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@k ittcrntgoniery Jffanitor. D. 0. SUTTON, Editor and Prop'r. DR. TALMAGE’S SERMON. VOICES OF GARDENS AND FIELDS, -- " My beloved Is unto me as a clat ter of camphire in tho vineyard* o£ Engedi ” —Song of fcolomi n, i., 14. Solomon's Song has been considered by many as fit only for moon struck sentimen talists, written by a voluptuary, the storv of a man crazed by a fair maiden, neither fit lor family prayers nor lor church. Indeed, we must admit that there were years in Solo mon's lie when ho had several hundred more wives than ho was entitle! to, but he re pented of his sin, and God * hose him to write some of the best tilings about Christ that have ever been written. Beside that, 1 think the criticism of modern times upon the immodesty of the Bible comes with poor grace from a century iu which the writ ings of George Sand came to their fortieth edition, and Christians cannot get to the prayer meeting because they have tickets for places of amusement so depraved that they make ‘'The Black Crook” respectable. I think, however, as far as I can see in my stupidity, that there are things turned out upon the community to-day that bid fair io do more damage than the Song of Solomon. Hear, now, one of his fresh and fair de scriptions of Jesus. If I had twenty years to preach I would like to employ ten of them in bringing out to observation those repre sentations of Christ that have as yet been passed by. Ido not know why the pulpit should hover over a few types of Christ when there are so many symbols of Jesus that have never been discoursed upon. Why should wo employ all our time in examining a few lilies when the Bible is a groat garden filled with fuchsia,, and with dalfodils, and with ama ranths, and evening primroses for the close of life's day. and crocuses at the foot of the snow bank of sorrow, and heartsease for the troubled, and passion-flowers planted at the foot of a cross, and morning glories spread ing out under the splendors of the breaking day ? Some years ago I discoursed to you about “tho white hairs of Jesus,” and some of the newspapers supposed it was a mere fancy of my own—the poor fools not know ing that in Revelations, the first and the fourteenth, the Bible speaks of Christ: “His head and His hairs wore white like wool —as white as snow”—symbolizing the eternity of Jesus. Terraced on the side of the mountain were the vineyards of Engedi. Oh, they are sweet places! From a shelving of the mountain, 4nOfeet high, waters came down in beautiful baptism on the faces of tho leaves;the grapes intoxicate with their ow n wine;pomegrauat«s with juices bursting from the rind; all fruits, and iiewers, anil aromatic woods— among the sweetest of these the camphiro riant of the text. Its flowers are in clusters like our lilacs—graceful,fragrant, symbolical of Jems; for “my beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphure from the vineyards of Engedi.” 1 will carry out the id a of my text, and in the first place show you that this < amphire plant of the text was a symbol of Christ, bo nauso of his fragrance. It 1 had a branch of it, and should wave it in your midst, it would fill the house with its redolence. The cam phire, as we have it, is offensive to some; but the camphire plant of the text has a fra franco gracious to all. The vineyards of Ingedi Lathed in it—the branches, the buds, the blossoms dripping with sweetness, typical of the sweetness of Christ. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear I It soothes ’lis sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear. The name of Ciesar means power; the nau o of Herod means cruelty; tho name of Alexander means conquest; the name of De mosthenes means eloquence; the name of Milton means poetry; the name of Benjamin West means painting; the name of Phidias means sculpture;tke name of lieethoven means music; the name of Howard means reform; but the name of Christ means love. It is the sweetest name that o ver melted from lip or heart. As you open an old chest that has long been closed, the first thing that strikes you is the- perfuma of the herbs that were packed amid the clothing; so there are hundreds ol hearts here which, if opened, would first offer to you the name of Jesus. Havo you u t seen Him? Through the dark night of your s:n has Ho not flashed upon your vision? Beautiful when lie comes to save you. A little child was crying very much during the time of tlin eclipse. It got so dark at noon that she was afraid and kept Gobbing, and could not be silence! until after awhiio the sum caino out again, and she clapped her bands and said: “Uh, the suui tho sun I” Some of us have been in the darkness cf our sin; eclipse after e iipse has parsed over our soul; but after awhile the Suu of Righteousness poured His beams upon our hearts, and we criei: “Tho