Newspaper Page Text
The Montgomery Monitor.
D. C. SUTTON, Editor[and Trop’r.
ST. MICHAEL’S CHURCH.
How a Slave’s Heroic Act Saved St. Mich
ael's and SccuAd 11U Freedom.
' The following poem about St. JKiohael's
Church, Charleston, S, C., which was almost
destroyed by the earthquake, will be familiar
‘to many, as it has often been recited by Mrs.
Dainty and other readers.
Do you bog for a story, my darling, my brown
eyed Leopold;
And you, Alice, with face like morning, and
curling locks ol gold;
Then come. If you will, and listen—stand
close beside my knee—
To a tale of tho Southern city, proud Charles
ton by the seu.
It was long ago, my childron, ere ever the sig
nal gun
That blazed about Fort Sumter had wakened
the North us one;
Dong ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud
and tiro
Had marked where the unchained millions
marched on to their hearts’ desire.
On tho roofs and the glittering turrets, that
night, as the sun went down,
The mellow glow of tho twilight shone like a
l jeweled crown;
And, bathed in the living glory, as the people
1 lifted their eyes,
■They saw the pride of the city, tho splro of St.
| Michuel’s rise.
High over the lesser steeples, tipped with the
golden ball.
That hung like a radiant planet caught in Its
earthward fall—
First glimpse of home to the sailor who mado
tho harbor round.
And last slow-fading vision dear to tho out-
I ward bound.
The gently gathering shadows shut out the
waning light;
The children prayed at their bedsides as you
will pray to-night;
The noise o t hue rand seller from tho busy
mart had gone,
And in dre ns of a peaceful morrow tho city
j slumbered on.
Hut another light than sunrise aroused the
sleeping street.
For a cry was heard at midnight, and tho rush
of trumping feet—
Men stared at each other's faces through
mingled Are ami smoke,
While the frantic bolls went clashing, clamor
ous stroke on stroke.
By tho glare of her blazing tree tho houseless
mother llod,
With the babe she pressed to her bosom
shrieking In nameless dread,
While the fire-king's wild battalions sealod
wall and capstone high,
And planted their llaring bunnors against an
inky sky.
From tho death that raged behind them, and
the crash of ruin loud,
To the great square of the city, were driven
the surging crowd,
Where yet, firm in all the tumult unscratchod
by the fiery tlood.
With its heavenward-pointing finger tho
Church of St. Michael stood.
•-»**
But even ns thoy gazed upon it there rose a
sudden wail—
A cry of horror, blended with tho roaring of
the gale,
On whose scorching wings, up driven, a single
flaming brand
Aloft on tho towering steeple clung like a
bloody haud.
- “Will it Th • —• .or trcmtfied from a
lips;
Far out on the lucid harbor they watched It
on the ships—
A baleful gleam that brighter and ever bright
er shone.
Like a flickering, trembling will-o’-wisp to a
steady beacon grown.
"Uncounted gold shall be given to tho man
whose brave right hand
For tho love of the periled city plucks down
yon burning brand!”
go cried the Mayor of Charleston, that tho
people heard:
But they looked each one at his fellow, and no
mau spoke a word.
Who is it leans from the belfry, with face up
turned to the sky,
Clings to a coin inn and measures the dizzy
spire with his eye?
Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that ter
rible sickening hight?
Dr will the hot blood of his courage freeze ill
his veins at tho sight'/
But, see! he has stepped on the railing; ho
climbs with his feet and his bands;
Aud firm on tho narrow projection, with the
belfry beneath him, be stand;
Now once, and once only, they cheer him—a
single tempestuous breath—
And there falls on the multitude gazing a
hush like the stillness of death.
Blow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught
save the goal of the fire,
Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on
the face of the spire
Hestons! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, a
gleam like a meteor’s track,
And, hurled on the stones of the pavement,
tbo red brand lies shattered aud black.
