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®k Jtlotttooinctg Jttonitor.
D. C. SUTTON, Editor and Prop'r. ML VERNON. MONTGOMERY OO- GA.. TiII'REPAY. MAY ii. ISSti.
DR TM, MAGE’S SERMON.
MOTHERHOOD.
R«v. Dr. Tfchnage preached in St. Issuis on
nis way borne fl-cae a Western trip, the
twelfth of his series of sermons on “The Mar
Ti“SS Iting."’ Its subject was “M< therbocri.”
Mt. TalW&ge took for his text:
'‘Moreover his mother made him a little
'•oat, and brought it to him from year to
year, when she came up with her husband to
offer the yearly sacrifice."—l Samuel ii., 19.
“The stories of Deborah and Abigail are
very apt to discourage a Woman's soul,” he
said ‘ Hanrfth was the wife of Klkanah,
who was « person very marh like herself—
unrnnmntic end plain, never having fought a
battle or been the subject of n marvelous es
cape. Neither of them would have been
r ailed a genius. Just what you ami I might
be. that was Klkanah and Hannah.
“The brightest time in all the history of
that family was the birth of Samuel. Al
though no star ran along the heavens pointing
down to his birthplace, 1 think the angels of
(rod stooped at the coming of so Wonderful a
prophet.
“As Samuel had been given in answer to
prayer, Elkonah And all his family, save
Hannah, started up to Shiloh to offer sacri
fices of. thanksgiving. The cradle where the
child slept was altar enough for Hannah's
graceful heart, but when the boy was old
she took him to Shiloh and took ;hrce bullocks
and an ephah of flour and a bottle of wine, and
made offering of sacrifice unto the Lord, and
there, according to a previous vow, she left
him; for there he was to stay all the days of
his life and minister in the temple,
“Yeai-s rolled on, and every year Hannah
made with her own ban 1 a garment for
Samuel and took it over to him. The lad
would have got along well without that gar
ment, for I suppose he was Well clad by the
ministry of the temple; but Hannah could
not be contented unless she was all the time
doing something for her darling boy. 'More
over nis mother made him a little coat and
brought it, to him from year to year, when
she came up with her husband to offer the
yearly sacrifice.’
“Hannah stands before you, then, in the
first place, as an industrial mother. There
was no need for her to work. Klkanah, her
husband, was far from poor. He belonged
to a distinguished family; for the Bible tells
us that he was the son of Jeroboam, the son
of Elibu, the son of John, the son of Zuph.
“Who were they?” you say. Ido not know;
but they were distinguished people, no doubt,
or their names would not nave been men
tioned. Hannah might have seated herself
with her family, and, with folded arms and
dishevelled hair, read novels from year to
year, if there had been any to read; but when
3 see her making that garment, and taking it
over to. Samuel.! know she is industrious from
principle as we!! as from pleasure. God would
not have a mother become a dredge, or a
slave; he would have her employ all the helps
possible in this day in the rearing of her
children. But Hannah ought never to be
ashamed to be found making a coat for
Samuel.
“Most mothers need no counsel in this di
rection. The wrinkles on their brow, the
pallor on their cheek, the thimble-mark on
their finger attest that they are faithful in
their maternal duties. The bloom and the
brightness and the vivacity of girlhood have
fjven place for the grander dignity and use
ulness and industry of motherhood. But
there is a heathenish idea getting abroad in
some of the families of Americans; there
are mothers who banish themselves from the
home circle. For three-fourths of their ma
ternal duties they prove themselves ineom-
Setent. They are ignorant of what their chil
ren wear, and what their children eat, and
what their children read. They intrust to
trresposible persons these young immortals,
and allow them to be under influences which
may cripple their bodies, or taint their
purity, or spoil their manners, or destroy
their souls.
