Newspaper Page Text
The Montgomery Monitor.
D. C. SUTTON, Editor and Propr.
LIFE'S JOURNEY.
A« we speed out of youth’s sunny station
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms
Or sinks into tunnels of night,
And the hearts that were Bravo in the morning
Are filled with repining and fears
As they pause at the city of sorrow
Or pass thro’ the Valley of Tears.
But the road of this perilous jonrnpy
The hand of tlie Ma-ti r ha • made;
With all its d scorn forts and dangers,
We'need not he sad or afraid.
Baths leading front light into darkness,
Ways plunging front gloom to despair,
Wind out tliro’ tit ■ tunn Is of midnight
To fit Ids that.arc blooming and fair.
Tho’ the rocks and the shadows surround us,
Tho’ we catch not one gleam of the day
Above us. fair cities are laughing
And dipping white feet in sumo hay.
And always, eternal, forever,
Down over the hit's in the west,
The last final end of-ottr journey,
There lies the Great Station of Rest.
Tis tlie Grand Central point of all railways,
All roads e< titre h re when they end;
'Tig the final resort of all tourists,
All rival lines meet here and blend.
All tickets, all mile-books, all passes,
If stolen or hogged for or bought,
On whatever road or division,
Will bring you at hot to this'spot.
If you pause at tlie city as. Trouble
Or wait in the Valiev of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward
And rush down I lie years.
Whatever the pla e is you seek for,
Whatever ybhr aim or your quest,
lon shall coni ■ at the last with rejyicing
To tlie beautiful City of Rest;
You shall store all your baggage of worries,
Aon shall feel perfect peace in this realm,
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters,
With joy and delight at the helm.
Aon shall wander lit'cool, fragrant gardens
With those who have loved yon tlie best,
And the hopes that were lost in life’s journey
You filial! find m the City of Rest.
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
THE BARGEE, t
John Thrupp was a bargee, and a fine
strapping young fellow; an easy six
feet in his blue worsted socks; deep in
the chest and without an ounce' of su
perfluous fat anywhere.
John Thrupp raise up the walk of the
PendleVmrg Children's Hospital. ■ He
rang the bell, and was requested to
enter.
The closed door on li:s left opened,
and the Sister, a tall, thin ■woman, in a
dark green serge gown, and a variation
of the prevailing white cap on her white
hair, came out, saying to tlie unseen oc
cupant of the little eight sided room ,
within, “I don’t think there‘is any. one *.
coming to see you, dear. It is nearly 4 j
■when the visitors go—unless,” she said, j
facing. John, “this is your brother. !
Have you come to see Naucy Batmen,
young man ?” she added.
“Yes, ma’am,” said John; and tho j
Sister stood on -one side and pushed
open the door and said:
“Here’s this brother of ours at last.”
She turned to John, and added, “It is
just as well you didn’t come earlier.
She mustn’t talk much nor move. You
talk to her,” and stepped swiftly across
the slate-paved passage toward tlie j
ward, but paused as John, who stood in
the doorway, looking at the.little dark
head on the pillow, in p.ll agony of awk
wardnessj after a moment .said:
“She—Nancy, isn’t my sister, ma’m.
She’s naught to me. At least, she’s—
my sweetheart. I had to come, as her
father’s had to go on with the boat.”
“Very well,” said the Sister, smiling I
and disappearing.
“Sweethearts” were rare visitors, as j
this was a children’s hospital.
Nancy was really two and a half years
over the age limit.
John creaked carefully across the floor
and sat down on tlie chair beside
Nancy’s bed and said;
“Well, Nancy,” in a voice so husky
one might have thought lie was a man
of feeling, aqd not “only a bargee.”
“Well, John,” said the black-eyed
little creature, whose dark curly head
lav still on the prHmv, though' she put
a rough little boy’s hand into John's
great fist. .'John noticed that she had
her yellow bea&s round her throat still,
though she was wearing a washed-out
blue flannel jacket belonging to the
ward, which struck him strangely.