Dnce more the shouts of tho people have rent
the quivering air;
And at the church-door Mayor and Council
wait, their feet on the stair;
And the eager throng behind them press for a
touch of his band—
The unknown savior, whoso daring could
compass a deed so grand.
But why does a sudden tremor seize on them
while they gaze?
And what moaneth that stifled murmur of
wonder and amaze?
He stood at the gate of the temple ho had per
iled his life to save;
And the face of the hero, my children, wae
the sable face of a slave.
With folded arms ho was speaking, in tones
that were clear, not loud.
And his eyes, a blaze In their sockets, burnt
into the eyes of the crowd—
" You may keep your gold; I scorn it; but an
swer me, ye who can.
If the deed I have done before you was not
the deed of a man?”
He stepped but a short space backward; and
from all the women and men
Thore were only sobs for answer; and the
Mayor called for a pen,
Aud the great seal of the city, that he might
read who ran;
Aud the slave who saved St. Michael’s went
out from its door, a man.
ONLY A BUTTON.
A cheerful south room, with a bay
window full of blossoming plants, a
bright tire glowing behind a burnished
grate, a carpet whose soft, velvety pile
was shaded in blue and wood colors, to
correspond with the damask-covered
furniture, and a little gilded clock,
which had just struck 9 at night—all
these things met Mrs. Chickerly’s eyo
as she laid down her book and yawned
as widely as her ripe cherry of a mouth
would admit
She was a plump, fair-faced young
matron of some four or live and twenty,
with bright auburn hair, soft biue eves,
and a complexion whose roses stood in
need of no artificial rouge to heighten
their charms, while her dress of soft
crimson merino was exquisitely adapted
to her semi-blonde style.
"Fanny,” said Mr. Chickerly, look
ing up from his newspaper, “did you
call on those Carters to-day?”
i "No, I never thought of it”
i "And they le ' ~
morning; and Carter fs absurdly sensi
tive to all slights, fancied or real. _ Fan
ny, I desired you to make a point of
calling.”
"Well, I did intend to,” pouted Mrs.
Chickerly, "but one can’t think of
everything.”
"You cannot, it seems.”
“It appears to me you arc making a
mountain out of a molo hill,” said she,
rather tartly.
"It may affect my business very
seriously. Carter’s house carries great
inlluence with it.”
Mrs. Chickerly was silent, patting tho
velvet carpet with her foot in a inanuor
that indicated annoyance.
"I shall have to leave very early to
morrow morning,” said her husband,
presently.
“To go to Soenersvillo about Aunt
Elizabeth’s will?” —"Yes.”
"Oh, I wouldn’t, Frank.”—"Why
not?”
| -"lt’s such bitter cold weather to
travel in; and Aunt Elizabeth is such a
whimsical old woman, it’s as likely as
not she’ll change her mind about
making a will when you get there. I
would wait a little, if 1 were you.”
Mr. Chickerly smiled.
••That would be your system of doing
things, but not mine.”
“My system, Frank! What do you
mean?”
“I mean that you bclievo in putting
things off indefinitely, and not always
in the wisest manner. I wish you
would break yourself of that habit. Be
lieve me, it will some day bring you to
grief. ”
Mrs. Chickerly contracted her eye
brows.
“I don’t believe in being lectured,
Frank.”
"And I don’t vory often lecture you,
my dear; pray give me credit for that”
“You didn’t think you were marry
ing an angel when you took mo, I
hope?”
"No, my lovo. I thought I was mar
rying a very pretty littlo girl, whoso
few Faults might easily be corrected.”
“F’aults! Have I any great faults,
Frank?”
“Little faults may sometimes ontail
great consequences.”
“If you scold any more I shall go out
of the room.”
“You need not, for I am going my
self to pack my valise. By the way,
there’s a button off tho shirt I want to
wear to-morrow. I wish you would
come up-stairs and sew it on for me.”
“I will, presently.”
“Why can’t you come now?”
"1 just want to finish this book)
11’i‘rp's oaly on, moiv cliajitOi'. ’
F'anny opened her volume so resolute
ly that her husband thought it best not
to contest the question.
