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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