“Don’t move your arms, Nancy dear,”
he said, speaking in almost a whisper,
ami not daring to clasp the hand laid
in his. “Are yon bett r
Nancy smiled up at him, still not
moving, hut pressing his hand a little,
and said:
“You be frightened of me. John?
But I’m a lot better—l’m not drowned
now, you silly 1”
■ John smiled a little, for tlie first
time since he had looked at her and
said:
“Yes, I lie frightened at you ? You
look so delicate, and such a little thing;
and 1 don't seem to know you, lying
abed like that.”
“I don’t lie abed much on the boat,
do I ?” said Nancy, the flush, which his
coming has caused, fading, and leaving
the little brown face suddenly.
“How’s father, John?”
“He’s gone on with the boat. It had
to go, you know, so faras Bolton. H<- s
coming on Wednesday to see y< r -Irnck
bv train —if you ain't out of tin- by then,
Nancy.”
“N y. I shan’t be out. said Nancy,
her eves filling. The htdj -the Sister,
I mean— says I'll have to Lay still a good
bit because of my rib Did you know,
John, when you pulled me out o water,
that the boat had gone ngen me and
squeezed me r.tren the bridge before I
went under i”
John nodded, rad putting h: left
hand over ■. mg in his right, said
huskily:
“Did it hurt very It.i 1. Nan *v Gear?”
and then, breaking down altogether,
poor John knelt by the bed, and laid
| his head on the iron at the top of the
bed and sobbed like a child.
“Dontee, John, now dont’ec,” said
Nancy, the red liloo 1 coming like a
wave into her face suddenly.
“It was not so very bad; 1 was dozed,
and didn't feel-like at all. Don’t cry,
John, I be a lot better, and it don’t hurt
now. I can’t bear to have you cry,”
and tlie poor child’s voice got rough,
and great tears rolled over her checks,
and she moved her hand to pull John’s
head down close to tier, and whispered:
“It was you ho saved me, John, you
know. Oh, don’t cry so, John; I’m
better.”
l’or a moment or two tlie poor fellow
sotibe | helplessly over his little crushed j
playfellow, and then when she said:
i “You mustn’t, John; the In Iv can see
ihtongh that little window, and shc’JF i
make yer go, lie kissed the hand he
..ns Holding, and sat back ill the chair
ind looked pitifully at her, feeling n
great helpless brute.
“John,” said Nancy, shyly, nfter a
moment, “what made you say I was
your sweetheart, when I ain't?”
“You are, Nancy; I did’t know it my
self till I came to tell the lady you was i
naught to me, and then 1 knowed you 1
were everything, and till I’ve got to care
for. When you come out of this you’ll
- In l my sweetheart, won’t you, Nancy?”
Nancy smiled with tho tears hardly
dry. and said, “It «lid sound strange
tofliear you Ray out like that, ‘She’s my
sweetheart!’ But I think I Ire,” she
said after a moment, looking roguishly
.ip at John, who leaned over and lusoci,
her.
“Come home soon, Nancy,” ho said,
“and I’ll take better care of yon. You
shan’t jump oft’ the barge ngen, or got
drowned no more.”
n> • door opened to admit a doctor
and the Sister. John stood up and
touched his forehead to the doctor, who
nodded, and said:
“Your sister’s over the age, my man:
she ought to have been taken to the in
firmary, but, as we have taken her in,
we must get her well. How old are
you ?” he added to the girl.
“I’m sixteen and eight months, Sir.”
“Dear me, she don’t look it, does she,
Sister?”
“No,” said the Sister, taking down a
card that hung over the bed, and adding
the age to it.
“It’sthe short curly linir that makes
her look so young, else she’s a fine
grown girl really.’’
“How came she to bo brought here?”
iinVJ putting'otic tnoV 1 il)fiTiVflte V nair' i(V
the bed, resting his watch on his knee.
He addressed John, but kept liis eyes on
Nancy’s face, which was paling and
flushing by turns.