Sitting all alone in front of the bright
lire, Mrs Chickerly gradually grew
drowsy, and before she knew it she had
drifted off into the shadowy regions of
dreamland.
She was roused by the clock striking
11.
“Dear me! how late it is!” she
thought, with a little start. “I must go
up-stairs immediately. There, I forgot
to tell the cook about having breakfast
at 5 o’clock to-morrow morning, and,
of coarse, she’s abed and asleep by this
time. I will be up early enough to see
to it myself; that will do just as well.”
Laying this salve on her conscience,
Mrs. Chickerly turned off the gas and
crept drowsily up the stairs. * * *
“Fanny, F’anny, it’s past 5 and cook
hasn’t come down-stairs yet Are you
sure you spoke to her last night?”
Mrs. Chickerly rubbed her eyes and
looked sleepily around.
"Oh, Frank, I forgot all about speak
ing to her last night,” she said, with
conscience-stricken face. “But I’ll run
right up; she can have breakfast ready
in a very few minutes.”
She sprang out of bed, thrust her feet
Into a pair of silk-lined slippers, and
threw a shawl over her shoulders.
Mr. Chickerly bit his lip aud checked
her.
“No need, Fanny,” he said, a little
bitterly. “I must leave the house in
fifteeu minutes or miss the only through
train. It’s of no use speaking to cook
now.”
“I’m so sorry, Frank.”
Mr. Chickerly did not answer; he
was apparently absorbed in turning
over tho various articles in his bureau
drawer, while Fanny sat shivering on
the edge of the bed, cogitating now
hard it was for her husband to start on
a long journey that bitter morning
without any breakfast.
“I can make a cup of coffee myself
‘over the furnace fire,” she exclaimed,
springing to her feet.
But Mr. Chickerly again interposed.
“Sit down, Fanny, fdease. I would
rather you would sew this button on the
neck of my shirt. I have packed tho
others —those that are fit to wear. I
have shirts enough, but not one in re
pair.”
Fanny crimsoned as she remembered
how often in the course of the last
month or two she had solemnly prom
ised herself to devote a day to the
much-needed renovation of her hus
band’s shirks. She looked around for
her thimble.
“I left it down-stairs last night I’ll
get it in a minute.”
The housemaid had just kindled a
fire in the sitting-room grate; it was
blazing and crackling cheerily amoDg
the fresh coals, and Fanny could not
resist the temptation of pausing a mo
ment to warm her chilled lingers, and
watch the greenish purple spires of
flame shoot merrily up the chimney,
until she heard her husband’s voice
calling her imperatively.
“Fanny, Fanny! what are you do
ing?”
“Oh, dear!” thought the wife, as she
ran up-stairs, ‘T wish Frank wouldn’t
be so cross. He’s always in a hurry.”
Little Mrs. Chickerly never stopped to
think that the real reason was that she..
JIT. VERNON, MONTGOMERY, CO., GA., THURSDAY, NOVEMBKIt 25, 1886.
his wife, was never “in a hurry.”
The needle threaded, the thimble
fitted on, an appropriate button was
next to bo selected.
“Oli, dear, Frank, I haven’t one tho
right size!”
••Sow on what you have, then; but
be quick!”
But Fanny was quite certain there
was just the right button somewhere in
her work-basket, and stopped to search
for it.
“There, I told you so!” she cried,
triumphantly, holding it up on the end
of her needle.
“Well, well, sew it on quick!” said
Mr. Chickerly, glancing at his watch
nervously.
“That’s just tour worrying way,
Frank; as if anybody could now a bill
ion on well in a hurry. There! my
my needle lias come unthreaded.”
••Oh, Fanny, Fanny!” sighed tier hiw
)and, fairly out of patience at, last,,
"why didn’t you do it last night, as I
begged of you? I shall miss the train,
and what little chance we had ol a
place in Aunt Elizabeth’s will will bo
sacrificed to your miserable habit of be
ing behind-hand.”
