Newspaper Page Text
THE WORLD.
This world Is a sad, sad place, l know,
And wbat soul living can doubt It?
Cut it will not lessen the want and woe
To be always sighing about It.
Then away with the songs that are full of
tears—
Away with the dirges that sadden;
Let us inane the most ol our fleeting years
By singing the lays that gladden.
A lew sweet portions of bliss L've quaffed,
And many a cup ol sorrow !
But, In thinking over the Havered draught,
The old-tlmu Joy I borrow;
And, by brooding over the bitter drink,
Pain Alls again the measure;
And so I have learned that It’s best to think
Ol the things that give us pleasure.
The world at its saddest is not all sad—
There are days ol sunny weather,
And the ptople In It are not all bad,
But saints and sinners together.
I think those wonderful hours in June
Are better by far to remember
Than those when the world gets out of tune,
In the cold, bleak winds of November.
Because we meet in the walks of life
Many a se 11 -h creature,
It does not prove that tills world of strife
Has no redeeming feature.
There is bloom and beauty upon the earth—
There are buds and blooming flowers—
There are souls of truth and hearts of worth—
There are glowing, golden hours.
In thinking over a Joy we’ve known
We easily make it double,
Which Is better by far than to mope and moan
O’er sorrow, and grief, and trouble.
For, thoug h the world Is a sad, sad place
( \nd who that Is living can doubt It?)
It will not lessen the want and woe
To be always sighing about It.
The Small Boy’s Story.
It all came of my having a railway
key and being made to take music
lessons.
Thompson gave me the key when
he was leaving last term. I don’t
know how he came by it, or what good
it was to him as he never saw a train
except when he went home for the
holidays; but he was always talking
of the convenience of having such a
thing when you were traveling, and
hinting at the mysterious penalties the
company might inflict if they caught
you usiuv it.
e gave it me in exchange lor a nit
of Letty’s hair (she’s my sister, and
Thompson was dreadfully in love with
her) and a scrap of the bonnet trim
ming she wore in church. I stole that
but had to ask her for the hair, and
she brought out a whole bundle and
said I might trade away the lot if
I chose. ‘Hair wasn’t worn much
new.’
Music was another thing altogether.
Herr Otto Finke was an old friend of
my father’s, and lived at Luckboro’,
our market*town.
He took a fancy to me—bother him ;
and actually persuaded my father and
mother to let me come over to .Luck
boro’ every market-day, with my
father, for a lesson in German and
music. I didn’t mind dining with
him first (uncommonly queer messes
we had, and lots of jam with them)—
but the music was simply disgusting—
(in the holidays, too !) and the lessons
generally eroded by Finke getting to
the piano h#iself, and warbling songs
of his Vaterlaud by the hour. He did
so once too often though—and now I
have got to my story.
We used to come and go between
Mosslands and Luckboro’ by omnibus.
There was a Mosslands station ou the
line between Luckboro’ and London,
but my father never went by it if he
could help it. When he did, though
I had vae key with me I never dare
use it, and began to think I had made
a bad bargain with Thompson.
One Tuesday, however, las^ winter,
Finke got so earried away by his own
'sweet singing that he kept on long
after I ought to have .started to meet
my father, end then got so remorseful
that I thought he was going to cry ;„or
perhaps want to keep me all nignt.
“Look here,” I said, “it doesn’t mat
ter. There’s a train that gets in as
soon as the ’bus. I can catch it if I,
run—Good by!” * And off I scudded,
one arm in and one out of my top-coat,
for I was sure he’d object, or want to
see me off'. I had money, and there
was a train, which came up long be
fore I had seen all I wanted about the
station.
I made a dash at a carriage. It
wasn’t locked, as I half hoped it might
be, and in I sciaurbltd, but was nearly ^ ^ _ _
blown out again by a volJey Of the I jdnked'at the communication with tiie
strongest language I ever did htear.fcruard. She shook her head'.
The train started and jerked me down
into a seat before I’d time to gpt my
breatb. I was not used to bad ex
pressions, and my fellow-traveller’s
remarks made my. blood run cold.