“I was carrying her in my arms nfter
we got her out, Sir, and her father says j
to the policeman: ‘Where ought we
take my little girl; she’s been nearly |
drowned and hurt ?’ ‘Little girl?’ says
the policeman, ‘take her to Gartside
stroot, the children’s Hospital, out-pat
ient’s room, you know,’ and so we does,
and there was a van there, and they told
us to get, in, and we was drove here.
“Oh, I see,” said the doctor, laying
down the hand he held and putting up |
his watch.
“So they took you for a real ‘little
girl,’ instead of a big little girl. I dare
say, Sister, you and C. (mentioning the
other surgeon) were only too delighted
to get a good case into your Special and
and forgot to ask the age ? Any rise of
temperature ?” glancing at tiie chart
over the bed.
“No,” said the Sister.
“Take her food well? Let’s see;
milk only, isn’t, it ? Nancy nodded.
“Yes,” said the Sister again, “and
she sleeps well now.”
“Oil! well, she’s doing very well,”
and turning to John the doctor said
those, to him, routine words, but which
lifted a load off the poor fellow's heart :
“If she lies still and does ns she's told
she’ll pull through now, but you’d befc
ter stop now talking to her; she's over
tired already. Say good-by to your sis
ter, and come to the out-patient room
and give me your address.”
“She’s my sweetheart, sir,” said John,
slowly looking at Nancy’s downcast eye
lids.
“Oh, ho!” said the doctor, glancing
sharply from one to the other, “jlien
most certainly it's time you went.
Yon’re far too ‘interesting a visitor for
our patient.” But being a man of quick
, sympathy, and although he was a doc
tor and a “man of science,” having a
sweetheart of his own, he called the
Sister outside the door ns lie left to give
I the young things a moment to them
selves while he impressed upon her that
Nancy must on no account attempt to
move. . . . . ...
“We shall have some mischief with
that broken rib unless we look out. But
so far she’s doing splendidly.”
John caught the last words as he, too,
came out, and how they altered the look
of things for him !
When he had entered that room he
dreaded to look at his poor—as he
thought—living playmate. Now ! He
straightened himself up and smiled buck
at Nancy, who kissed lmr hand to him
in the doorway. Nancy, who was really
getting well arid would soon be coming
oit all right. And site was no longer
his plavmate, but was his little sweet
heart, and thev had kissed each other.
This bargee" looked a differ*nt man,
as he stepped briskly down, the corridor
behind the doctor, feeling inclined to
join in the whistling of “Mv love is
young and fair,” in which the young
house surgeon was indulging,
t When lie was going out into the glare
of the sunshine on the gravel, after giv
ing 'the particulars abont Nancy s fa* her
and his profession, John looked stm.ght
at the doctor, standing bareheaded on
til® steps and said:
“I’ll I>" very grateful to you. sir, if
vott’ll cure her;” and added by a sud
den inspiration, “she’s all I ve got to
love, and I’ll do anything for you if
MX. VERNON, MONTGOMERY CO., (1 A., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1887.
you’ll get her well, sir. I’m going to
have a barge of my own next spring,
and I'll take better care of her nfter
this.”
“Oh! so Miss Nancy is to bo Mrs.
John Thrupp, is she';” laughed the
' ! doctor.
“Yes, she is. Sir,” relumed John,
laughing too out of the joy and relief at
his heart.
As he ran down the road to catch the
tram that came jingling up, the clatter
j of the horses' hoofs and tlie bells on
the harness seemed to repeat the doc
tor’s capital suggestion, “Airs. John
! Thrupp!”
The next visiting day, Sunday, John
Thrupp was again going from Man
chester to IVndlclmry, on the top of a
tram, to see Nancy. He was earlier t his
j time. The clock of Pendleton Church
struck three ns they passed. He re
membered that, ;:s iie passed it again,
going back. There was no one on the
bench oil that side of the ear, and John
leaned back with both anus over the
seat and his hat tilted hack off his fore- ,
head, enjoying the sunshine and easy
swinging progress of the ear. It was
like the gliding of his barge, but empha
sized by the regular trot, trot of the
horses. As the road grew pretty and I
j tree-shaded, after the change of horses j
I nt Pendleton, his thoughts went back to 1
1 the long summer afternoons lie and
Nancy had so often spent together lean- j
ing over the side of her father’s barge as I
they slipped slowly through the water ;
below, w hich was painted with dabs of j
blue and red and yellow reflections of i
the gorgeous Windsor Castle that dec
orated the barge stern anil in return i
threw little curls and flashes of light
over the ideally green lawns and woods
of the picture.