“There ho goes,” murmured Fanny,
“and he’s gone away cross with me,
and all for nothing but a miserable
button! 1 wi«h there wasn’t such a
lh’n</ as a button in the world!”
(A wish which we must misdoubt,
many another wife than Mrs. Chickerly
lias echoed, with perhaps belter reason.)
Mrs. Jl iekerl) was sitting down to
tier littlo dinner, with a daintily
browned chicken, a tumbler of currant
jelly, a curly bunch of celery ranged,
before her, when, to her surprise, the
door opened aud iu walked her lord
and husband.
“Why, F'rank, where on earth did
you come from?” cried the astonished
wife.
“From the office,” very coolly an
swered Mr. Chickerly.
“But I thought you were off for
Sccnersville in such a hurry.”
“I found myself just five minutes too
late for the train, after having run all
the way to the depot.”
“Oh, that was too bad."
Chickerly smiled a little as he be
gan to carve tho chicken.
“Yes, I was a little annoyed at first;
it did seem rather provoking to be kept
at home by only a shirt button.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Why, I shall make a second start to
morrow.”
“I’ll see to it that your breakfast is
ready this time, to the second, and ail
your wardrobe in briu,” -uaji,
rather relieved at the prospect of a
chance of retrieving her character.
“You need not. I have engaged a
room at a hotel near the depot 1 can’t
run any more risks.”
He did not speak unkindly, and vet
Fanny felt that ho was deeply dis
pleased with her.
“But, Frank ”
“Wo will not discuss the matter any
further, my dear, if you please. I have
resolved to say nothing more to you
about reforms. I seo it is useless, and
only tends to foster an unpleasant state
ff feeling between us. Shall 1 help you
to some more macaroni?”
Fairly silenced, Fanny ate licr dinner
with what appetite was left her.
Three days afterward Mr. Chickerly
once more made his entrance, just at
dusk, valise in hand, while Fanny sat
enjoying the ruddy light of the coal (ire
and the consciousness of having per
formed her duty in the mending and
general renovation of her husband’s
drawcrful of shirts —a job which she
had long been dreading and post
poning.
“Well, how is Aunt Elizabeth?”
questioned Mrs. Chickerly, when her
husband, duly welcomed and greeted,
►ad seated himself in the opposite easy
jhair.
"Dead,” was tho brief reply.
“Dead! Oh, Frank! Os her old
enemy, apoplexy?”
“Yes.’
“Was her will made?”
“It wa3. Apparently she had ex
pected me on the day she herself ap
pointed; and on my non-arrival on the
only train that stops she sent for the
village lawyer, made her will, and left
her property to the orphan asylum
In Sccnersville, with a few bitter words
to the effect that the neglect of her only
jliving neuhew bad induced her, on tho
f pur of the moment, to alter her original
ntention of leaving it to him. She died
|ho next morning "
| “Oh, Frank, how much was it?”
[ “Ten thousand dollars.”
I There was a moment or two of si
lence, then Mr. Chickerly added, com
posedly:
f “You see, Fanny, how much that
passing button has cost rue.”
Mr Chickerly sat like one con
demn'd by the utterance of her own
const nee. Not alone the one missing
button, but the scores—nay, hundreds—
of trifling omissions, forgetfulness and
postponements which made her life one
endless endeavor to “catch up” with
the transpiring present, seemed to pre
sent themselves before her mind’s eye.
What would this end in? Was not the
present lesson sufficiently momentous to
teach her to train herself in a different
school.
She rose and came to her husband’s
side, laying one tremulous hand on his
shoulder.
“There shall be no more missing but
ton, rny love,” she said earnestly.
He comprehended all that she left
unspoken, and silently pressed the little
hand in his own, and not a word more
was said upon the subject.
But it was not forgotten. Mrs. Chick
erly set herself resolutely to work to up
root the rank weeds growing in the
garden of her life. And she succeeded,
as we all may do when we resolve to do
a wise thing.
