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The Montgomery Monitor. 0. C. Sutton, Editor and Proprietor. CAPRICE. A summer night with perfumed breath To'd love tales to the listening trees. And hedge row buds, in guise of death, I.av divaming of the lips of lives, While wheeling, circling, faint and far, A lire Mv showed its shimmering spark, And, like an evanescent star. Painted its life along the dark. And I, who wandored in the lane, Grew env nuts of n thing so free, And sighed and gazed and sighed again, And cried: “Kind Heaven, give to me The fire-fly’s liberty.” My love came tripping down the lane; The I toughs lout low to touch her head; The clover never felt the pain Os death beneath so light a tread; And ere t knew, the fire-fly’s wings " ore tangled in her burnished hair, Tlio tremulous, fair glimmerings Illumining a face more fair. Then I, who felt my heart Vieat wild The love-light in her eyes to see, Beearno capricious as a child. And prayed: “Sweet Heaven, grant to me A like captivity.” —Francis Howard Williams, in Current. AJVME THERIOT 1!Y M. IS. Wit.MAMS. It was an old French chateau on the hanks of the Loire; and when it was first built, or conquered, by flic ancestors of the Comte do Maupassant, no one knew. Hut flic beautiful domain of Beaujolais had deeended to the Maupassant, for centuries in one unbroken line. The present owner, Count Guy, was Perhaps the wealthiest and proudest of his race, as he was also the last. His only child. Blanche, a little girl about ten years old, was the sole scion of that once numerious and powerful family, and what affection her father had was lavished upon her. But, like all the Maupassants, he was cold-hearted and haughty, and when his wife, whom lie had married from motives of interest, drooped, faded, and died, in the uncon genial atmosphere of the old chateau, he gave her scant mourning. As for the little Countess, she had her governess and her bonne, and, being extremely wilful, was allowed to do pretty much as she pleased. Her father, who spent the greater part of his time in Baris, was quite content, on his visits to the chateau, to sec his beautiful lit'Je daughter heidthly "id happy, and the greatest little despot in the household, which was wholly sub missive to her wildest whims. What a life she led them! She re belled against the constant watchfulness of governess and maids, and nothing delighted her more than to run away from them, and pass long hours in wandering alone through the deep forest and broad fields of Beaujolais. Her governess, a good, indolent woman, was in utter despair at these escapades. “But, mademoiselle, I forbid you to go alone!” she cried. “It is not comme il faut for the Countess de Maupassant to wander about alone, like one of the com mon peasant children.” “Then I wish I was a common peasant child!” the little lady cried, stamping her feet angrily. “They have gotchildrcn to play with them, and I've got nobody but you and Bonne Marie; and you are old, old, and you can’t jump and run and play. I will go by myself; and if you watch me, or try to follow me, madame, I will go outside the gate and run away to Paris. There now!” Poor Madame Dulocshookandshivered at this threat. She knew the child would keep her word, and then what would happen? As for punishing her refractory charge as she deserved, that she knew was utterly impossible, and would cost her an easy and lucrative situation. So she weakly strove to compromise. “If you would only take Celine, mademoiselle, then you might stay out as long as you please.” “But I am running away from Celine and everybody!” she cried, impatiently. “I hate to be watched, and if you will do it, I will run away. I will go where I choose.” Poor Madame Duloc raised her hands and eyes in despair, but before this “will go” she knew she was powerless. She did what she could; she exacted a promise from Blanche that she would never go beyond the park gates. Wilful and un governable as the little Countess was, she had never broken her word, so Madame Duloc was forced to yield the point. She would climb laboriously to the high tower, and watch the child through the fields, and until she was lost in the recesses of the forest. But after a time, when Blanche came in regularly, glowing with health and ready to study more sedulously than she had ever done, she ceased her espionage. The lonely little girl found her life full of interest now. She made friends with the birds and squirrels, and all wild things of the field and forest. She was a warm hearted, loving little creature, though her best impulses had been re pressed bv her