“Who are the industrious men in all our
occupations and professions? Who are they
managing the merchandise of the world,
building the walls, tinning the roofs, weaving
the carpets, making the laws, governing the
nations, making the earth to quake and heave
and roar and rattle with the treud of gigantic
enterprises? Who are they? For the most
part they descended from industrious moth
ers w ho, in the old homestead, used to spin
their own yarn, and weave their own carpets,
and plait their own door-mats, and flag their
own chairs and do their own work. Hie
stalwart men anil the influential women of
this day, ninety-nine out of a hundred of
them, came from such an illustrious ancestry
of hard knuckles and homespun.
“And who are these people in society, light
as froth, blown every whither of temptation
and fashion; the peddlers of tilthy stories,
the dancing-jacks of political parties, the
scum of society, the tavern-lounging, the
store infesting, the men of low wink ami
filthy chuckle and brass breastpins and rotten
associations? For the most part they come
from mothers idle and disgusting, the scandal
mongers of society, going from house to
house, attending to everybody’s business but
their own, believing in witches and ghosts
and horse-hoes to keep the devil out of the
churn, and by a godless life setting thei r
children on the very verge of hell. The
mothers of Samuel Johnson and of Alfre 1 the
Great and of Isaac Newton and of St.
Augustine and of Richard Cecil and of Presi
dent Edwards, for the most part, were in
dustrious, hard-working mothers.
“Again, Hannah stands Itefore you as an
intelligent mother. From the way in which
she talked in this chapter, and fr< m the way
she managed this boy, you know she was in
telligent. There are no persons in a commu
nitv who need to be so wise and well in
formed as mothers.
“Oh. how much care and intelligence are
necessary in the rearing of children! But in
this day. when there are so many books on
the subject, no parent is excusable in being
ignoi ant of the lest mode of bringing up a
child If parents knew more of dietetics
there would not lie so many dyspeptic stom
aches and weak nerves and incompetent liv
ers among children. If parents knew more
of physiology there would not be so many
curved spines, and cramped cheats, and in
flamed tnr oats and diseased lungs, as there
are among children. If parent** knew
more of art and were in sympathy with al
that is beautiful there would not be so many
children coming out in the world with boor
ish proclivities If parents knew more of
Chri t and practiced more of his religion
therf would not be so many little feet alrea/I v
start ng on the wrong road, and all around
us voices of riot and blasphemy would not
come up with such * cstacy of infernal tri
umph
l A:ain. Hannah >tands before you as a
Chri t:an mother. From her prayers and
from the wav she cod so rated her boy to trod
I kr v.v she was good. A mother may have
the finest culture, th** most brilliant siir
roun lings, but “he is not fit for her duties
unle *. she l>c a Christian mother. There may
be veil-read libraries in the hou*e, and ex
guisiie music in the parlor, and the canvas
of th best artists adorning the walls, and the
war. robe be crowded with tasteful apparel,
arid the < bi’dreii If* wonderful for their
atta’ nents and make the house ring with
laugi.ter and innocent ninth but there is
something w eful looking in that bouse
it Ik* not also the residue a » hriM ian
mother.
“One hunched aid t wonty clergynie-- m : •
tgettaor, ami they wore telling their e
ence and their ancestry; and of the II - vgp*
men. how many of them do you suppose as
signed as the means of their conversion the
influence of a Christian mother? One hun
dred out of the 120. Philip Doddridge was
brought to God by the Scripture lesson on
the Dutch tiles of a chimney fireplace. The
mother thinks she is only rocking a child,
but at the same time she may be rocking the
fate of nations, rocking the glories of
heaven. The same maternal power that may
lift the child up may press a child down.
• A daughter came toa worldly mother and
said she was anxious about her sins and she
had been praying all night. The mother said:
“Oh. Stop praying! I adn’t l>etieve in pray*
ing. Get over nil these religious notions .-nil
I’lt give you :\ dross that will cost atm
you may weir it next week to that party.