“SUB DEO FACIO FOKTITER"
RABIES.
The liiiti.il Symptoms mid of
tho Dlsoiitto—Tho !>!:•<! Pnu’s I>oslro
to Itito.
It is a great and dangerous error to
suppose that the disease (in tho dog)
commences with signs of raging mad
ness and that the earliest phase of the
malady is ushered in with fury and de
struction. Tho first perceptible or ini
tial symptoms of rabies in the dog are
related to its habits. A change is ob
served in tho animal’s aspect, behavior,
and external characteristics. The habits
of the creature are anomalous and
strange. It becomes dull, gloomy, and
taciturn; seeks to isolate itself, aud
chooses solitude and obscurity hiding
in out-of-the-way places, or retiring bo
low chairs and oilier pieces of furniture;
whereas in health it may have been
lively, good-natured, and sociable, lint
ill its retirement it can not rest; it is un
easy and fidgety, and betrays an un
mistakable state of nialttist. No sooner
has it lain down and gathered itself to
gether in the usual fashion of a dog re
posing than all at once it jumps up in
an agitated manner, walks hither and
thither several times, again lies down,
and assumes a sleeping attitude, but has
only maintained it for a few minutes
wh *n it is once more moving about,
‘•at eking rest but finding none.” Then
it tetires lo its obscure corner- to the
deepest recess it can find— anil huddles
itself up in :i heap, with its head con
cealed beneath its chest and its fore
paws. This state of continual agitation
and inquietude is in striking contrast
with its ordinary habits, and should,
therefore, attract tho attention of mind
ful people. Not unfroqueutly there are
a few moments when the creature ap
pears more lively than usual, and dis
plays an extraordinary amount of af
fection. Sometimes in pet dogs thore
is evinced a disposition to gather up
small objects, such as straws, threads,
bits of wood, etc., which are industrious
ly picked up and carried away. A ten
dency to lick anything cold, as iron,
stones, etc., is also observed in many
instances. At this period no propensity
to bite is observed; the animal is docile
with its master, and obeys his voice,
though not so readily as before, not
with the same pleased countenance. If
it shakes its tail the act is more slowly
performed than usual, aud there is some
thing strange iu the expression of the
face; the voice of its master can scarce
ly change it for a few seconds from a
sullen gloominess to its ordinary ani
mated aspect; and when no longer in
ffi'A’ced by the familiar talk or presence
4i rOlut'Jlb IU itß Bail Uli)U£fiin f iui , UH Ulih
been well and truthfully said by Bou ley,
“the dog thinks and has its own ideas,
which for dogs’ ideas are, from its point
of view, vory good ideas when it is
well.”
Tho animal’s movements, attitudes,
and gestures now seem to indicate that
it is haunted by and sees phantoms; it
snaps at nothing and barlts as if at
tacked by real enemies. Its appearance
is altered; it has a gloomy and some
what ferocious r spent.
Iu this condition, however, it is not
aggressive so far as mankind is concern
ed, but is as docile aud obedient to its
master as before. It may even appear
to bo more affectionate toward those it
knows, and this it manifests by the
greater desire to lick their hands and
faces.
This affection, which is always so
marked anil so enduring in the dog,
dominates it so strongly in rabies that
it will not injure those it loves, not even
in a paroxysm of madness, and even
when its ferocious instincts are begin
ning to be manifested, and to gain the
supremacy over them, it will yet yield
obedience to those to whom it has been
accustomed.
Tho mad dog lias not a dread of wa
ter, but, on the contrary, will greedily
swallow it. As long as it can drink it
will satisfy its over-ardent thirst; even
when the spasms in its throat prevent it
swallowing, it will nevertheless plunge
its face deeply into tho water and ap
pear to gulp at it. T’tio dog is, there
fore, not hydrophobic, and hydrophobia
is not a sign of madness iri this animal.