artificial life, and it was her greatest pleasure to stop and chat with old Theriot, the gardener, and his assistants, who were always busy about the grounds. One beautiful sprins morning, in her wanderings through the spacious gar dens, Blanche came to an arch twined with the fragrant Provence rose, ihen in full bloom. They were high above her reach, nor was there a foothold on the arch where she could climb. She looked around. No one was in sight but a tall lad, who was weeding one of the beds. “Here, garcon. come and get me some roses.” He came obediently, and gathered her a large cluster. “You are very tall,” she said, “to MT. VERNON, MONTGOMERY 00., GA.. WKDNKSDA V, JUNK ••>!», I SSL reach up there. Where do you live, and how old are you?” “I am sixteen,” he said, “and, mad emoiselle, I live here. I am Andre Theriot.” “Ah, you are the gardener Theriot’s son. I like him,” nodding her head gravely. He is a good man. Uu lets me pick the nectarines myself. Do you want a rose, Andre?” holding out one, with the air of a young empress. Andre put out his hand for it, when she drew it back with a mischievous laugh. “Come, now, I’m going to treat you as madame does me, when she gives me bonbons. You must spell ‘rose’ before you get it.” The lad’s handsome face flushed crim son. “But, mam’sellc,” he stammered, “1 can’t spell. I don’t know my letters.” “Don’t know your letters, you, a big, strong boy of sixteen! Oh, you must be very lazy! Why don’t you learn?” “But, mani’selle, my father is too poor to send me to school. I wish I could learn. Ah, if I could only learn to read, [ would be too happy!” clasping his hands, with the big tears in his eyes. “You shall learn to read, Andre!” Pity and sympathy were at work in that warm little heart. “I will teach you myself. Meet me to-morrow morning at the summer-house on the lake. 1 will bring books, and I will teach you.” “Yoiqmam’sclle!” Andre cried, stupe fied. If an angel from heaven had of fered to teach him, he could not have been more astonished than at this con descension from Ills beautiful little chatelaine. “And why not? Os course I shall not tell Madame Duloc or anybody, for they would make such a fuss. But be in the summer-house to-morrow.” Os course Andre did not fail to obey. He never dreamed of disputing her orders, and the lad was wild to learn. Blanche was an exacting and impatient little teacher, but Andre was so bright and eager that in five months he had al | most reached the limit of Blanche’s own small acquirements. She had grown ex- I tremcly fond of the handsome lad, so ready and willing to amuse her; and ns j for him, he was her abject slave. All distinctions of rank were forgotten in this pleasant companionship, so soon to j cease. One morning the Count returned unex pectedly from Paris. “Where is Blanche?’ he asked Madame Duloc. “Mademoiselle is out on the grounds,” she said, tremulously. “I have sent Celine’ for her.” j “Without you, Madame Duloc!” he ! said, sternly; “do you tell me my daughter ; is allowed to wander about alone?” “Ah, but she will let no one follow her!” the poor governess cried, desper ately. ‘ ‘Since you cannot control the Countess, madame, allow me to tell you, your services are no longer needed at Beau jolais.” The Count strode off in search of his daughter in a terrible fury. It did not lessen when, after a half-hour’s j search, she was not to be found. When near the lake.he heard voices and laughter in the little summer-house. Pushing open the door, he saw a sight which nearly struck him dumb. Side by side on the bench sat the representative of the Maupassants and a peasant boy. They were bending over the same book, and the golden curls of Blanche mingled with the black hair of her companion. “Blanche!" cried the Count, in a voice of thunder. The little girl sprang to her feet, turn ing pale, but she did not trcmblo. “What arc you doing here with that boy?” “I am teaching him to read, papa.” The little girl’s tones did not falter, though she was horribly frightened. “Teaching him to read!” the Count was so furious that his voice trembled. “Buck with you to the chateau, you wicked child, and I will settle with you later. But you, you base-born, insolent peasant, I will lash you like the hound you are!” He raised his riding-whip, but Blanche seized it, and confronted him with a pale face and flashing eyes. “You shall not strike him, papa!” she cried. “I made him come. He dared not refuse. If you strike any one, strike me, fori did it.” Andre through his whole life never forgot that picture. The man with his face convulsed with fury, the little girl looking up with her