He and old fedtsen, his cousin, were
partners in this barge, the “Get Away,”
and lived on board. Nancy lived on
shore with her widowed sister, in one of
the many little red brick cottages that
cluster along the various “cuts” of the
canals all over England. They gener
ally plied backward and forward on the !
Grand Junction Canal, near Uxbridge, j
among flat tut ndows and pollard wil
low's. It was quite an exception for her j
to have come all the way to Manchester j
as she had done this time, and site had |
slept on shore each night, in the rough i
lodgings to lie had along the canal with j
old Battsen. Hut she snent nil her days
oil the “Get Away,’ keeping house, as j
she called it, for her lather; peeling the
potatoes and washing' up the mugs in
the gaily painted tin basins, and keep j
ing the little cabins ns tn-at as a tnmi-’o I
warsman. Sometimes she donned her
wax'*. • A - x • 1 »•'. •
across her bosom, and a dean white
apron tin* outdoor lull-dress costume
of a tidy barge lass —she steered or
walked along the path behind “()ld Sol
diet-,” the steady, powerful old gray,
who patiently trudged along in all
weathers, dragging the capacious mon- |
key-boat with its varying loads. He
didn’t need guiding, not even in the
locks into which lie drew the barge, and 1
then stood, slowly munching out of his
nose bucket, which Nancy kept, like sil
ver, till he heard old Mattson's epigram- j
mu,tic but comprehensive order, “( »’ up,
Sodger.”
Then on lie went again, gradually
drawing the slack rope out ot the water, ,
dripping, and whipping the surface till I
it filially stretched out taut, and the
barge slowly glided out of the lock. He
knew exactly what, to do, without Nan
■\'s “Now then, my General!”
march, Cap’en !” or “Halt, Soldier!’
She used to declare that he minded be
ing called “Soldier” more than a flick i
witli a short-lmndled whip. He had !
lieen an officer's horse, and was offended
at being spoken to like a “common j
r<toper. ’
John smiled as he remembered bow
Nancy’s laugh and the pat she gave
“Soldier” with her little wet hand
reached him, as site said that. They
were just coming out of tho lock below
Uxbridge ; they bad a cargo of un
broken flints that time, and lie remem
bered, as be jumped on board, after
working the lock gates, just as she said
it, tie- splash with which one of the
ijitei t-shaped, white anil steely flints,
displaced by his foot, went into the
canal.
The sunny picture his slow fancy had
called up was suddenly followed by the
remembrance of that other cold, driz
zling evening a week ago, when it was
Nancy who jumped lightly from tlie
barge to the path, ns they went under
the bridge at Salford. John sat up sud
denly, and for a moment felt sick and
cold, as he heard again the splash and
quick little frightened cry with which
Nancy disappeared in the water, black,
in the thick shadow of the hideous arch.
She lmd taken the jump scores of times,
but this time she just missed the brick
ed edge of the path, and liefore her
father, who was at the helm, could get at
her, she went under.
John, who was several yards ahead
w ith the horse, saw her rise again be
tween the slowly-approaching barge and
tin- brick path, to which she clung ; but
before lie could reach her and draw her
oat of the water, a spasm of anguish on
the girl's pale face and one long, choked
scream, told that the great lumbering
1 >arge had passed just one inch too near
tlie edge, and had crushed, its it passed,
the slight form.
“Oh, go'id God !” muttered John, and
drew in his breach sharply through his
teeth ; even now it "as all over and
* Nancy gritting better, lie couldn’t think
of it without shuddering.