sun! thesunl” Beautiful dawn in the straw of Bethlehem Khan! Beautiful in His moth r’s shawl, a fugitive to Egypt! Beautiful with His feet in tho Galilean surf I Beautiful with the children hanging about His neckl Beautiful in the home i irclo of Bethany! Fairer than the sons of men; day spring from on high: l:g t for those who sit in darkness, rose of c Ire on lily of the valley —altogether lovely! Oh! He is su h a sin pardoner, such a trouble sooi her, such a wound-binder, such a grave-breaker, that the fainte :t pronun iatiou of His name rousei up the in en-o of the garden, anil all the t er fumo of the tropics; while the soul, in ecstasy of affection, rfes out: “My beloved is unto me as a luster of camphire from the vine yards of Kng fit” But bow shall I talk of tho sweetness of Christ s pardon to the e who have never felt it : of the sweetness of His comfort to those who have refused his pr< mise; of the sweet ness of His face to those who have turned their back upon His love! Now, a groat many pe iple may think this is merely sickly sentimentalism. Jonathan Edwards was a cool man. He was harsh in some of his opin ions, he was never afflicted with any senti mental ardor, and yet, when the name of Christ was mentioned, it threw him iuto a transport. Paul was a cool logi ian, with nerves unshaken in the Medi terranean shipwre-k, a granitic nature, comfortable with the whole world against him. shaking his fist in the face of tlie gov emmentsof earth and tho iorcesof darkness; yet the thought of Christ thrillei him, transported him, overwhelmed him. John ICnox was unbending in his nature an 1 hard in some respects. The flash of his indigna tion made the Qu* en sh'iver and the Duchess quake, yet he sat down as a little chil l at the feet of Jesus. Be lomon was surrounded by all palatial splendor—his ships going out from Ezion-geber on voyages of three j earn, bringing la"k all the wonders of the world, his parks afloat with myrrh and frankin rer.S). and a rustle with trees brought from foreign lands: the tracei of his stupendous gardens found by the traveler at this day. Solomon sits down at this place to think of Christ, the altogether lovely, and the alto gethc- fa r: and whilst seated there corner a breath of the spices and aromatic woods, and of the blossoms in through the palace wdn uo'.v. and he cries out: “My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire from the vine yards of Engedi.” Oh. rich and rare, exquisite and everlast ing perfume! Let it in every poor man's windows: piant it on every grave; put its leaves under every dying head: wreathe its b.osaoms lor every garland; wave its tranche* In every home; and when 1 aih about to die, and my lland has cold and stiff and white U)xin the pillow, let some plain and hunu.ie *oul come and put in my dj iug grasp this liv ing branch with clusters “of camphire from tho vineyards of Engedi.” It is many years now since I found the Lord, and I must in your presence tell you how good He has been to my soul. Ot ten since then I have given Him a hard thrust iu His sore side, but He lias been patient with me by day and by night It is tho grief of my life that I have treated Him so badly, but Ho has never let mo go. I have seen sip wonderful sights, I have heard no wonderful sounds, I have no marvelous experience; it has beon a plain story of patience on His part and of unworthiness on my part. Some of my dear friends before me have >ad -i-we rapturous experience. Christ to them lias boon the connquerer on the white horse, or the sun of righteousness, setting everything ablaze with light; or tho bridegroom, com ing with lantern and torches. To me it has beon a very quiet and undemonstrative ex perience. It has been something very sweet, but very still. How shall I describe it? 1 have it now: “My beloved is unto me os a cluster of camphire from the vineyards of Engedi” But I remark further: This camphire piant of tho text was a symbol of Christ in the fact that it gives coloring. From tho Mediterranean to the Gangos the people of the East gathered it, dried the leaves, pul verized thorn, and than used them as a dye for beautifying garments or thoir own per sons. It was that fact that gave the cam phire plant of the text its commercial valu* In the time of lviug Bolomon—a type of uir l.ord Jesus, who beautifies and adorns and colors everything He touches. I have no faith in that man s conversion whose religion does not color his whole life. It was intended so to do. If a mtui has the grace of God in his heart it ought to show itself in tho life. There ou :ht to be this “duster of camphire” in the ledger, in the roll of government securities, in the medical prescription, in the law book. A religion is of no value to a merchant unless It keeps him from putting false labels on his goods; or to the plasterer, unless it keeps him from putting up a ceiling which