brave eyes, ready and willing to suffer in his stead. After a minute the Count seemed to recover himself. “Go away from here boy,” he cried, “for if ever Imeet youagain I will cut off your cars and your tongue. You to want to learn! Bah!” This was no idle threat at that time in France. Grand Seigneurs had theliberty of mutilating, or even killing, their vassals at their own free will, and the hoy knew that his father’s house was no longer safe for him. But his thirst for knowledge, begun by the lessons of his little mistress, led him to a Jesuit college, where his uncle, a priest, was one of the professors. There he remained for six years, while the thunders of a great Revolution were growling in the distance. When Andre left college, the guillotine had already cut off many of the greatest and noblest names in France. His education and ability and hatred of aristocracy soon secured him a position of confidence with Petion, one of the Revolutionary leaders. Andre shuddered at the bloodshed and violence which had turned France into a butcher’s shambles, but then he dreamed | that the outcome would be liberty. He had heard that the Chateau of Beaujolais had been burned to the j ground, and the Count and his daughter had escaped. Where the Count had gone ,he knew not. and cared less; but he knew that Blanche bad been concealed bv old Theriot,.his father, who had been 1 loyal to his young mistres3 in her hourof j ueril. He had never seen her since th»t “SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER.'’ fateful day when they had been surprised by her father, but his gratitude and al most adoration had never lessened. One day, in Pet km’s otfice, he overheat’d a few words which made his heart beat fast. “So that old satan, De Maupassant, is in the last batch of prisoners? They will all ‘kiss the basket’at noon to-day." “Good 1” Petioq answered; “lias the viper any brood?” “One daughter, as handsome and inso lent as an aristocrat can be She is in hiding, they say, with one of her old ser vants; lmt that bloodhound Caresso goes in search of her to-morrow. He never fails, Caresso does not, and she will be in La Force before twenty-four hours.” As soon as the visitors left, Andre pre sented himself before Petion. “General,” he said, “l want a pass to absent myself for several days, and to go where I wish. Give me one, too, at tho same time, for my sister.” “Aha, Theriot, of course, my boy! Something for the good of the State, hein? Good patriot that you are! De scribe yottr sister, and let Nicol there draw up the passes. I have no space to tell of Andre’s jour ney to Beaujolais, and how, in disguise, Blanche escaped with him to the nearest seaport, where betook passage for her in a vessel bound for America. Andre had a cousin settled on the Tcchc in Louis iana, and it was to these humble folk tho Countess de Maupassant was going. “Farewell, mademoiselle,” said the young man, as they stood together on tho deck of the vessel, “You have money for your present wants, and I will for ward more to you. Perhaps, too, I may come and see you.” Blanche raised her face, streaming with tears. “Come with me now, Andre!” she cried, in her old impetuous manner. “How can I go alone, alone to a strange land?” lie went. Two years after this the young Countess married the gardener’s son. and their union was a happy one. Their descendants are numerous now on the Techo. and you can hear this story more graphically told by them than in this short sketch. In tlicir graves the Countess Blancho and her devoted hus band lie side by side, on a green knoll near the silver waters of the Teche. — Youth's Companion. A Professional Woman Whistler. The appearance of Mrs. Shaw, the wo man whistler, at Mrs. Harriet Webb’s benefit in Chickering Hall was the oc.i sion of tho introduction of a piece writ ten for her by Miss Laura Collins, a young woman nearing her twentieth year. It was called “The Message of the Night ingale,” and was as pretty as its title. It was especially calculated to exhibit the capabilities of Mrs. Shaw and the beauties of her accomplishment. Mrs. Shaw visited friends in Washington re cently and accompanied them to a pri vate afternoon reception of Mrs. Cleve land’s. It was during the short stay of the President’s sister, Miss Rose Eliza beth, at the White House. The latter knew of Mrs. Shaw’s musical talent, and when she mentioned it Mrs. Cleveland eagerly requested her to whistle. An hour later the President’s wife let her atop, not because she had heard all she wanted to, but to lie polite and consider ate in not asking too much. Mrs. Shaw will soon visit Washington again, and has several engagements there during tho Grand Encampment of the G. A. R. She has engagements us far ahead as in July. 