There were ladies in the carnage,
but he didn’t seem to mind that. He
had a red, scowling face, with heavy
red eyebrows and bloodshot eyes. All
the rest of him was a mass of railway
rug&jknd wraps. I had tumbled over
into the middle seat opposite,
where I sat scared and speechless,* till
I caught the eyes of the lady next to
him fixed on me.
Ugh ! such a bad old face! A fight,
cruel mouth, with all sorts of coil-lines
about it, and wicked, sharp gray eyes
that screwed into one like gimlets. I
didn’t care much for Redface by this
time. I didn’t believe he would “twist
my neck and chuck me out of the
window,” as he suggested ; but I hated
her all over at once, from her sausage-
curls—grizzly-gray, two on each side—
to her hooked claws of fingers that
were twitching away at her knitting-
needles, in and out of a big gray
stocking.
“Hush, Sammy,” she said quit e
s veetly ; “the poor child means no
harm, and he can easily get out at the
next station—Where are you going to,
love?
I could only gape in reply and she
must have thought I was a softy, for
she twisted my ticket clean out of my
hand before I knew what she was
after.
“Mosslands. Very good. That’s the
next station. I’ll see him safe out,
Sammy, dear.’!
Sammy growled an inarticulate re
spmse from finder his rug*
The third passenger had neither
spoken nor stirred. She sat on the
same side as the other two, covered
with a big plaid rug, and a blue woolen
veil tied over her head. I could make
nothing out except that she seemed
asleep in a very uncomfortable atti
tude.
I eat in the middle opposite the old
woman. It was so disagreeable, find
ing her sharp eyes on me, while her
needles clicked on just the same, that
I thought I might as well pretend to
go to sleep too. So I curled myself up,
and gave one or two nods, and then
dropped my face on my arm so that
she couldn’t, see it.
Presently I heard the needles going
slower and slower. I peeped, and saw
the big bonnet and sausage-curls giv
ing a lurch forward and then back
ward, once, twice; then a big snore;
and then she was off too.
I didn’t stir for a minute, for I saw
that “Sammy” was up to something.
He leant forward, aud peered at her
as if to make sure she was quite asleep;
then cautiously groped in the seat be
side her, and nauled up a little black
bag. Ha opened it softly, drew out a
silver-topped flask, and closed it just
as a j ;erk of the train roused the old
lady. . Sammy diyqd back into fyis
corner; and she sat* holt upright,
rubbed her eyes hard, felt suspiciously
about till she found the bag, stowed it
away behind her, and resumed her
knitting. Only for a few moments
though; with a weary groan she let
stocking, needles and all go down with
a run, and dropped back sounder
asleep than before.
Then from Sammy’s corner came a
gurgle—soft and low—many times re
peated, then all was quiet.
Now was my time. I began to look
about, and think what I should do
first. Wnether I dared get up on the
seat and see how the communication
with the guard worked, and what
would happen if I pulled it. If the
train did atop, I could make off, or say
it was Sammy. He was half-tipsy
now,-and people wouldn’t believe him.
First of all I went to the window to
look out a little.^ It was pitch dark
outside, and all I could see was the
reflection of the carriage, and of the
lady in the blue woolen veil. She
was sitting up now, and looking in
tently at me. What an uncomforta
ble set they were, to be sure! * * -
I looked round at her directly. She
was very’young—younger than Letty,
and she’s just seventeen, and not
pretty,—but so thin and frightened
looking that I felt quite unhappy
about her.
She fixed her big bright eyes on me,
and put up her flpger. “Don’t speak,*'
she said in a clear whisper. “Keep
looking out of the Window. Cad you
hear what I am saying?”
I nodded, and she went on, looking
now at me, and now at the old woman.
“If they get me to London, I am a
dead woman. You are my last chance.
Will you help me?”
I nodded very Ua^I indeed, and
guard. She shook her head’.
'“No, that’s no good. i I must get
away at the next station. He is safe.
Can you stop her from following me?”
I didn’t believe I could. I might
have thrown a rug ,over Sammy, and
sat on him for a minute or two; but
that old woman was too much for me.