he knows will crack in six mouths; or to tho driver, unless it keeps him from lashing his horses to eight miles an hour when the thermometer is at ninety; or to tho farmer, unless it keeps him from putting the only sound pippins on tho top of tho barrel; or to tho shoemaker, unless it keeps him from substituting brown paper for good leather in the soles, m other words, the religion of Christ is good for everything or it is good for nothing. Tho grace of God never affo ts us by piecemeal. If tho heart, is changed, the head is changed, and the liver is changed, nnd the spleen is changed,aud the hands are changed, and the feet aw changed, and the store is changed, and the house is changed,and every thing over which man has any influence comes to a complete and radical change. The religicn of the Lord Jesus Chr st is not a put of hyacinths, to be set in a parlor bay win dow for passers by to look at and to be ex amined by ourselves only when we have comnanv, but it » to be a porfumo filling all the room of the heart os “a cluster of camphiro from tho vineyards of Engedi.” The trouble is men do not take their religion with them. The merchant leaves it outside the counter, l-sd it disturb tho goods. The housekeeper will not let her religion trail its robes In tho kitchen on washing day. The philosopher will not let his religion come iu amid the batteries, lost it get a galvanio shock. But I tell you unless your religion foes with you everywhere, it goes nowhere. hat religion was intended to color all the heart ami the life. But, mark you, it was a bright color. For the most part it was an orange dye made of tliis camphire plant, one of the most brilliant of all the colors: nnd so the religion of Jesus Christ casts no blackness or gloom upon the »oul. It brightens up life; it brightens up everything. There is no more religion in a funeral than there is in a wedding; no more religion iu tears than in smiles. David was no l etter when ha said he cried out of the depths of hell than he was when he said that his mouth was filled with laughter and his tonguo with singing. The best men that I have ever known have laughed tho loudest. Religion was intended to brighten up ail our character. Take out the sprig of cypress from your coat and put in “a cluster of eampliTre from the vineyards of Engedi.” Religion s “ways are ways pleasantness, aud all her paths are peace.” I have found it so. There are hundreds in this house who have found it so. 1 remark again, that the camphire plantof the text was a symbol of Jesus Christ be cause it is a mighty restorative. You know that there is nothing that starts respiration as soon in one w h i has fainted as camphor, as we have it. Put upon a sponge or handker chief, the effeats are almost immediate. Well, this camphire plantof the text, though somewhat different from that which we have, was a pungent aromatic, and in that respect it becomes a typo of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the mightiest of re storatives. I have carried this cam phire plant into the sick room, affor tho doctors have held their eousultation and said there was no hope and nothing more could lie done, and the soul brightened up under the spiritual restorative. There is no fever, no marasmus, no neuralgia, no con sumption, no disease of the body that the grace of God will not help. I wish that over every bed of pain and through every hospital of distress we might swing this “cluster of camphire from the vineyards of Engedi.” Christ’s hau l is the softest pillow, Christ’s pardon is the strongest stimulus, Christs comfort is the mightiest anodyne, Cbrist’3 salvation is the grandest restorative. It makes a man mightier than his physical dis tress. Art thou weary? Art thou languid? Art thou sore distressed! "Come with me,” saith One—“and coming, be at rest." If I ask Him to roceive me, will he say me nay? Not till earth and not till heaven pass away. Finding, following, keeping, struggling, is He * ire to bless! Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, answer yes! Nero tarred and put pitch upon the Chris tians of his day, and then set them on fire, that they might illuminate the night round about the palace, but, while they were burn ing, and the crowd beneath were jeering, louder than all the noise went up the song of sraise5 raise and triumph from the dying martyrs. ohn Bradford came out in presence of the instrument of torture that was to put him to death and said: “I am a Christian now; I have never been before.” And so again and again the lion of Judah’s tribe has torn to pia -es this wild beasts of martyrdom. This gra- e is also a restorative for the back slider. Who do you mean by that! you say. I mean you who used to frequent the hou « at God, but seldom go there now; you who once need to pray, but never pray now; you who once sat at the holy communion, but take not the