'l’he frantic gesticulations of women who want to stop a street car and their funny little squeals when they do decide to make a noise for the same purpose, are so familiar to drivers and conductorsthut Mrs. Shaw sometimes astonishes them into a helpless condition of wide eyed, open-mouthed wonder. Whistling comes so natural to her that she sometimes forgets herself when a ear that she wants to take goes rolling by the corner with the driver looking persistently in another direction. Her loud, clear signal brings him around, and after braking up the ear as speedily as possible, be looks for the man. The astonishment comes in when he finds that his passenger is not a man, but an elegantly dressed lady, whose face is by this time all straightened out, and whose severe dignity of expression and hearing are utterly inconsistent with anvthing like a whistle. Mrs. Shaw has indulged in a little freedom with the ancient proverb that slow conservatism might apply to her case, arid renders the couplet thus: Whistling girls and hens that crow, Will make their way wherever they g». Mrs. Shaw’s claim to position as a musical novelty does not signify that she is the only woman whistler. There are two others, but they are widely different from her in plans and purposes, as well as method. One is Miss Chamberlain, of Boston, and the other is Miss Adelaide Detehon, who is now in London, giving society recitations, and varying the pro grogramme with whistling. She will he remembered in New York, where she appeared in comedy on Wallack’s arid other stages. — New York Hun. General Washington’s Politeness. “Should a white company salute a col ored company when passing it on the march?” has been one of the questions propounded by military tacticians re cently. This reminds us of en old story. General Washington was walking down Pennsylvania avenue in the city of Wash ington one day when he was met by a negro, who bowed to him. The General bowed politely in return. “What, Mr. President,” said an acquaintance, “do you bow to a negro?” “Sir,” replied Washington, “do you think I would allow a negro to outdo me in politeness?” And the negroes were then aiavea, and Wa -iiington owned a good many of them. Mobile THE HEAD LETTER OFFICE. AN INTERESTING BRANCH OF THE rOSTAB DEPARTMENT. Great Sacks of Mail Matter Received Daily- How the Betters are Dis posed of—A Postollice Museum. The Washington Star says that mail matter for the Dead Letter Office comes every day in great sacks from all parts of the country. The sacks are shot up stairs by an elevator into a great hall with a lofty veiling running through two stories. The floor of this hall is covered with desks, long tallies, and sacks, full and empty. There is a busy corps of clerks, some armed with sharp, glittering knives, and others bending over ledgers. A wide gallery runs around the hall, sup ported iiy spiral columns, a dark green curtain above the iron railing shuts off from view the clerks occupying the gal lery, who are mostly ladles. Tho sacks come piling in, and each day’s mail brings over lit,ooo letters and packages the year around. One hundred and four pairs of brisk hands seize upon this mass of mate rial, and in a short time it is arranged, classified, and the records made up, so that all that enters the office can be ac counted for. There were over 5,000,000 pieces of mail matter received at the ollice last year, an increase of five per cent, over that received during tho previous year. Os this number over 4,000,000 pieces are dead matter, pure and simple, 5,500,000 being ordinary unclaimed matters. The letters find their way to the openers’ desk, which is a long table di vided into compartments by low wooden partitions, and before each of the com partments sits a clerk. There arc eleven openers at present. Their business is to open letters. To read a letter is not only against the regulations of the oflicc, but is against the law. All day long t hey are obliged to sit there thrusting their long pointed knife blades into one corner of tho envelope and then ripping it open, remove the contents, fold it with the envelope, and place it in a pile on their desks, and then go on to the next. They are all men—and old men at that. Staid, sober, steady-going men, fathers of laini lies, and patriarchs in the Church. The women already number three fourths of the clerical force oj the office, and in their lofty perch in the gallery they examine the opened letters for the address of the writer, or