I felt that directly she woke she’d see
what I was thinking of, and strangle
me before I could stir. The preciou*
minutes were flying—the miles were
hurrying past us in the outside gloom
—the girl's big woeful eyes were fixed
on me in desperate appeal.
“I have friends who will save me if
1 can but get to them,” she panted.
“Just one minute’s chance—only
one—”
All at once I had an idea. A splen
did one! “Look at this,” I whispered,
and held up my railway key. “If I
open this door, dare you get out? You
can hold on outside till the train stops.
Run straight across the down line.
There’s only a bank and a hedge on
the top. Lots of gaps in it nearer the
station. There you are on the Luck-
borough Road. Do you hear?”
I was quite hot and out of breath
with whispering air this‘as plain as I
could. She caught every. Word as fast
as I could think it almost.
Wliatwith th<plct|ling pf iuy own
clevetiftess- hatred o f thai nasty old
womf*fc and delight in spiting her;
and p|ty for the poor girl, I felt as
brave jis any fellow, however big,
could 4°. and full of ideas as well.
“Gyve me that,” I^d, pointing to
her blub veil. “They won*t see you’re
goneritl sit here, with it tied over my
head.”
“Oh, no no ! They’ll kill you.”
“Njpt they! They can’t interfere
with me.” (I declare I felt as if I
could$g)it Sammy and a dozen old
ladie%?|u8t then.) “Quick! now or
never.” I tied theveil.over my head
and lowered tb« window as softly av
possible. There \vas no time to lo e,
for the train was slackening speed
even then, I unlocked the door. She
gave lie one look that made me feel
braver than ever, aud inclined to cry,
both.at onoe; and in a second she was
out on the step. T ie train stopped.
I saw her skirt flutter in the stream of
light that fell from our open carriage
door across the down line of rails, and
that was all—and I was huddled down
under the big plaid rug with the old
woman wide awake standing over me.
“ Drat the boy. Sammy ! Call the
porter; he’s got out at the wrong side.”
“Call-un-yre-self,” answered Sammy
all in one word.
She pulled the door to and tramped
back to her seat, taking no more no
tice of me that) if I had been a cushion
of the carriage. “L don’t matter if he
has broken his neck either,” she mut
tered, “perhaps we’d better make no
fuss.” Tne train was off again, I
dared hot jump up while she was in
the Vay, and thought I must take my
chance at the next station.
“Oh! my bones and body!” she
groar^d presently. “Qh, what a time
it has been ! Sammy !”
No answer.
“Sammy!” She was up again, and
I think she hauled him up and shook
him, for something fell with a crash
like a broken bottle.
“You idiot,” she screamed. When
you wSnt all the brains you’ve got,
and more too! To play me this trick !
Serve you right if I get out aud leave
you at the next station—ugh!”
It sounded as if she were banging
his head against the carriage. That
and the fresh air seemed to rouse him.
He got up and put his head out of the
window for a short time, and then
replied slowly and impressively :
“Now, look here, old woman. None
cif your nonsense. When he’s wanted,
Sftnuel Nixon is all there. And no
man alive can say he isn’t,” he went
on solemnly holding carefully on to
one word till he was sure of the next.
- “As to this business, I ask you—is it
mine or is It yours? Now then?”
“Yours, I should thiuk ; as It’s your
wife who is giving us all this trouble.
I wish I’d left you to fight it out your
selves.”
“Stop that,” said Sammy, who was
talking himself sober and consequently
savage. “I’ll not have it put upon
me. I didn’t want to marry her; that
was your doing, and I don’t want to
make away with her; that’s your do
ing, and if it's a hanging matter, I am
not the one to swing for it.”
“Heaven forgive you, Sammy!”
said the old woman, evidently horri
bly scared. “Don’t ye talk in that
way to your poor old mother—don’t.
If the poor creature was only in her
right mind she’d be the first to say her
old nurse was her best friend—the
only one she had In the world when
her pa died aud left her.”
... Here she snlfi'ed a little. Simmy
gave a sort of deriBive growl.
—“And as to her marrying you; it
stood to reason that she must marry
somebody, sometime, left all alone in
the world with her good looks and her
fortune; aud why not my handsome
Sou? It was luck for you, Sammy,
though you turn against me now.