Lord’s cup now; I mean you who once rejoiced in Christian society, b it now sit among g'offers. Backsliderl Oh, whata suggedive word! Backslider! From what have you slid back! You have slid back from your fathers faith, from your early good habits. You have been sliding back from Christ, from the cro-J) —sliding back from Heaven. When a man begins to slide he knows not where be will go. You have been sliding back toward darkness. You have been sliding back toward an unblessed grave, toward a precipice, the first ten million miles of which downward are only a small [ art of the eternal plunge. You were, perhaps, pro- MT. VERNON, MONTGOMERY CO., OA., THURSDAY, AYGl T ST 12, ißßfc lessors In tfie country; you have made ship wreck iu the town. It way bo that the Blub blasted you; it may lie that fashionable society destroyed you; it may bo the kind of wife whom you married. You have no more hope for Heaven near than if you had lived in Central Asia mid never heard of Christ and tho judgment. Oh, where is that Bible you used to read l Where Is that room where you used to pray? What have you done with that Jesus whose voice you once hoard? Oh, murdered hours! Oh, inassa rod privileges! Oh, dea l opportuni ties! Wake up now ami shriek in that man’s ear until he shall rouse himself from the hor rible somnambulism, walling, as he does, fast asleep, within an Inch of hell. Oh, that he might cry Out now: “Golden Sabbaths, come back! Communion seasons, come back! Wooings of the Holy Ghost, come back!" But they will not coma Gone, gone, gone! Sorrow will come, but not tlyjy. Ob, that you might save the few remaining years of vour life and cons crate them to Christ! I nave seen sad sights i have heard sad sounds; but I tell you the ghastliest thing outside the gates of the damned is n back sliders deathbed, Do you not feel like hav ing applied to your soul this divine restor ative! Do you not feel like crying out with David: “Restore unto me tho joys of thy salvation?" For great sin, great pardon; for deep wounds, omnipotent surgery; for d as ears, a divine aurist; fer blind eyes, a iieaveuly oculist; for the dead in sin, the upheaval of a great resurrection. llut iu the heavenly world we shall feel the chief restorative power of religion. This is a planetof weeping we are living on. We enter upon life with a cry and leave it with a long sigh. If I could gather up the griefs of this au dieuce and put them in one sentence and then utter it, it would make everything between here and the throne of God shudder aud howl The earth is gashed deep with graves. As at the eloso of the war, sometimes we saw a regiment of one hundred and fifty men, the fragments of the thousand meu that went out, so, as I stand before you, l cannot but realize the fact that you are tho fragments representing hundreds of regiments of joyful as-oeiuti ms that have been broken up for ever. Oh, this is a world of sorrow! But, blessed be God! there will be no sorrow in heaven. The undertaker will have to have Some oth r busino-s there. In the sum mer time our cities will have bills of mortality which are frightful—sometimes in New 'York a thousand deaths in a week; sometimes it has been two thousand in Lon don; but in that great heavenly city there will not be a single casi of sickness or death; not one black dress of mourning, hut plenty of white robes of joy; handshaking of wel come, but none of separation. Why, if ono trouble should attempt to enter Heaven, tho shining police of the city would put it in in nr everlasting arrest. II all iho sorrows of iilo, inuilod and sworded under Apollyon, should attempt to force that gate, ono company from the tower would strike them l ack howling to the pit Room in heaven for ail tho raptures that ever knocked at the gate, but no smallest annoy ance, though slight as a summer insect. Doxology, but no dirge. Banqueting, but no "funeral baked meats. ' No darkness at nil, no grief at nil. no sick ness at all, no death ut all. A soul waking up iu that placa will say: “Can it be that lam here? Will my head never ache again! Shall 1 never stumble over a grave again? Will I novel- say goodbye to lovod ones again? Can it bo possible that the stream is oust, that tho bank is guim-d, that tho glory 1; begun? Show me .lesus that I may ki.