The daughter took the dress, and she moved
in the gav circle the gavestof all the gay that
night, and sure enough all religious impressions
were gone, nhd she stopped praying. A few
liuhtns after she came to die, and in
her closiug moments said, “Mother,
I wish you would bring me that dress
that c il t ssoo,'* The mother thought it a Very
strange request, hut. she brought it to please
the dying child. ‘Now,’ said the daughter,
‘mother, hnv .' that dress on the foot of my
bed,'and the dve-s was hung th'—" -'n the ,
foot of the bed. Then the dying girl got up
ou one elbow and looked at her mother, and
then pointed to the dress, an<l said: ‘Mother,
that dress is the price of my soult’ Oh,
whnt a momentous thing it is to be a mother!
“Hannah stands before you the rewarded ,
mother, For all the coats she made forSam- j
Ual, for all the prayers she offered for him.
for the discipline exerted over him, she got
al undant compensation in the piety and the
Usefulness and the popularity of her son Sam
uel; and that is true in all ages. Every
mother gets full pay for all the prayers and
tears in behalf of liar children.”
Concluding, Mr. Talmage said; “Lookout |
for the young man who speaks of his father
as ‘ the governor,’ ‘the squire,’ ol - the ‘old
,-t—-V Look out for the voting woman who
calls her mother her‘maternal ancestor.’ or
the‘old woman.’ 'Theeye that moeketh at j
bis father and refuseth to obey his motheij j
the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and
the young eagles shall eat it.’ ”
Misunderstood.
Old Gent or the Beroh Persuasion.
“Young man, this is preposterous!
You ought to know better. Why! it’s
ignominy.”
Young Man—“’Tain’t neither; it’s
nnthin’ but a common pup. Don’t yer
tink I knows a pup when I sees it?”—
Puck.
■ -w- •
iris La.t i' .siUuu.
A man with a red nose applied to the
theatrical manager for a position.
“Where were you employed last?”
asked the manager.
“I was in the orchestra.”
“Wh it instrument did you blow—the
trombone?”
“Naw, I blew out the kerosene lamps
after the performance was over.”— Tern*
Sifting*.
An Anglo-Maniae’s Origin.
“What is the booking to New YorkP
inquired a young man with a queer
shaped hat on his head and a drawl in
his voice, as he stood before the ticket
window' of an Eastern railroad.
“Seventeen dollars,” said the ticket
agent.
“You mean—aw three pound ten,
eh?"’
“No, I mean seventeen dollars. I
don’t know anything about your three
ponn’ ten. Ticket?”
“Y-a a-s, you may book me. But
three poun’ ten is too deuced much,
donchcr know; too awfully much.
Does that include me luggage? ’
He was informed that his luggage
would be carried, and started off to look
after it. with his one eye-glass elevated
toward the roof of the station house.
“Thar chap must bean Englishman."
remarked the ticket agent.
“Englishman, the deuce!” replied *
brakeman who chan' ed to be standing
bv. “I know that votin'- codfish. Ha
was born on a canal boat down here near
Joliet, and his dad got rich buying
hogs.”—6 'hie/igo Herald.
Needles were invented by a man. It
is needless to add that he died bald
headed.
H /i btiti VAOtO ■ POKTITER *
The Christening.
No, t won’t forgive our pateon—fiot down to 1
iny dytn’ (lay.
He’d orter waited a minnit; that’s What l'l ,
oilers say, 1
But to christen my boy, my baby, with such
an orful name —
Why, where's the use o’ talkin’! I tell you he ;
was to blame.
You see it happened in this way: There was
father an’ Uncle Si
An’ mother, an’ each one wantin’ a finger in
the pie—
Each with a name for baby, as es I hadn’t, no
Voice,
But the more they talked atl' nrgied,the more
I stock to my choice.
“Semanthy”—this was father —“you’d best
take pattern by mother,
For she named thirteen children 'thout. any
such fuss or bother,
As soon as she diskivored that family naaies
Was too few,
Why, she just fell back on the Bible, as per
fessers air bound to do.
“Semanthy”—this was Reuben —-"most any
one else could see
That, bein’ as I’m his father, he orter lie
named for me.
You say my name's old-fashioned; well, 1 m
old-fashioned too,
Yet ’twarn’t so long ago, nuther, that both of
us suited you.”