some evidence upon which to base a reasonable conclu sion at to the origin or destination of the letters. When money is found in tho letters, or, indeed, any inclosure, the openers are required to make in a book provided for the purpose an entry of the amount of money found and the character of the in closure, of whatever kind. This record passes into the hands of other clerks, constituting a system of checks, which experience has shown to be necessary, and it is believed that there is no loss through dishonesty of the employes. The system has been the growth of years, and ie the few eases that have occurred in the past of dishonesty on the part of em ployes, the weak points in the system have been brought to light and remedied. 11 is surprising to learn Low much money is yearly intrusted to the mails, and, al though the number of such letters that find their way to the Dead Letter Office is probably only a small proportion of the entire number mailed, yet last year there was received at the office over $51,000 in letters. Os this over $51,000 was restored to owners, nearly $5,000 remained in the hands of postmasters awaiting restora tion, and over SO,OOO could not lie re stored and was placed in tho United Slates Treasury, where it remains for a period of four years, subject to he re claimed Liy the owners. Perhaps the most interesting feature of the woik of the ollice is the treatment of letters which are sent there because of in sufficient or incorrect addresses. These letters represent for the most part the carelessness and the hurry of the Ameri can people. A businessman in this city, writing a letter to an acquaintance in Philadelphia, lor example, dashes of his signature at the close of the letter, and, while directing the envelope, is thinking of the next subject that demands his attention, and instead of writing Phila delphia lie scribbles off the word “city,” as he does a hundred times a day, sup posing, of course, that the majority of his letters are local. He does this the more readily if his correspondent’s address in Philadelphia happens to be one of the numbered streets. When the letter comes to the Dead Letter Office it is handed over to a lady clerk, who has referred to her over a thousand of such letters each day. By long practice with dealing with such conundrums the address is properly amended and the letter is sent on its way again. Home people drop letters into the office without any address at all, others write the ad dress so illegibly anti with such disregard for the rules of ortho graphy that no one but an expert, is able to decipher the meaning. Mistakes of all kinds are made in addressing letters. The wrong State is given, or else the wrong town, perhaps both town arid State are omitted. Home humorous per-ons wiite out the whole address in rhymed verse, and, like a good deal of more pretentious versemaking, sometimes it is possible to ascertain the author’s meaning, and then again Ihc meaning eludes the most careful study. When it is considered that the combined carelessness and ignorance of the entire country has a daily and hourly opportu nity to develop an aptitude for blunder ing, it is surprising tliat the proportion of such letters is not much larger than it rca'Jy is. But when samples of this part of ihc mail bag of the Dead Letter Office are examined, it is surprising to learn that 90 per rent, of the letters of thi < baracter whirji «rw rooetvod each day an corrected ar.i delivered to thspersons an d re-sed. When letters contain no enclosures, either of money or liletvhanriise, and every method has liei*n exhausted for re turning them either (o tho writer of tfi person addressed* they life bundled to getlier Uud sold for waste paper. There arc over 5,000,000 letters and parcels which are disposed of each year itt this way, and the revenue derived from tin sale is turned into the Treasury, together with the money received in letters tor which no owner can ho found, Luff year there was nearly SO,OOO deposited in the Treasury on this account, A visit to the museum of this ollice shows the manifold Uses to which the mails are put in the transportation of inatterothcr than letters. In this collection, which preserves only the most notable objects, may bo found boots, shoes, coats, shawls, lied quills, hoop skirts, rattlesnakes, horned toads, gloves, lace collars, photographs, jewelry* false hair, etc. T.'