-s His feet." When the clock of Christian suffering has run down it will nover lie wound up again. Amid the vineyards of the heavenly Engedi, that will be restoration without any relapse. That will be day with out auy su ceding n’ght. That will bo “th* saints’ everlasting rest.” .. .. " . i Motors. The future of the world’s progress rests largely with the improvement of its mo tors. Steam has given vast impetus —has made the electric light and electric heat possible. The era of improved motors upon which we arc entering will give us vastly improved methods, compared with our present conditions. We shall have improved ruii cars, improved and cheaper freight transit, and in many ways vastly improved conditions. Improved rnortors will give us an improved and cheaper electric light arid electric heating and electric power. The field is vast for im provement in this direction. The motor of labor is money. Men labor and live for money. Life is prior without it. Disturb money and you dis turb the entire fabric of labor and indus try. But the motor of all motors is labor. Labor coins and counts stores and guards the money. Labor sets in motion the ponderous engine which rusts in idleness until the act of labor sets the wheels in motion. Labor and capital are the Sia mese motors of the age. They must work together. Behind these—the life of each—is the great moral motor of Right. Without this the good-will to man the world s forces jar. The rhythm ceases, and ere long prosperity fails. Bight in education, right in conception, right in execution are the great motors of humanity. Fun for the Court. The constable was s- nt out to bring an impirtant witness on a trial before a Da kota justice of ihe | e ice. He soon re turned without the man. “What’s the matter?” demanded the justice. •‘I found him holding a man’s coat during a fight and so didn’t disturb him, your honor. ” “Sir!” thunder d the justice, “don’t you understand your duties better than that?” “Why, your honor, I thought this was your ruling in such < ases.” “No, sir! this court was never guilty of making any such order.” “What was it then:’’ “That you were to immediately bring the parlies fighting into the court room, whee they could have it out and I could see that they had fair play. Go right back after them. The jury will remain seated, and some of the spectators will please move hack the chairs and form a ring. Any gentleman making Lets must deposit the f takes with the court, who will retain ten per cent, commission. If this court knows herself, she is going to have her share of the fun that isgoingjon in this town '."—Eatelline {Dak.) Bell. it it were not for the weaknesses ol the mijoritv tho suojess of the ftv would be a myth. "SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER." Satisfied. After the toil and turmoil, And tho anguish of trust belled; After th<> burthen of weary cares. Baffled longings, migrant**! prayers, After the passion, nnd fever mul fret, After the aching of vain regret, After the hurry and heat of strife," Tho yearning and tossing that men call “life;” Faith that mocks and fair hopes denied, Wo —shall be satisfied. When the golden bowl is broken. At the sunny fountain side; When the turf lies green and cold above, Wrong, mul sorrow, mid loss, and love; When the great dumb walls of silence stand At the doom of the undiscovered land; When all we have left in our olden plaeo Is an empty chair and a pictured face; When tho prayer is prayed, and tho sigh is sighed, Wo—shall bo satisfied. When does it boot to quest ion, When answer is aye denied? Better to listen the Psalmist’s redo. And gather tho comfort of his creed; And in peace and patience possess our souls, Whilothe wheel of fato in its orbit rolls, Knowing that sadness and gladness pass Like morning dews from tho summer grass, And, when once wo w in to the further side, We —shall be satisfied. AT DAGGERS’ POINTS. “You see, I’ve lmd considerable expe rience in these Ancona and Fordway shares,” said Mr. Leigh, rubbing the bald spot on the crown of his head. “Aud I advise you logo in for ’oml” “Thanks," said Richmond Grey, care lessly, "I’ll look into the matter.” “And all this time I am detaining you from your dinner,” cried Mr. Leigh. “Pray excuse me; I never thought of that.” “It’s of no consequence,” said Grey, moodily. “I don’t know but that I shall step into Delmonico’s." “And Mrs. Grey?” Tho young husband shrugged his shoulders. “Pardon an old friend’s curiosity—but I hope you have not quarreled?" asked Leigh, with a solicitous glance. “Quarreled? We never do anything else 1” “Are you in earnest?” “Yes; serious, sober earnest!” “But—pardon me, once again—yours was a love match?” “Unfortunately, yes!” “And you arc not happy?” “I don’t know why," said the young man, with a perturbed face. “No, we are not happy. Agnes never meets me xvitli a smile. I have done my best to please her, and in vain—and now I have left of! trying!" And Redmond Grey sauntered off with his hands in his pockets, and his chin drooping listlessly upon his breast, while old Mr. Leigh looked after him witli a sigh. “There’s a screw loose somewhere, ” said he. “There he goes, into the res taurant wit.li Archer and Lonsdale; there’ll be several bottles of gold-seal damaged, and a round bill to pay, wind ing up wilii an evening at billiards.” And off trotted Mr. Leigh to tho beef steak that formed his frugnl dinner at a cheap eating-house. For Mr. Leigh be longed to the