How h»- dived under the barge and
drew out the now inanimate little liodv
and lifted it to the many hands stretch
ed out on the path ; how lie and her
father, white and si inking with horror,
took tl;i ;> blent, 1 1feb t,s burden to Gart
sid< street, he did not clear! vrememlicr.
He remembered th r * jiolieeman s face
clearly. A pule face, showing blue
where the chin vas shaved; and he re
membered, too, t? t fr r Nancy’s curls
duped on to the back of his hand in the
ambulance carriage, as she lay, wrapped
“SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER.”
in blankets, across her father’s knee.
But after his own plunge into the water
everything seemed confused, and tho
things .done and said were like the un
real nets and words of a horrible dream.
“But she’s all right now,” said John
to himself, “and wlien she’s Mrs. John
Thrupp she shan’t-run no more risks;”
and lie gave himself a shake to pull him
self together before lie got off the train
when it stopped on the white road be
low tlie hospital.
He joined the group of mothers and
fathers and friends, each with their
bundles of clothes, eggs and flowers for
tho patients,going itl twos and threes
up the slope. Some, as he had done
; last, week, were going for the first time,
and looked about them curiously; but
our bargee strode on quickly, smelling
the huge bunch of stocks and wall
flowers and mignonette ho was taking
to Nanev. He knew his way, and nod
ded to the man at tho lodge as if he were
an old friend.
It was the same blue-and-vvhito nurse
on duty ns porteress, and John came in
briskly out. of the sunsliino into the
cool, gray corridor, and took off his cap
with quite a gallant smile, as 1m said,
before the nurse spoke this time:
“To see Nancy Battsen,” and quito
proud of his knowledge, added, “in
Haywood Special, ain’t it? Only my
self, please, Miss.”
Tho nurse said “Yes,” and added,
“Oh !—Air. Battsen.”
“John Thrupp,” said John, smiling
still.
“Oh!—yes,” said tlm nurse. “Mr.
Thrupp, wait a moment, please.”
John stood on one side, wondering
what she wanted with him, and watched
her send a cabman and his wife, who
asked for “Johnny Mahoney—a baby,” |
to “North Ward.” John wondered
idly wlmt was the matter with “Johnny j
Marney,” as the anxious parents called j
it.
When they turned and went off to tho
right John looked after them, and did
not “ notice tlie momentary hesitation
and glance of pity tho little blue anil
white nurse cast on him ns slio laid her
book on the bench, and gut up and j
said:
“Will you come this way, Mr. j
Thrupp ?”
“lias she been moved out of there?”
said John, following, as they came op
posite the Hayward doors,
“The doctor wants to speak to you,”
replied the nurse, without answering j
him, and opened the door of the room
'uto which the doctor had taken him
last lime.
The doctor was sitting the other side
and then, ns John snlit<'l*iWYitV\ 1 ’■A«<NVl 1 -
day, Kir,” he seemed suddenly to recog
nize the young fellow. A worried look
came into liis face and lie said:
“Oh, it’s you; wait a moment,” and,
getting up quickly, he followed the
muse out of the room, turning toaild as
he closed the door: “Hit down; I’ll be
back ill a moment.”
John sat down a little puzzled, but
net a shade of anxiety or tear that bis
Nancy was worse crossed bis mind. Ho
liad made up liis mind she was nearly 1
well by now, and pictured her, sitting
up now perhaps in a long arm chair he
had seen in tlie Special. The door j
opened again, and the doctor came in,
looking very grave indeed; and shutting
the door, stood with his back to it, and
said:
“Mr. Thrupp, I am very much dis
tressed to find you have not, had the j
message I sent to (outside street last
night. I quite thought you had it.