It docs not generally refuse food in
the early period of the disease, but
sometimes oath witli more voracity than
usual.
When the desire to bite, which is one
of the essential characteristics of rabies
at a certain stage, begins to manifest
itself, ti e animal at first attacks inert
bodies—gnawing wood, leather, its
chain, carpets, straw, liair, coals, earth,
the excrement of other animals or even
its own, and accumulates in the stomach
the remains of all the substances it lias
been tearing with its teeth.
An abundance of saliva is not a con
stant symptom in rabies in the 'log-
Sometimes its mouth is humid,and some
times it is dry. Before a fit of madness
the secretion of saliva is .normal; dur
ing this period it may be increased, but
toward the end of the malady it is usu
ally decreased.
The animal often expresses a sensa
tion of inconvenience or pain during
the spasm in its throat, using its paws
on the side of its mouth, like a dog
which has a bone lodged there.
In “dumb madness” the lower jaw is
paralyzed and drops, leaving the mouth
open and dry, and it lining membrane
exhibiting a reddish-brown line, tho
tongue is frequently brown or blue-col
ored, one or both eyes squint, and the
creature is ordinarily helpless and uot
aggressive.
some instances the rabid dog
vomits a chocolate or blood-colored
fluid.
The voice is always changed in tone,
arid the animal howls in quite a differ
ent fashion to what it did in health.
The sound is husky and jerking. In
“dumb madness” this very important
symptom is absent.
The sensibility of the rabid dog is
greatij blunted when it isjtrucK, burn
efl,*or woimiteir; it emits no cry of pain
or sign as when it suffers or is afraid in
health. It will even sometimes wound
itself severely with its teeth, and with
out attempting to hurt any person it
knows.
The mad dog is always very much en
raged at the sight, of an animal of its
own species. Even when the malady
might be considered as yet in a latent
condition, as soon us it sees another
dog it shows this strange antipathy and
appears desirous of attacking it- This
is a most important indication.
It often Hues from home when tho fe
rocious instincts commence to gain an
ascendency, and after one, or two, or
three days’ wanderings, during which
it has tried to gratify its mail fancies
on all the living creatures it has on
countered, it often returns to its master
to dio. At other times it escapes m the
night, and, after doing us much damage
as its violence prompts it to, it will re
turn again toward morning. The dis
tance a mad dog will travel, even in a
short period, is sometimes very groat.
The furious period of rabies is char
acterized by an expression of ferocity in
the animal’s physiognomy, and by the
desire to bite whenever an opportunity
offers. It always prefers to attack an-i
other dog, though other animals are also
victims.
Tho paroxysms of fury are succeeded
by periods of comparative calm, during
which the appearance is liable lo mis
lead the uuitiutod as lo the nature of
the malady.
. The mad dog usually attacks other
creatures rather than man when at
liberty. When exhausted by the parox
ysms and contentions it has experienced
it runs in an unsteady manner, its tail
pendent and head inclined toward the
ground, its eyes wandering and fre
quently squinting, and its mouth open,
with the bluish-colored tongue, soiled
with dust, protruding.
In this condition it has no longer the
violent aggressive tendencies of the
previous stage, though it will yet bite
everyone- man or beast- -that it can
reach with its teeth, especially if irri
tated.
Tho mad dog that is not killed per
ishes from paralysis and asphyxia. To
the lasi moment the terrible desire to
bite is predominant, even when the
poor creature is so prostrated ns to ap
pear to be transformed into ail inert
mass.— l‘rof Fleming's '•Jiabiett and
Hydrophobia."
Gladstone's Youth.
In his “Reminiscences of an Idler,”
Chevalier Wikoll gives this picture of
Gladstone in 1897: “Thore was another
youthful member of parliament on the
tory side, who might possibly turn out
a rival of tiie bolt! and resolute Disraeli.