.e articles received in the mails are retained for two years, and then, if not called for, are sold at public auction. The sale last year realized over $5,000. T WORDS. Love is wit lulu, prudence, nnd anger is without counsel. To whom you betray your secret you give your liberty. The credit that is got by a lie only lasts till the truth conics out. It is a good virtue to love, to give, and to follow good counsel. Tho only failure a man ought to fear is failure in cleaving to the purpose he sees to l>e best. What men want, is not talent, it is pur pose—not the power to achieve, but the will lo labor. The strongest men are the most tender hearted. The coolest and sweetest, waters (low from under tin - greatest rocks. Historian Bancroft, aged eighty six, say*: “ Work is pleasant, without worry, and, unlike worry, it docs not kill.” Though all afflictions arc evils in them selves, yet they are good for us, because they discover to us our disease and tend to our cure. Bin is never at a stay; if we do not. re treat, from it, we shall advance in it; and the further on we go, the further we have to cotno back. Time never works; it, eats, and under mines, and rots, and rusts, and destroys. But it never works. It only gives us an opportunity to work. Every genuine work of art has as much reason for being as the earth and the sun. The gayest, charm of beauty has a root in the constitution of things. Feelings come and go like light, troops following the victory of the present; but principles, like troops of the line, arc undisturbed and stand fast. A Treeless Forest. Away down in Devonshire, in the southwestern part of England, there is a very interesting tract of land. It, is known as Dartmoor Forest, and is so named in all old deeds and grants of land; yet, with the exception of a small grove of dwarf oaks, it, is almost, entirely without trees! This strange contradic tion is said to be due to the fact of the greater part of Dartmoor having actually been a forest years ago, but it, was so in fested with fierce wild animals that the people were forced, in self defence, to set tire to the trees, und so by degrees the forest was destroyed. Certain it, is that the soil of tho moor is composed of rich, black vegetable matter, arid that remains of tree trunks have been found under the ground. Moreover, the people of one district have for generations enjoyed the privi lege of free past urage, through a grant awarded their ancestors for services in destroying wolves in Dartmoor Forest. For the same reason they are allowed to gather the peat which abounds in the fens or marshy lands, and which makes excellent fuel. The atmosphere of the moore is nearly always moist and foggy. Indeed, the people who live there say that “ The west wind always brings wet, weather, The east wind, wet, and cold toget her; The south wind surely brings us rain, The north wind blows it back again. ’ So it seems the people of Dartmoor have very little dry weather, hut in spite of tliis salt dampness for perhaps because of h) the region is one of remarkable health fulness, and the little barefoot children of the moor, who live in low huts made of sods, are as fat and rosy a set as can be found anywhere.— American), Agriculturist. The Schools of Europe. In Russia there are 32,000 schools, j having each an average of thirty-six scholars, 'i ll's is one school for 2,500 in habitants, at a cost of less than a half penny a head of the population. In Aus tria, with 57,000,000 of inhabitants,there are 29,000 schools and 5,000,000 scholars. The average number at each school is 104 and the cost per inhabitant 9 I-2d. In Italy, for 28,000,000 inhabitants, there are 47,000 schools, one school for every 000 people, at a cost of 3 1-2 d. per head, j The average number of pupils at the I schools is forty. In Spain there arc 3,000,000 scholars, 29,000 schools, hav ing an average of fifty-six in each school and one school for every 000 inhabitants, as in Italy. The school bill comes t* Is. 2d. a head. The number of schools given for England is 58,000, which is one for every 000 inhabitants, with an average attendance of fifty-two per school, aad a cost of Is. (id. per head. The tier mans have a school for every 700, giving a total of 60,000 schools, with 100 pupils in each, and Is. 7d. per inhabitant. France lias 71,000 schools, being one for every 500, with sixty-six in each school. France would, therefore, seem to have more schools than any other great European country. These schools cost the country Is. 2 l-2d. per inhabitant. ~ /‘all Mall Uatette. VOL 11. NO. 17. LIGHTENING THE UUHBaN. ••Let me carry your pail, my dear, Brimming over with water t" “No ! I ll take hold, and you take hold/' Answered tlio farmer’s daughter. And she would have her own sweet w*y. As her merry eyes grew brighter} Ho she took hold, and ho took