“What message, Sir;” said John, j
suddenly frightened at the doctors
grave tone. “I didn't think tn go and
ask for no message —-she was getting
hotter. She ain’t no worse, is she,
Sir ; She ain’t bad ngen, is she, doc
tor ;”
“Mv poor fellow,” said the doctor,
his faiv paling a little, “I wish you had
gone to inquire. She got much worse
yesterday afternoon, liefore we wired -
she tried to sit up; poor child, anil hem- j
orrlmge, internal hemorrhage, set in. j
And lie hesitated again, and looked j
pityingly at poor John; and again went
on hurriedly:
“We thought you’d get tin- wire and J
be prepared. Siie sank rapidly. There
was no pain, but, we could do nothing.
Slie died about midnight.”
John sat on very still, witli his cap in
hand, between his knees, staring at the
doctor, who laid liis hand tenderly oil
his shoulder, and was saying something
else, but he didn’t hear what. The
whole room, the whole world, seemed
throbbing with those few words—“she
died about midnight.”
Half an hour after, John Thrupp,
bargee, was slowly walking back to
Manchester w ith a little pared of girl s
garments under his arm, and a string of
yellow beads clasped tight in liis great
right hand, seeing only tie- white face
•if liis dead sweetheart painted against
the cruel, pitiless streets t.nd hurrying
crowds of Manchester.
“An-1 sin- was 1 letter o' Wednesday !
he was muttering, half aloud.
•She was better o' Wedm shvy.
That night John and ol 1 Mattson were
sitting 071 on eae’i of the bunks of tlie
little cabin of the “Get Away, with at:
oil lump I*4ween them. lie- old man
was erving bitterly for his dead little
girl, reiterating how “he’d ha d gone to
see her if you’d not a said she were bet
ter.” John sat still in dumb misery
after billing the old man all there was
to b-11, and they ha-1 spoken, too, about
the funeral.
“Ye si-iq it’s worse for me nor for
von," said poor old Battsen, selfish as
we all often are in our sorrow. “She
was rnv only little un, and la-yond sort
o’ cousin she weren't naught to vou.”
I “No,” sail John, putting Nancy’s
! yellow !leads away in his breast pocket;
“She weren't nothing to me, but she
were going to tie, She we re going to
be Mrs. John Thrupp—some day—poor
lass!"— Murray’* Magazine.
Till-! JOKER'S BUDGET.
HUMOROUS NOTES FOUND IN
OUR EXCHANGES.
No Heirs There -A Loss of Sympnltiy
—Story of tho Rears—He was
Flattered, tint He Meant Ihisi
ness— Odds and Ends, &c.
DUCKY FOK THE nunoXiAß.
Mr. roots—Where is that burglar,
Maria ? Where is he ? Where’s the
villain gone ?
Mrs. Foots—Gone to tho station
house. Oh, dear, I’m so distracted. A
policeman enino and took him. Oh,
John, why did you leave mo all alone
when tho alarm rung and run into tho
garret ?
“Why did I run into tho garret? I
i keep my arms in the garret, that's why.”
“But you’ve been gone an hour.”
“Took over an hour to oil tip my gun
and grind ray hatchet. But it’s lucky
for the burglar that my arms were not
in order.” —Texas Siftings.
A VISITATION.
City Visitor (with family)—Bub,
which is tlie nearest way to Jolible
son’s?
Boy (sent ahead by farmer) —Jist up
that road. If yez bo friends of liis, ye’d
better hurry up. He’s just fell down
and broke liis leg. His wife is sick with j
tho scarlet fever. The big boy is down
with tlie measles. Tho sister is as crazy f
as a loon. Tho baby is dying. Tho I
horse lias run away. Tho dog's mad,
and a sheriff is waiting to gobble tho
furniture. Ye’d better hurry if yo bo i
friends of liis.
They do hurry—hurry back to tho
station.— Tid Bits.
11 13 MADK I*IIO VISION.
A country cousin who hud come to
the eity had outstayed liis welcome tit |
tho house of a friend, and, as ho showed j
no symptoms of departing, his host a
a morning or two ago said to him:
“Well, 1 don’t wish to hurry yon, (
old follow, but don't you think it istinie
you saw your wife and children again,
eli ? Why, they will be growing incon
solable for the loss of you.”