Then there was Uncle Silas: “Semanthy, I
tell ye what—
Just name him Silas. I’ll give hint that
hundrod-aere lot—
I'll make out the deed to-morror —an’ then
when I’ve gone to my rest,
There’ll be a trifle o’ money to ’ elp him
feather his nest.
But the worst of all was mother. She says,
so meek an’ mild:
“I’d love to call him Jotham, after my oldest
child;
He died on his second birthday. The others
are grown-up men,
But Jotham is still my baby! ho has never
grown since then.
His hair was soft an’ curlin’, eyes blue as blue
could be,
An' this boy of yours, Semanthy, jest brings
him hack to me.”
Well, it warn’t no easy matter to keep on
sayin, No,
An’ dlsapp’intin’ every one. Poor Rube he
fretted so.
When I told him the name I’d chosen, that he
fairly made me cry.
For I’d planned to name the darling Augus
tus Perciva! Guy.
Ah! that was a name worth bearin’, so ’rixto
cratic an’ grand!
He might ’a held up his head then with the
proudest in the land.
But non Well ’tisn’t no wonder, when I
look at that blessed cciild
An’ think of the name he’s come to, that I ;
can’t bo reconciled.
At last I coaxed up Reuben, an’ a Sabbath
mornin’ came
When I took my boy to meetin’ to git his
Christian name.
Jest as proud as a peacock I stood awaitin’
there;
I couldn’t hardly listen to the rendin’ nor the
prayer.
I For of half a dozen babies mine was the finest
of all;
An’ they had seeh common names, too. But
pride must have a fall.
“What will ye call him?” says Parson Brown,
bendin’ his In-ad to hear.
Then I handed a bit of paper up, with the
names writ full an’ clear.
| But Uncle Si, ’stead of passin’ it, jest, reads it
j over slow,
With sech a wond’riti,’ puzzled face, as es he
didn’t know.
The child was lieginnin’ to fidget, an’ Rube
was gittin red,
So I kinder scowled at Uncle Bi, and then I
shook my head.
“The names” says Parson Brown agin; “I’m
’feared I haven’t caught, it.”
“Jee-hoshaphatP' says Uncle Si, out loud,
before he thought it.
The parson—lie’s near sighted—he couldn’t
understand,
Though I printed to the paper in Uucle Silas’
hand.
But that word did the business; an’ before I
got my breath
That boy was named Jehoshai-hat. I felt a’
most like death.
I couldn’t keep from cryin’ as 1 hurried down
the aisle,
An’ I fairly hated Widdow Green when I see
her kinder smile.
I’ve never, never called him by that name,
an’ never will,
An’ I can't forgive old Parson Brown, though
I bear him no ill-will.
— T. Corbett, ffo.rpe,r'».
A PARLOR ROMANCE.
Everybody said they were made ex
pressly for each other. Even the bronze
clock on the mantel said so, and this had
more weight than the statement of any
one else. The clock was an oracle. .Os
all the ornaments in the room he was the
only one who was treated with respect
by the housemaid. Then, too, he was
consulted by the man who owned the
house, who set his watch by the gilt
hands which moved with unvarying reg
ularity around his circular face. Thus
it was only natural that the other orna
ments should regard his word as little
less than law. The very day these two
were brought into the room—-he, a short,
corpulent terracotta figure of a foreign
troubadour, and she, a slender damsel of
his own nationality—the clock nodded
to the Japanese vase on the centre tab'
[ and observed that if he knew anything
tills couple Were made expressly for each
other, Tlu-tc were tt great many reasons 1
why he should have formed shell an i
opinion. In the first place they ttp|>ertrcd
to he Very happy in each Other's society, l
He seemed to be proud of tier grace. And i
she looked as vain of his manly Vigor its
though he had been a real flesh and blood i
man, instead of a very commonplace
earthen manikin. But. love is blind,
even in parlor ornaments, nnd in her
fond eyes he was perfection. For a long
time they lived entirely for each other.
