a shawl over my head. The storm andidarkness was terrific, and the tide was qbming in with a hoarse, sullen cry. The salt mist drenched my hair, the winds tore and shrieked around me, and overhead hung the pitch-black sky. Suddenly I heard a step and, looking up, saw Herbert himself. I started with surprise. “I have been hovering about all day,” he said. “I had given up hope of see¬ ing you. But still I eould not tear my sejfaway. ” “You did not doubt me?” I cried. “Oh, Herbert 1” My look, my tone, even more than my words, reassured him. “Thank God l” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Thank God ! It is not true, then, what I hear. You are not going to betray me ?” “Betray you?” “I was told you were to be disinherit¬ ed unless you married Randolph Heath, and that the temptation has been too great for you. I did not believe it. And yet, and yet—forgive me, darling, I see I was wrong—I was fearfully afraid.” “Be afraid no longer,” I whispered, nestling to his broad breast “What are broad acres and gleaming jewels to your dear love? I am yours and yours only.” He bent and kissed me. After a while he said, “I do not fear for your fidelity, but I do fear for the persecution yon may suffer. It is but a short walk to the little ohuroh. I know the rector; he was, I find, one of my old school¬ mates. Be mine to-night and I will go away content. Not till you permit it shall the marriage be made public.” “I am yours,” I said, “but lot it be to-morrow evening. I will tell my aunt in a day or two afterward. Poor aunt, it will need that time to prepare her.” It was arranged, therefore, that I should meet my lover av the same hour next evening, and with a parting em¬ brace I hurried in, lest I should be missed. A tint Mordaunt vu in a flutter of ex eifoment the next morning. She bad just reoctved a letter saying that Ban dolph Heath hud returned and would be ft t Ddinar Hall *>y sunset, » Now§ charlotte, my love,” she said tmutling into my chamber before I was aW ake, “do try and look your best to njgbt Yoo aro a j know> bBt a c tj arm | D g toilet set. you off amazingly, 4 ^ o(I bcaTy orape j mt for to ldy-of-the-ralley * •»* ™ *“;! totominga wh ! t# Ton m«t fascinate this Bandolph Heath at the outset; it will be quite comfortable to have him at your feet, for you must marry him, my dear; you are too sensi¬ ble girl to make a beggar of yourself. ” a I only smiled in answer, and I suf¬ fered my maid to array me in the dainty silk. Bnt at set of snn, instead of receiving Randolph Heath in the grand parlors of the hall I was speeding away with my lover toward the old , dmroh, , . . built of . , bricks . , im- . ported from England a century and a half before; the church where the Del mars for five generations had been married. In the soft glitter of the early starlight we were wedded. An hour after I was home again. But as I as¬ cended to my room I remembered that I had looked my last upon the blinking Delmar diamonds and on the broad ds of the hall. I had hardly dosed the door behind me when my aunt entered. “Charlotte, you must come down at once; you must indeed,” she said. “Randolph is in the drawing-room and ks to see you. Don’t be odd. Here, oile, do your young lady’s hair. I stood uncertain. ■“And now, my dear, do put on your diamonds,” continued poor auntie, flut¬ tering round me; “you should always wear gems, they become you.” “Bnt, auntie, the diamonds are not mine,” I began, wishing time to think. I was almost ready, then and there, to tell the truth. But I pitied auntie and hesitated. j “But they will be, mv love, as soon as you marry Randolph Heath,” she urged. “I shall never marry him,” I an swered. “We shall see, my love. At any rate, come down and welcome him. That muoh is due, at the least. ” This decided me. It was his due., As we descended to the grand drawing¬ room where my grandfather’s adopted son awaited us, I stopped for a moment on the stairs and gazed around me with almost a sigh of regret. In a few days I must go out from the dear old place disowned and disinherited. Poor auntie! the blow will fall heavily on her. Shutting my hand involuntarily over the marriage ring upon my finger, I fol¬ lowed my aunt, my heart in my mouth. A tall figure arose as we mitered and ad¬ vanced to meet us. I heard my aunt’s warm word of welcome, and then I felt my own hands grasped, and looked up. I cried* out in amazement, for the stranger was Herbert Stanley, my new ly-wedded husband. “Can I hope that you will ever for¬ give me?” he said, with a smile. “I am Randolph Heath. I have known of the proviso to your graudfather’s wui for years. But as I wanted you to love m 5 for myself, if you eould, I planned t • meet you last summer. Can you forgive me?” I looked up into his dear, kind face •‘No matter who you are, or what you planned,” I answered, putting my hand In his, “I forgive you. for I love you.’ Then we told the story of our marriage. Aunt Mordaunt* listened in horrified “^Ai/ndiscreet thing, to say the least, mv love” she said; “you might have committed a grave mistake. It is ail right Binoe you’ve married Mr. Heath, But really, my dears, you must have a wedding. Yes, in order to preserve the prestige of the old name, if nothing more, wo really must hero a wedding, uni marry jou over Again/' And she did; and it waa a most mag* nificent affair. The old hall was in % blaze of light, and crowded with noble guests, and I wore poiut lace and the old Delator diamonds. Bot I was not half so happy as on the day when I first heard from my hus¬ band’s lips that he loved me—-beard it that day in his boat. A Stale Printer. Assemblyman McCann’s bill to provide for the establishment of a State printing office at Albany, N. Y., was discussed be¬ fore the Assembly Committee on Print¬ ing. Mr. Amos J. Cummings and ex President John O’Donnell, of Typo¬ graphical Union No. 6, came from New York to represent that organization. Mr. O’Donnell reviewed the history of the national printing, calling especial attention to the corruption in the print¬ ing system at the time that Wendell, the Public Printer, , was proved to have sent $100,000 to P ennsylvania to help elect Buchanan. After that the present Bureau of Printing was established. He said that by the reports of the State Printer of California, he is saving, as compared with the contract system of ten years ago, when there was less work, between $30,000 and $40,000. He argued that by the present system in Albany the printing is far too expensive, is not good workmanship, is executed in a manner unjust to the best workmen of the State, and is bad in many im¬ portant respects. Mr. Cummings said the proposed State printing office is de¬ manded by the workingmen of the State, who form a majority of the voters. The State Workingmen’s Assembly is behind this bill. The present printers will not employ a member of a trades union. Because he is a member he is shut out from employment, no matter how good a workman he may be. Mr. W. G. Johnson, of the Albany Typo¬ graphical Union, also spoke for the bill. m •*Up S a Ballooi The balloon corps employed by Gen. Graham to reconnoitre Osman Digma’s movements represents a force which may hereafter become formidably effec¬ tive in modern warfare, although the date of its first utilization in this way comes almost within the memory of some men still living. The earliest ap¬ pearance of balloons in war was daring the siege of a fortress in Northern France by the Austro-Prussian invaders of 1794, when an adventurous aeronaut thor¬ oughly surveyed the Austrian line in the teeth of a heavy but wholly inef¬ fectual fire directed against him by the enraged enemy. The balloon commu¬ nications kept with the outside world by Paris during the German blockade of 1870 is still fresh in public memory. Poor Col. Burnaby, one of the boldest aeronauts of his time, had daring theo¬ ries about the possible use of balloons in war which his own feate amply justi fiefl. The project of freighting a bal¬ loon with small bombs, and dropping •hem into the enemy’s ranks, has beer repeatedly mooted, but not yet tested by actual experiment. This mother of a family consisting of the parents and two grown-up daugh¬ ters, living in Goffstown, recently died, and when the undertaker came to per¬ form his duties the father was asked the name of his wife. His reply was, “Mother.” No other name could he re¬ member, and the daughters were equally ignorant, having never known their parent by any other name than “Moth¬ er,” and a right good name, too. A Firrsncno girl had her bangs blown off in an explosion, and the company settled with her for $25. Bangs must be high down ihat way. Up here you ian get a whole rink full of bangs for two shillings, and the music thrown in. --Ban&viUe (N. Y.) Breeze.