hold, And it made the burden lighter. Anil every day the oaken pall Over the well-curb slipping, \V as upward drawn by hands of braw Cool, and so softly dripping. And every day the burden seemed Lighter by being divided; For ho took hold, and she took hold, lty the self same spirit guided. Till by and by they learned to love And each trust in the other, Till she for him, one twilight dim. Left, father and left mother. The wedding bells were rung at man Tho bridal blessing given, And now the pair, without a care, Entered ail earthly heaven. When storm and sunshine iningM»tfc*of Would seldom trouble borrow, . And when it came, they met the same With a bright hope of to-morrow. And now they’re at the ovo of life, While the western skies grow brighter. For she took hold, and ho took hold, And it made the burden lighter. —M. A. Kidder M Ledger. HUM Oil OF TIIE HAT. '« When Sol pours down his genial beama. Tho girls are sighing for ice creams. Huston Courier. A party finest ion l —“At what time do they serve the spread!”— Boston Commer cial Jfulletin. A vetern of Kcno Post says ho was in ten engagements —all Southern jjirls, too. — Willianuport Grit. Nine-tenths of the blind men in poor houses are bachelors. They probably lost their sight trying to thread uewllea. Omaha World. After all has been said against the barbed wire fence, the truth remains that it has a great many points in its favor. — Lowell Citizen. Perhaps the place where electric lights arc most needed is in a barber’s shop. The llow of gas would be diminished at least.—2W't* Haven Neics. We regret to learn that the Chicago Anarchists have disbanded. Wc have always thought they should hang to gether.—Philadelphia Press. A York State man has invented a con trivance to pick apples. 11 it beats fifty pounds of freckled urchin the superiority of art is established. — GoodaWs Han. “I have a theory about the dead lan guages,” remarked a Brown University Freshman; “I think they were killed by being studied too hard.” Providence Tel egram. “Teeth pulled while you wait” is a sign which adorns a dentist’s office in New York. The question that perplexes us is how can a man have bis teeth pulled if he doesn’t wait.? Jlurlington Kree Press. “I see that you can get Government land free in the West,” observed the im pecunious boarder at the breakfast table. “I think I’ll go there and settle.” Mrs. Hardtack —“Better settle in New York first.’’ —New York Hun. 'J’lio farmers, now, think on the days Os beet, beet, beet. The trarrifxjrs now will nuike a “raise” Os f«*ot, feet. feet. Soon will the young ami old complain ()f heat, heat, heal. Tho boys, who would the |xmniint gain, Will meet, meet., meet. Tho polo clul m will look ho lino An« I neat, neat, neat. They’ll lie invited out to din**. And treat, treat, treat. Tho mating bird will sing and Hit Ho sweet, sweet, sweet. We’ll tell the Hkeeters to “git up and git n Ami sheet, skeet, sheet/. — (jQuditll't t Sun Butter and BiiUcrino. It is not a little funny to walk through our makets nowadays and note the re sult of the oleomargarine law. You shall find a score of stands selling oleo margarine and belt'line, but hardly a single one where butter is otiered. 1 here are many tempting signs, such as “Pure Creamery Butter,” or “Choice Western Iteserve Butter,” but underneath either, if you look closely, will be found, iu much smaller type, the additional legend: “Now known as oleomargarine or but terine.” Little frauds are still per petrated. There is one girl, for exam ple, who has been selling “pure country butter” for six months selling it in market on market days, and between times selling it in person at houses on both sides of the river. Her boxes and pails are legally stamped, if you look closely, but her language is free. Every ounce of her wares is butterine. The genuine butter trade lias almost dis appeaied from the markets and gone to the fancy groceries. There the price is from 40 to 50 cents, and it is not by any means certain that you do not buy half oleomargarine or butterine even then.— < incinnati Enquirer. How to Stand. On one of his visits to New Haven to deliver the Yale Lectures, Mr. Beecher went into a barber shop near the chapel to he shaved. The barber, seeing that he was a minister, but not recognizing him as the great Brooklyn preacher, said, “Goin to the lecture?” “Who speaks?” asked Beecher, in Yankee fashion. “Why. Henry Ward Beecher.” “Y<s' I think I will go.” “Have you got a ticket!” the barber went on, “if not, you’ll have to stand.” “There! there!” said Mr. Beecher, “it seems as if I always did have to stand when I hear that man speak!”