W. E. Gladstone, a younger son of a
rich merchant in Liverpool, entered the
house of commons in 1892, tho same
year that lie left the University of Ox
ford, only 2.5 years of age. He began
his parliamentary career as tho cham
pion of all that was retrograde in the
political and religious system of Eng
land. His premature talents brought to
mind the wonderful precocity of the
younger l’itt, who was a member of the
house at 22 and chancellor of tho exche
quer at 29. Tho young member for
Newark had made no such rapid strides
as tiiis, but in the live years he had held
his seat ho had made a solid improssiou
on the house. He displayed great dex
terity as a debater, and bud few com
petitors as a graceful rhetorician. He
was remarkable for scholarship, lucid
ity of exposition, and elegance of dic
tion. Tnough always fluent anil forci
ble, he never offended the prejudices of
tho house by launching into any imita
tion of Demosthenian oratory, which
would only have been ridiculed. Ho
was a tall, handsome man, with bright,
dark eyes and a bland countenance, lit
up, however, by a very intellectual ex
pression. His manner was conciliatory
aud serious. All parties were unarm
tnous tli at
"Hu Ih a scholar, uii'l a ripfi aii'l uotitl one.
Kxci'i id Inn wise, fair spoken and picHiuulliqr.
"It would be curious to follow tho
career of these two young politicians
across the stormy seas of public life.
How fur they would be able to push
their adventurous barks, which would
outsail tin: other; whether either would
ever live to command on the quarter
deck it was, of course, impossible to
foresee. That both would make their
mark on contemporary history thore
was Jittie doubt. Disraeli had the hard
er battle to light- There was a strong
prejudice in the country against a .Jew,
even after lie had abandoned bis faith.
There was, too, a lively dislike in the
political world of a mere literary man,
and up to this time Disraeli had won his
first distinction in tin; paths of litera
ture, and that of tho most ephemeral
kind. But lie had already evim-cd so
mu-h daring and tenacity of purpose
that it was pretty certain lie would light
on, in the warlike spirit of Macbeth,
‘'TUI from my lione.i my llecli In- lent hi
Miss M’Glellan’s Mice.
Miss May McClellan, daughter of the
late Gen. McClellan, has very peculiar
pets, two white mice, which at times she
would lake to tin; opera. I hoy ran
around the box at the academy, often
perched on her bare shoulders and kept
the audience quite amused or tho re
verse. Thoy were only permitted lo run
about during intermissions, but one
night, just as the nrima donna was in
the midst of a pathetic solo, the mice
came out as if to hear too, and the eyes
of the audience lollowed them. Miss
McClellan tried to secure them, but they
became excited and ran away over the
cushioned rail of the balcony until
caught by an usher and returned to
their mistress, l’robably the primma
donna to tiiis day does not understand
why her solo received so little applause
on that particular night.— Hartford
Courier. —~
VOL I. NO 39.
ms IjAst “scoop.”
What a Reporter I>hl After a Terrible Rail
road Accident.
It is not. many years ago that Tony
B the attache of a Central lowa
paper, now defunct, rode out from a
Southern lowa city one fine morning
perched daringly on tho brake of a flat
car that was attached to a “wild
freight," and loaded witli iron rails.
Ho was like other reporters, made up of l
vice and virtues only the first seen by
the world, the latter best known to his
intimate friends. Ife had been in
newspaper work for about six years,,
was thoroughly capable, anil scored
more “scoops” than were over recorded,
against him. This, in the eyes of the
city editor, insured his entrance into
paradise.
To make the story short, forty miles
out from its starting point the “wild”,
freight, with a leap of madness and a
terrible crash, wont through a bridge,
down sixty feet, and Tony sitting on
the brakebeam. It was over in an in
stant. Such things don’t wait for time
to catch up with them. When the con
ductor of the train (the only one unin
jured) crawled out of the wreck his eyes
fell first on Tony, lying across the side
of a dismantled box-car, on his chest a
heavy rail, his legs crushed, and dying.