Tbereeyou were, just come home from
foreign parts, without a halfpenny in
your pocket, or a notion where to turn
tb find one; and there was she without
a relation or friend to interfere with
you—as simple as a baby—not a creature
to stop her doing as she chose with her
self and her money. It would have
been a sin and a shame to lose such a
chance ! Of course, I wanted to see my
handsome lad as good a gentleman as
the best of them.” Tne old woman
seemed to be talking on and on pur
posely ; like telling a rigmarole to a
child to keep it quiet. Sammy growled
again in a milder tone.
“Oh, yes. Say it’s all my fault, do
You can talk black white when it
pleases you.”
—“It was your fault, Sammy. You
might have lived happy and peacable
if you’d chosen. Haven’t I been down
on my bended kne°s to beg you to let
her alone when you was treating her
that shameful that the whole country
side was ringing with it. You know
it, and otheis know it. Aud I can tell
you what, Mr. Samuel Nixon, if she'd
been found dead in her bed, as I ex
pected every morniug of my life to
hear, there wasn’t a servant iu the
place that wouldn’t have spoken up
before the Coroner—and glad to do it.
Who’d have swung for it then, I’d
like to know.”
The brute was mastered. I heard
him sliiifiling his feet about uneasily ;
then—in a maudiln whimper ; “It was
drink, nothing else, and her aggravat
ing, whining ways. Don’t be hard on
me old woman, I m sure, I’ve given
in handsome to all your plans.”
“Because you couldn’t help yourself
—you fool. Now you see what it is to
have your pior old mother to turn to.
Your wife may talk as much as she
pleases now. Who’ll believe her when
we’ve got it written down by two
grand London doctors that she’s as
mad as mad can be ? Who’s to mind
her talk, or any one else’s? Aren’t we
taking her up to London just for the
good ol her health, to a nice safe place
where she will be well looked after
and Lept from getting hersell and
other folks into any more trouble; and
then you and me will go back, Sammy,
and live as happy and comfortable as
you please.”
“Ihey will treat her like a lady—
eb, mother?”
“Of course they will; a beautiful
place, and the best of living. Bless
you, she’ll be as happy as the day is
long. It does you credit being so ten-
der-hearied, Simmy. I knew you
couldn’t abide seeing her storming
and raving as she did last night, so I
just gave her a little sup of something
befort we started, and you see she’s
been sleeping like a baby ever since.
And the gentleman—where she’s go
ing, you know—he gave me this
bottle; and when we get to London
I’ve just to give her a whiff of it on a
handkerchief, and off she goes as quiet
as a lamb. No screams or tantrums
this time; and he and his nurses will
be on the look-out for us with his car
riage, and before the knows it there
she’ll be as snug as you please.”
This was awful!
What should I do? Were we ever
going to stop? Was there another
station before London? Should I be
drugged, dragged off and made away
with! I knew if they found me out
it was all over with nie. The pattern
of the blue Shetland veil danced be
fore my eyes—the noise of the train
was as the sound of the roar of artillery
in my ears. I sat up, ready for a
spring and a struggle.
A jerk! Another! A stop, and the
door flung open.
“Tickets, please.”
I made one pluuge. I flung the rug
jlean over the old woman, dashed my
arm into Simmy's face, and tumbled
headlong out, into the arms of the
astonished ticket collector. I felt him
clutch me, and then the ground rose
up, or I went down—down—into an
unfathomable depth of blackness!
“Hullo! old fellow. Better now?”
were the first words I heard. Thomp
son’s voice! There he was with a
glass of water in his hand, stooping
over me^ Thompson’s mother was
kneeling beside me, cuddling me up
against her nice soft sealskin. I was
on the waiting-room sofa, and about a
dozen people were all standing staring
round. Thompson went aud tele
graphed home that I was safe, and
then he and his mother took me to the
house in London, where they were
staying,
I can’t remember much after that.
I was ill for many weeks, I believe. I
tried to tell people what had happened;
but no one would listen. They try,
even now, to make me believe I
dreamt it in my illness. I’ve got it
told now though, aud every word of it
is solemn truth. Besides, didn’t I see
aud smell Letty burning the blue
Shetland veil.