“That in strange, now,” replied the
countryman. “I was thinking just tho
same thing myself yesterday, and I
vvroto off only last night to toil tlie mis
sus and the young ones to coma up to
mo here nt once.”
AT Tin: TABLE.
*i unouu • - o ■ .
the table and finally land in the lap of
one of tlie diners. Five Arabs sent
themselves around a large bowl of l ice
surmounted by a fowl. Two seize the j
wings with their lingers and two the
legs, and simultaneously tearing these
off, leave the carcass to tho fifth. It is
probable that they draw lots for tho
honor of being tlie fifth. It must be a
bad omen to have six men at, the table
when a fowl is carved in this fashion—•
that is, bad for the sixth man if ho is
fond of fowl.— Norristmrn Herald.
Ml?, TOO.
A Washington man bills of a quarrel
between two negro boys. Tho larger
boy, with great volubility, wasapplyirtg
every sort of abusive epithet. Tlie
younger boy, leaning against a fence
and steadily regarding the speaker with
a sullen scowl, waited for a halt. At last
it came
“Is yon done?”
“Yes, I is done.”
Then slowly and coolly the younger
said: ,
“All dem dings you said I is, you is
dom.”
UNLIMITKO POSSimLITIKH.
“Do you call that whiskey?” tho cus
tomer asked, as ho threw a dime on the
bar, after draining bis glass.
“I do,” answered the bartender, i
as he flipped the silver piece behind
“Then all I’ve, got to say,” said the
customer ns he wiped his mouth and
prepared to walk out, “all 1 vo got to
say is that if Jay Gould watered liis
1 stock like that he would be worth fifteen
1 million, billion, trillion more money
than he is to-day.’’- Boston Courier.
A BECHET.
“Say,” said Berkey to his wife yester
day at dinner, “you‘didn’t say anything
to any one about what I war, telling vou
night liefore lust, did you! Thats a
secret.**
“A secret? Why. I didn’t know it
was a secret,” slio replied kind of re
gretfully. _ ~
’ “Well, did you tell it? I want to
know.” ....
“Why, no, I never thought of it since.
I didn't know it was a secret." —Newport
(Ky.) Journal.
TJTK BEARS.
Two liears chased a Michigan man.
I He climbed a tree which was too small
' for the bears’ grasp, blit they hung
around the neighborhood for five hours,
I while the man, who hail been to school
and could read and write and make a
speech and vote, remained aloft because
he was afraid to come down. At the
end of that time his wife came over the
same route, and upon meeting the bears
just flapped her apron like she was driv
ing chickens out of the garden, and they
! ran away.
EASILY ANSWERED.
He suddenly began to laugh, and he
kept it up until his wife got tired. When
he was sufficiently recovered to articu
late, he said:
“Mv dear, something very funny has
just, occurred to me. Why are great
1 writers wlien they die like little Bo
Peep’s sheep?”
“Because they leave their tales behind
them,” responded the lady, wearily. _
. “I guess I’ll go around to the club,
ho said, gloomily consulting his watch,
VOI.. 11. NO. .11.
DOO MEAT.
The Conscrrator, the organ of the col
ored folks of Chicago, lias this to say
about, the MoGnrigle episode: “.So you
let. MeGarigle get away, did you? 1
'liowed it, leastways I 'spected it. You
all was too pertienlnr ’bout his health
an’ his high toned ways. If he had
been a colored man put in jail for grab
bin’ a stray chicken they'd dun put him
in a cell and forgot he was there. This
way rankin' tish out o’ one man an’ dog
meat out o’ ’nother ain’t right.”
THE YOUNG MAN MEANT BUSINESS.
“Young man,” said a stern parent,
with the accent on the young, “do yon
intend to stay here all night holding my
daughter's hand and looking her in the
eyes like a sick calf !”
“No, Hir.”
i “What do you intend to do, then?"
“Well, I had thought that when you
did us the kindness to retire I would
put my arm round her waist and if she
did not object too forcibly I might risk
a kiss.”— S<m Francisco /'oil.
IT WAS Ann OVER.