noble army of old bachelors. At tiie same hour a tall, beautiful wo man was pacing up and down the floor of a handsomely furnished dining-room in a brown-stone house up town, while the rustling of her rich amethyst-colored silk dress made a sound like tho waves of the sea. “It’s too bad,” said Agnes Grey, bit ing her full scarlet lip. “The second time he’s been late within a week. And yesterday he forgot all about that box for the theatre. But I’ll show him what I think of his behavior when he comes in.” She rang the bell sharply, a servant answered the summons. “Dinner, Spencer!” said she. “But, ma’am, my master hzz art “Dinner, I say! Do you hear met" Miss Tilly Handley, Agnes Grey’n ma ture single cousin, shrugged her shoul ders as Spencer left the room. “Is it worth while to excite yourself about such a trifle, Agnes?” she said. “A trifle!” cried the indignant young wife. “I don’t call it a trifle. If the man had a particle of affection left for me he would not treat me so!” “If he could sec your face just at pres ent, Agnes, he would be pretty certain to absent liimself,” quietly observed Miss Handley. “Do you know, rny dear, I think you scold him too much?” “Not enough, you mean.” “I mean just what I say. A man don’t like the reins held too tight.” But when Richmond Grey himself sauntered in later in the evening, a cloud came over her classically beautiful face. “Well,” said be, “does any one want to go to the opera to-night?” “To the opera?” echoed Agnes with an expressive glance at the o rnolu clock, which occupied tho place of honor ou the mantel. “It is too late.” “Not a bit too late. Who cares for tho overture? Will you go?” Mrs. Grey coldly shook her head. “I do not care to go now.”, “Very well, then 1 shall go alone.” “Just ns you please,” said Mrs. Grey, haughtily. And Richmond Grey went out, closing the door not very gently be hind him. Agnes burst into tears. “He behaves like a brute,” said she. “And you behave like a goose," said Tilly Handley. “Now he will »“>t como back until the ‘wee suin’ hours,’ —,tn»l I would not if I were he.” “Let him stay away then,” said Agnes. “Oh dear, how I wish 1 had never left uncle and mint Miishaitil” “I have no doubt Richmond wishes so too,” said Tilly, calmly. Two weeks from that evening, Rich mond Grey cunic home with a tiny little' bouq ct of hot-liouse flowers in his hand and a new hook under his arm. It was the birthday of his wife. “We are not happy,” said Grey, “but perhaps it is partly my fault. If 1 go back to the milliners and custom* of old courting days, perhaps the old charm will return. At all events, it is worth trying for.” As he opened tho door and entered his wife’s boudoir, a curious sense of vacan cy and Absolution smote upon him. No ono was thare; but upon tho table lay a small note addressed to him. Mechani cally, ho opened it. “When you read this,” were the words that saluted his eyes, “I shall have left the protection of your roof forever. I feel that wo cannot make each other happy, and it is useless longer to keep up the farce of social happiness and mutual os teem. I shall return to my undo nnd aunt. You arc free to scloct your own path in life. Agnes.” Richmond Grey dropped the cruel bil let as if an arrow had smitten him to tho heart. “Agnes!” ho gasped. “Agnes, my wife, my darling!” For never until this moment, in which he learned that she was gone, did lie comprehend how dearly he loved her, how necessary sho was to his happiness. He sank pale and half paralyzed with horror, into his seat, covering Ids face with his hands. “Agnesi Agnes!” ho gasped, “I can not live without you.” “Richmond!” lie started up with a low cry. Before him, dressed in black serge, like a palo and lovely nun, stood his lost wife. “I could not go, Richmond,” she sobbed. “1 could not leave you when the moment for my final decision came. I did not know how deeply rooted was a wife’s love for her husband. And I be gan to realize that f had been haughty, cold and capricious—-that I had not al ways treated you as I should. Will you forgive me, Richmond? Will you let us begin our married life over again?” “My darling Agnes!” was all that ho could say, but the tears that glittered in his eyes spoke more eloquently than any words. That was tho night of their new be trothal, the end of all their married mis eries. And the key to all the mystery was very simple—-to hear and to forbear. “I thought it would all come right in time,” said Miss Tilly Ilandloy, triumph antly.