Jle heard her faintest whisper, and the
glances which passed between them
would have metlcd anything that hap
pened to stand in their way like so much
lire. As a matter of course such open
devotion could not escape the notice of
the other ornaments, who had nothing to
occupy their minds but. such things as
occurred within the range of their vis
ions. The Japanese peasant shook his
bronze head spitefully one day when
they had been particularly affectionate
and remarked significantly to his mate
that some things made him ill.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, “and I
don’t opprove of their actions in the
least. No one ever saw ns act that
way.”
“I should say not. If they want to
spoon they ought to go Into tho pantry
with the knives and forks. This room Is
no place, to pass a honeymoon.”
“No, indeed,” returned the peasant
girl. “It is positively disgusting. Every
time f look in their direction I feel as if I
ought to cough to let them know that
they are not alone."
But whether the comments were favor
able or adverse it made little difference
to the lovers. They were happy and
that was enough for them. So selfish is
love, and fickle too. Luckily for story
writers even the warmest love cools in
time and our terracotta friends were no
exception to the rule. Before the first
year had passed they behaved very much
the same as ordinary married couples,
and the inanim. ! - gossips of the mantel
amused themselvc 1 y criticising his neg
lect of her in very nun li the same lan
guage Lis previous devotion to her bad j
been expressed in.
What is advised to-day is criticised to
morrow by parlor ornaments the same a.s
by the people who own them, so given is
this world to uppishness.
In the course of time another ornament
made its appearance. She was a beauli
fill marble statuette. Shi’ was direct
from Paris and bad been in this country
so short a time that her speech was more
French than English. From the moment
she appeared tin: terra-cotta troubadour
ppid no attention to any one else. This
; was not altogether incomprehensible, how
ever. He too was of French descent, and
bespoke both languages as fluently as the
nature of his constitution would permit.
She asked him if lie would teach her
English, and lie was only too delighted
to be of service, so he said. At first the
| little wife thought nothing of her Ims-
I band’s actions. She also was French nnd
sympathised with the new comer, but
after a while she realized that she had
; cause to be jealous. He grew more and
more neglectful of her, ami at last lie
would hardly deign to notice her at all.
For days together he never addressed a
i word to her, so engrossed was he in liis
charming pupil.
Human nature is the same the world
over, and those philosophers who refuse
to ornament the characteristic s of their
; human owners do them a serious injustice,
j The marble statuette was pleased with the
attentions of the troubadour, his neglect of
1 his wife for her delighted her vanity, and
j besides this he was an entertaining fellow
when he wanted to be, and she was not in
; sensible to his unconcealed admiration.
Her heart was touched as much as such a
j heart could be touched, but her con
science was as cold as the marble of which
she was made.
“J)o you ever play on your guitar?” she
asked of him one day.
“No,” he replied, “I never thought of
it before.”
“J should think you would be a beauti
ful player.”
“Doyou like guitar music?” he asked
after a pause.
•“I’m in love with it. 3n Paris it is all
the rage, and I know you could play de
lightfully.”
“Why do you think so?”
-‘You have such beautiful long fingers,
your arm is so graceful, and from your
face I can see that you are a horn musi
cian. Did you ever compose anything?”
“Never,” he replied, feeling somewhat
; ashamed of himself for the admission.
, j “I’m surprised,” she returned with a
smile of incredulity. She was a skillful
! actress, this cold marble damsel, and a
, most experienced coquette,
r j “No,” he replied, “I have never tried
[ . to compose anything yet.”
“But you certainly r.now how to play
, i music?”
“Well,” hesitated tin- troubadour, “it :
has been a long time since 1 haft’ dont
anything in that line."
“You must change that at ouco. You I
must practice on the guitar every day for
tny sako,"
“I will do so, most assuredly,” he re
turned, “I Will begin to-morrow.”
“By the way,” continued the siren, j
“you have newer sung for ttte yet.”
“ N-n-o,” stammered the troubadour,
who, if the truth were known, had no
more voico than a China plaque and even
less knowledge of music.