“Then I am not to call on you any
•nore,” he said, as he twirled his hat in
his hand.
“That is what I intended to say," she
replied, coolly.
"And our engagement is all over?”
“Well," si le said, with some asperity,
“if you’ve gone and talked about it to
everybody, I suppose it is. I'm sure I
haven't said anything a I amt it. If it is
all over it’s your own fault."— Washing
ton Critic.
It is Cold lip North.
A person who has never been in the
polar regions can probably havo no idea
of what cold really is; but by reading
the terrible experiences of arctic travel
ers in that, icy region some notion can
be formed of the extreme cold that pre
vails there. When wo havo the temper
ature down to zero out of doors we
think it bitterly cold, and if our houses
were not so warm as, at, least, GO t lugrees
above zero, we should begin to talk of
freezing to death. Think, then, of liv
ing where the thermometer goes down
to !)5 degrees below zero in the house in
spite of the stove. Os course, in such a
case the fur garments are piled on until
a man looks like a great bundle of skins.
I)r. Moss, of the Knglish polar expedi
tion of 1875 and IH7G, among other odd
things, tells of the effect of cold on a
wax candle which he burned there. The
temperature was 85 degrees liclow zero,
and the doctor must have been consid
erably diseouraged when, upon looking
melt all the wax of the candle, imt wns
forced to eat its way down the candle,
leaving a sort of skeleton of the candle
standing. There was heat enough, how
ever, to melt oddly-shaped holes in the
thin walls of wax, and the result was a
beautiful lace like cylinder of white,
with a tongue of yellow flame burning
inside it and sending out into the dark
ness many streaks of light. 1 his is not
only a curious effect, of extreme cold,
but it shows how difficult it must be to
find anything like warmth in a place
where even fire itself almost gets cold.
The wonder is that any man can havo
the courage to willingly return to such
a bitter region after having oneo pot
safely away from it, and yet the truth
is that the spirit of adventure is so
strong in some men that it is the very
hardship and danger which attract
them.
Wheat in Dakota.
Here is a tabulated statement of the
cost of raising 20 acres of wheat on the
George ('. Howe farm of 4,000 acres, in
Dakota, which is by far the most intel
ligently managed of all the bonanza
farms:
, $lB 00
Four day’H plowing with •• • *
Omt <luy Im venting an<l *hudung MOO
Twine •••
1 Polling alii'iit. thrashing
Hauling bundles, thrashing
fifteen extra hands, thrashing _ _
Total fur 20 acr« a * ™
Cost of one a> re " M
If the yield is 20 bushels per acre it
costs 20 cents per bushel. If the yield
is 25 bushels per acre the cost per
bushel will 1-e 21 cents. If the yield »
30 bushels the cost |« r bushel will lie
17 cents. The cost of horse feed and
wear and tear and all farm expenses are
included in the table of cost, but inter
est on the investment is not included.
This year Mr. Howe’s fields will aver
age 25 bushels per acre. He has, ui
more favorable years, averaged 30
bushels. These figures I took from his
farm account books, and they fairly
represent wli.it can be done by intelli
gent management on large areas of
northern Dakota lands. The cost of
this wheat laid down in New York won .1
be as follows:
< f'Dtr*.
\V»t at farm •••, • • ?!
Freight from (.'•■melton le fuilntb
freight f oin Duluth to Buffalo ■>
Freight from Buffalo to New Yolk •>
Elevator c harges -
Cost per bushel in New York. 48
With wheat selling in New York at GO
cents ist lmshel a Dakota farmer of Mr.
Howe's intelligence and executive
ability could make a r>rofi* of 12 cents a
bushel
The other day a well-dressed little
woman called on Liveryman Thompson
of Portland, Me., and said she had a
horse and carriage for which she had no
further use, and which she would sell
cheap. He said he would look nt them.
She went to another livery stable, hired
a horse and carriage, returned, struck a
bargain with Mr. Thompson for sllO
cash, pocketed the money and " »Jkea
(»wav. She has not been seen in Port
land since.