—New York Hun. Tho Largest Cotton Blunter. Since the death of Col. Edward Rich ardson of Misdsippi, Mr. C. M. Neil of Bine Bluff, Ark., is, perhaps, the largest cotton planter in the South. He was bora in Alabama and is only thirty-eight years of age. In 1860 lie went to Arkansas penniless and went to work on a farm. He is now president of the First National Bank of Bine Bluff and lias 12,000 acres of cotton in cultivation. He owns three large stores and a railroad twenty-six miles in length, all of which runs through one of his plantations Ho is now build ing another road forty-two miles in length through his plantations. Mr. Neil’s wealth is estimated at $8,000,000. Re cently he advanced to one person SOO,OOO. The moment he heard of the Hot Springs fire he forwarded 800 barrels of flour, 200 barrels of eornmeal, 20,000 pounds of beef, besides clothing, &<■., for the bene fit of the sufferers. —Baltimore Hun. The Biscuits Were llcary. At the tea table: Phasceius—“My dear, I have a sugges tion to offer.” Lavina—“ Well, what is it, pray?" Phasceius —“It is that we have these biscuits adorned xvitli painted decorations of Japanese design, apply for a copyright and get some wholesale stationer down town to introduce them to the trade as Mikado paper weigiits. What do you say?” But she was silent .—Detroit Free Brett. VOL. I. NO. 23. Again. AgSfrt, ns evening draweth nlgfr,. Mv SMll most, sadly needs thee; Again, fo.Mtso my heart with song". My poet Ntfcry leads mo; Again the sun ißtrtw down to rest, All wrapped in fe '(twiou» splendor; Again thy voice falls .on my ear In accents low and tcnJw- Again, as in tho glad old timo, Thy hand I’m fondly pressing; Again I note with rapturo sweot Thy manner so caressing; Again the evening’s slipping by On wings of cruel lleotness; Agnin I prem thy rosy lips. And sip their dewy sweetness. Again into thy haze! eyes The lovolight’s softly Mealing; Again I see thy bosom swell, Tho tale of ]ovo revealing; Again thy face looks up to mine, With love past all expressing; Attain upon thy ggpoious hood 1 crave God’s richiNt blessing. ~K V. CaveU. HUMOROUS. A pen picture —A fat pig. Hoops arc still in fashion—on flour barrels. There is nothing so fruitful as current opinion. The blacksmith secures prosperity by being always on the strike. “This requires head work,” as tho barber snid when preparing for a sham poo. There is a hen in Florida that lays two eggs a day. This country will be ruined by cheap labor. The pleasantest way to tako cod liver oil is to fatten pigeons witli it, and then* eat the pigeons. The farmer is more seriously a fleeted than anybody else when everything goes against the grain. All men are not proud, but the chap with tho bald head knows that ho looks best with his hat on. “Name the most dangerous straits,”' said the teacher. “Whiskey straights," replied the student promptly. There is some appropriateness in ing of a lady’s bonnet us “just killing” in those days. It is chiefly inode up of dead birds. Young housewife—What misorabln little eggs again. You really must tell them, Jane, to let the hens sit on thorn a little longer. A number of Philadelphia ladies have formed an association to do mending for bachelors, it is conjectured that they “sew” that they may “reap." The man who thought he could grow wiso by eating sage choose, was own brother to the one who believed he could live on the milk of human kindness. A tramp, who was driven from a house by an irate party with a club, rcinurkcd that such conduct was most ungentle manly and lie felt very much put out. Oil aeard in a Philadelphia street car is a great truth thus succinctly stated ; “Advertising is a great deal like making love to a widow- it can’t ho overdone.” What is tho difference between tho man who cuts off tins end of his pro bosis and a hoy who has just finished bis task ? One lessens his nose, and the other knows his lessons. “Can’t you give us something with a stick in it? asked Mr. Smartic, putting a quarter on tho soda fountain and wink ing knowingly. “Oh, certainly,” said the polite attendant, and ho wrapped up a bottle of mucilage and swept the coin into tho drawer. “Bay, Mr. Goggle scope, what do you come to our house so often for?” Gogglc scope (patronizingly) —“Now, Tommy, you must ask your sis'er Clara that, when she comes into the parlor—just ask her.” “Well, I did, and she said she’d he blest if she knew.” Tho Retort Courteous A blatant, braying sample of the loud voiced, self conscious, look-at-mc variety of men took his seat in a Philadelphia street car, and called to the conduc tor: “Docs this car go all the way to Eighth?” “Yes, sir,” responded tho conductor, politely. “Does it go up as far as Oxford street? I want to get off there.” “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Well,l want you to tell me when you get there. You’d better stick a wafer on your nose, or put a straw in your mouth, or tie a knot in one of your lips, so that you won’t forget it.” “It would not be convenient for one in my position to do so,” said the con ductor, “hut if you will kindly pin your cars around your neck, I think Fwill re member to tell you.” Amid the roar of the passengers, the man said that ho had forgotten something, and got oil at the next corner. — Puck.