Beyond him lay a dead hrukeman; the
engineer was buried under his machine,
and by a large bowlder was the lirenian
with a broken back. Tony was con
scious, and when the conductor reached
him asked for paper and pencil. They
were found in his pockets. Unable to
write himself, he dictated this, angrily
ordering the men who had come up to
let him alone: ,
C. K. , Mimtujlnii Hilt tor Star, ,
la.: Train throiieli bridire at , I was
on board and am hurt. Will send full par
ticulars at once. T. B. ,
A farmer was socurod, who carried it
to the nearest station. Then this boy,
true to his duty and not flinching before
death, suffering frightful agony, and,
while willing hands sought in vain to
release him from his position, dictated
a “special” of 1,.000 words to his paper.
What ho suffered no one can ever know.
It was with difficulty that ho could
breathe, and every <rasp cost him a
wrench of agony, lint lie held death
back down to the last few lines. “The
killed were —” and so on, ending
with the name of “Tony B , report
er.” As he ended that his eyes filled
with tears and ho looked up wistfully
to the conductor, who had written the
telegram for him, and who himself
could not keep the tears back. “Tell
my mother,” said Tony, “that I did my
duty; and, boys, rush that over tho
wires for me. It’s a ‘scoop.’ " It wont
over the wires all right, and it was
“scoop.” But before it was printed
Tony was dead.—. Vi. Haul I‘iuneer *.
IVcA'S.
Tho l>eatli of Sum Colville.
The nerve dispayed hy poor old Sam
Colville during the last sixty minutes of
his life was amazing to people who
knew him, and they are talking about
it around the the oily with hated breath.
Os course, all theatrical folks knew Col
ville. Almost everybody liked him in
spile of his rather pompous method of
conversation. Indeed, a good many
people in this business had mighty good
reason to regard him with grateful con
sideration. For several years back Col
ville has been a sort of theatrical banker.
That is to say, he has loaned largo sums
of money to other managers in pressing
need of timely assistance, and when
his estate comes to be settled up there
will be some pretty lively skirmishing
by some people 1 know of to pick up the
mortgages which Colville had been car
rying along ns an accommodation to
bis debtors. J fancy Ids fortune will be
found to be somewhere in the neighbor
hood of SBO,OOO, the most of which is in
solid and substantial shape. Colville
knew he was going to die the minute he
was struck with the first convulsion of
his heart the other afternoon. He was
away up in Central park at the time in
ids carriage, with his wife’s brother, a
young man named Kosenquest, who has
been Colville’s business manager for
several years. Said the old gentleman:
“There is something (he matter with my
heart. lam going to die.”
“Nonsense," exclaimed Kosenquest,
“you never looked better in your life.”
“Doubtless," continued Mr. Colville,
“but it is nevertheless true that in an
hour I shall he a dead man. Now, I
want you to pay particular attention to
what I have to say.”
'Then Mr. Colville went on with the
utmost calmness and deliberation, as
though engaged in ordinary business
conversation.
“In the first place,” he said, “I want
a very quiet funeral, the services to be
rendered by Dr. Houghton. Now, as
to yourself. When lam dead you will
have large Interests and responsibilities.
Your sister’ affairs are to he taken care
of, and you will probably have the full
management of the estate. I want the
importance of the situation to impress
itself upon you, and I desire you to
brace up and be a man in every sense
of the term.” So Mr. Colville went on
all the way down-town. Twice during
tie journey it was necessary to stop aud
give him brandy in order to revive his
sinking vitality. When he reached his
home he insisted upon walking in by
himself, and death ensued almost im
mediately upon his entrance into the
house. — Boston Lie raid.
Unc Ephum (on retired list, basking
In sunshine of 120 degrees)—"Well,
Brer ’l’oloon, so your water-millions is
done ripe?” Brer ’l’oleon —"Hi! how
yo’ know dut. Brer Ephum, w’en you so
haltyo’ can’t hardly budge?” Uno
Ephum—“Well, I reckons dey is, fur I
sees heap or strange darkies ’roun’ in
quirin’ fur jobs.”— Harper's Bazar. a