“Well, you must sing for me, too,”
“ I am somewhat out of practice.”
“ Nevermind that," replied the statu
ette with an entrancing smile. “ I will
make all allowances for your modesty. I
know you do sing charmingly. Your
voice is so low and sweet.”
“Do you really think so?” ho asked,
half convinced against his judgment, so
foolish is a lover, and oh 1 how credu
lous 1
“ I know it,” she replied emphatically.
“If you were only oil the operatic stage
you would he one of the greatest singers
in the world, and managers would pay
you three thousand dollars a night every
night in the week. Ladies would go
wild over you and you would he deluged
with bouquets and love letters. I am glad
though that you arc not on the stage.
You would never think of poor little me
If you were so great.”
The honest troubadour hastened to aa
sure her that, she was mistaken—alto
gether mistaken -in her opinion, and tho
discussion on this point became so com
prehensive that the clock struck midnight
before she admitted herself satisfied and
the love-sick swain was able to close his
eyes in sleep for the night,. The next
morning he awoke bright, and early, and
looking over in the direction of his wifo
he called to mind the ambition that, had
been aroused in him tho evening be
fore.
“ She never saw anything great in me,”
ho observed to himself. “ She never
asked me to sing. She never thought I
was a great musician. And yet I am. I
have been hiding tny talent under a
bushel all my life. Oh 1 if Iliad only
married (his charming and discerning
statuette how happy we should be, aed
how great.”
It was fortunate for his little wife that
this cruel speech was not heard. She
had trouble enough already, and as she
slept tears rolled down her cheeks. Bho
sorrowed even in her dreams. After the
housemaid had finished the morning’s
work the lovers were once more left
alone.
“ Now,” thought the troubadour, “ I
; shall surprise her by singing.” So with
a little preliminary cough he cleared his
throat and began.
“Stop that noise,” sltouted the clock
before he had sung half a liar, and the
other ornaments rattled on their feet in
strong approval of the rebuke.
The troubadour turned his face to his
I sweetheart, hut in tier superior wisdom
she was looking in the other direction as
unconcerned as though sin- had not been
the cause of his discomfiture.
“Well,” observed the troubadour, still
unabashed, “I have _one other accom
plishment, remaining. 1 shall piny on the
i i guitar.” With a strong effort he raised
his hand and brought the instrument in :
I to the proper position, but the strain was
, | too much for his brittle composition, and
• ! the arm snapped in twain and dropped to
| the floor.
“That’s right,” said the clock; “that
serves you right for being such a goose,”
and the other ornaments murmured theii
■ approbation.
The poor troubadour turned to his
sweetheart for sympathy.
l “You don’t despise me, too,” he ex
! claimed.
i | “No,” she replied, with a heartless
little laugh, “I always pity fools.”
• “I pity you, too,” came a voice from
the other side of the clock; “and I love
f you, dear, just, the same as I used to.”
The troubadour looked up in surprise.
It was his wife who had spoken.
“Yes,” continued the little woman,
| her face radiant with love, “I love you
arid when the housemaid comes in you
1 will be mended, and will be just as good
. as new. Then we will he together again (
and I know we will be just as happy as
we once were, won’t we, dear?”
, The troubadour was too ashamed to re
r ply, but from the look of gratitude which
came into his face it is highly probable
’ that, she spoke the truth; at least let us
t trust she did.— Benjamin Northrop in
New York Graphic.
t
I A record of six hundred births shows
i that a little more than half the number
\ occurred between 8 a. rn. and 8 p. m.
I i —the greatest number during any one
hour being between 7 and 8 a. m., and
r the least number, twelve, occurred be
i tween 12 m. and lp.m.
NO. I*.
VOL. f.
Rest Awhile.
I will 1* hi ill t«-«lay and jest,
I will t* still ami lot lit® drift)
f am no fir** I t hut. it is lx***
Neiftwr my hands nos eye® to lift
I am so tirt<d—it is no use,
My will can not my ne**l oboy;
O ( lire, 1 ask a few hours’ truce,
I pray tb let mo rest Vxluy.