I’ve had no more musio lessons
since, that’s one good thing.
The Railway Key? Oh 1 left that
■tioklng In the door. That’s all.
Insanity.
Dr. A. E. MacDonald, Superintend
ent of the Asylum for the Insane,situ
ated on one of the islands adjacent to
New York city, In a lecture on insan
ity, said:
Many learned men have been en
deavoring for a long time to settle
just what insanity is, and it is not too
much to say that they have not yet
succeeded. Rut if I cannot tell you
just what Insanity is I can tell you
one or two things that it Is not.|
Insanity is not a disease of the mind.
The poet speaks of the “mind di
seased,” but the physician does not.
The mind is no more subject to di
sease than is the soul to death. The
disease is in the brain,as purely physi
cal in its location and characteristics
as disease of any other organ, and if
the mind shows its presence and ef
fects it is only because rniud is the
product of brain action, and an un«
healthy organ must always give rise
to disturbed action.
Insanity is so diverse in its degrees
and phases that it is hard to draw the
line and say just where soundness of
mind ends and uusoundness begins.
In fact, it is a good deal a matter of
majoiities. We who call ourselves
sane happen to be iu the msj rrity just
now, aud we have set up our stand-
ar aud looked up a number of
worthy people who fail to meet it.
Their number is increasing all the
time, and by-and-by, if it keeps od,
they will be in the majority, and then
they will turn around and look us
up.
Between the men manifestly of
sound intelhct aud those confessedly
insane there are arrayed rank upon
rank of those in whom a defect, greater
or less, is seen. Iu some there is un
mistakably insanity, in others eccen
tricity as we call it; in others again
depravity. Many men of mark have
bten found in these ranks. Some have
occupied thrones, like Charles IX. of
France, George III. of England and
Fredeiick II. of Prussia, and have im
pressed upon the polioy of nations the
stamp of their disease; others, like
Mohammed and 8 vedenborg, have
colored with the delusions of insanity
the tenets of religious sects ; and es
pecially from among men of lettera
have these ranks been largely lecruit-
ed. Johnson, Swift, Pope, Gray and
Wordsworth; Byron and Shelley ;
Cowper, Southey and Charles Lamb—
in all there was either„marked insan
ity or a close and undeniable approach
to it.
The one great predisposing cause is
the inheritance of a tendency toward
insanity begotten in some defect In
the ancestry, not necessarily itself in
sanity, but possibly some other ner
vous disease, and possibly, too, intem
pera n e. The immediate causes may
be either moral or physical in their
nature. Now we have come to look
more for physical causes. Of these in
temperance and other vicious indul
gences are the most productive.
The simple rules of life which afford
the best protection from other diseases
should be followed by those who
would avoid this, the most terrible of
all. The keynote of the whole is the
remembrance that insanity is a physi
cal disease, whence it follows that Its
prevention must come through atten-
tion to the general laws of health.
Anecdotes of Animals.
Oa a Sunday evening a watchman
in a Troy factory helped his dilatory
dog into the building with the toe of
his boot. Ou all week days now the
dog enters the factory as usual, but no
amount of coaxing can get him near
the building on the Sabbath.
During a storm at Cuthbert, Ga., a
barrel containing a hen sitting on a
nest of eggs was picked up, whirled
round, and blown over the house. It
dropped right side up in the front
yard. The hen remained undisturbed,
and the chickens were hatohed soon
after the aerial journey.
A monkey belonging to George
Brodie, of Pittsburg, Pa., Is credited
with extraordihary sagacity. The an
imal is often told to bring one or the
other of the two newspapers, takeu by
the family, to Mr. Brodie’s aged
mother. Oae is printed with large
type and the other in very fine, and
not always dear letters. It is said
that whenever he brings the latter he
brings her spectacles also.
Dogs that get druuk;are not uncom
mon. “Old Jaok,” of Indianapolis,
Iud., belonging to the tire department,
regularly drank refuse beer from the
empty kegs of the saloon adjoining his
home, but getting druuk the other
day, justa^analarm of fire sounded.he
fell beneath the wheels of the maohina
and was crushed to death.