And sn, shut up in restful gleam.
1 let my hands drop listlessly,
Within my dim and silent room
I would not movo, or hear, or swv
Oblivion dropped on me her balm.
I fell on slumber deep and sweet,
And when I woke was strong and calm,
And full of rwtt from head U> (eoi.
Ho, toiler in lire’s weary ways,
I’ity thyself, for tbou must, tire;
Both lienly, mind, ami heart have days
They ean net answer their desire.
Birds in all seasons <lo not sing,
Flowers have their time to bloom and fall;
There is not any living thing
Can answer to a ceaseless call.
Sometimes, tireil head, se«k shimler deep;
Tired hnnils, no burden try to lift;
Tired heart, thy watch let others keep*.
I>ity thyself and let life drift.
A few hours’ rest perchance may bring
Belief from wearifloss and pain;
And thou from listless languor* spring,
nd gladly lift thy work again
HUMOROUS.
Seriously, is the dog star a Skye ter
rier.
Parrots should speak only in polysyl
lables.
All that is left of A then* is a spot of
Greece.
Circuit Court Sneaking around the
house to avoid the dog.
It is ttic professional flute-player who
has to whistle for his money.
Woman is not mi: ’■ f < philosopher,
hut she is proverbially a clot lies observer.
The only leading lady liuil society rec
ognizes is the one. wlio conducts a pug
with a s' *ing.
“ Pa, vviiy does a man break a promise
so readily?" “ Because, myh*n, it is so
easy to make another one.”
“M< .ills me more active,'” wrote the
market reporter whose wife had hastened
his exit th.it morning with a flying flatr
iron.
Young men who think their sweet,,
hearts are divine love lo make divinity
students of themselves every night in the
week.
A philosopher says: “No null) is rich
who wants any more Ilian he has got."
IT this is reliable the majority of rich
men must be dead.
A thief entered n house, and while
prowling about I**ll over a chair and
broke his leg, and had to arouse the fam
ily to call a doctor.
Policeman- “You have been standing
here for an hour. Move on!" Absent
minded checker player -“Beg pardon,
sir! it’s your move.”
A surgical journal tells of a man who
lived five years with a ball in his head.
We have known girls to live twice as long
witli nothing but balls in their heads.
Never despise a friend because he hap
pens to have grown rich. Go to him,
take him aside, tell him gently of his
faults and ask him to lend you five dol
lars.
“ Our air is much purer than yours,”
said a Frenchman to an Knglishman.
“Aye,” was the reply, “hut there’s some
substance in ours- look at the thickness
| of it!”
A clergyman who was officiating at the
j funeral of a young girl began his dis
! course with, “Oh may this bereaved
father find consolation for the death of
his only daughter” - and then happening
to remember that there was another
daughter, the offspring of a second mar
riage, he added, hastily “by his first
wile.”
TilK ITII.VF.SK ANSWER.
You shootee mo and bungee me,
You Ixiotee me anil bang*** me,
Me dis** work***, gotten fsssllo,
bfveo on rateo, jsssllo;
Oh, me livoo oh, so eheapee
And me work** while you slccpen.
A Confirmed Bog Drunkard.
A German saloon-keeper on Third
street has a dog that is a most dissipated
canine. The dog is slowly hut surely
drinking himself to death. He not only
looks on the beer when it is amber, but
risks a sight when*it is stale and flat. He
watches the trough directly under the
iei* chest where the beer kegs are planed,
and when the trough becomes filled with
the amber-colored liquid, the intemperate
animal will lap it up. He refuses water,
and drinks beer morning, noon and night.
After drinkink heavily he will go to sleep,
and the first thought on waking up seems
to be of beer, as he goes directly to the
trough and satisfies his thirst. He is
becoming quite corpulent, and is a con
firmed old drunkard. His only apparent
amusement and enjoyment in life are to
drink and to sleep.— St. Paul Pioneer
| Prut.