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•TIS EVER THUS.
thus, 'ti? evor thus, wheii hope
_,th built a bower
Tiat of Eden, wreathed around with
F every thornless flower,
dwell therein securely—so the fond
heart would trust,
whirlwind from the desert comes, and
all is in the dust.
lever thus. ’tis ever thus, that when
the poor heart clings
1 all its finest tendrils, with all rts flex-
i ible rings,
lovely thing it cleaveth to so loudly
_l and so fast
Truck to earth by lightning or shattered
by the blast.
ev«r thus, ’tis ever thus, with sounds
too sweet for earth,
laphic tones that float away, borne
} heavenward in their birth ;
Ft golden shell is broken, the silver chord
| is mute.
| sweet bells are all silent,'and hushed
the lonely lute.
|s ever thus, ’tis ever thus with all that’s
best below ;
|> dearest, noblest, lovliest are always
P first to go,
le bird* that sang the sweetest, the vine
that crowned the rock,
10 glory of the garden, the flower of the
~ flock.
rver thus, ’tis ever thus with beams of
Learthly bliss
Tlook too bright and beautiful for such
t world as this ;
Jioment round about us thoir angel
glonos play,
town the veil of darkness droops,and
all has passed away.
^he Lost Bridegroom.
a rugged and mountainous district
r ales is situated a mining village,
l»ted for this little story which the
Liners tell to their children.
[ears ago in the little village of
was an humble but neatly kept
ige, where an old miner dwelt with
Lwife and only child—a son. And
3k was but a young boy when he de
led into the mines with bis father,
evening, as the old miner was
[ruing home from a neighboring vil-
|e his attention was attracted by a
girl. She was weeping bitterfy.
few broken, almost inarticulate
s told that she had been deserted
mother. The child, weary and
, had cried itself to sleep, and
she was sleeping, the unnatural
snt had forsaken her.
'lie old man* was touched by the in-
jnt. Raising her tenderly in his
s, he wended his way homeward,
iring the cottage he placet! the light
en in his wife’s lap, saying :
God in His wisdom has seen fit to
loose our home from all the other
imes in the village to shelter this de-
ehild. Knowing your kind heart,
r ife, I did not fear to bring the little
>ne to you.”
The dame pressed the good man’s
nd affectionately in reply, and Amy—
so the child was called—was soon
,ted before a simple repast.
Alick, on his return from the parish
>hool, welcomed the little girl with
;ery expression of pleasure.
Years passed away, and Amy’s cliild-
{>od days were spent.
Without great claims to beauty, there
as, neveidheless, a charm about her
jhich all recognized.
The miner and his wife were not sur-
when Alick one day asked them
|heir consent to make Amy his wife,
to this request they accorded their
|felt blessing.
day for the rustic nuptials was
il, and was looked forward to as an
k »on of general rejoicing. The
k day arrived, work was suspended
might join in the merry-making.
g^Bl^imnd _ of the trembling
iltin his owi^fcBB^ according
long-established custom of the
e, led the way to the little vine-
ired church, where the parish priest
ised their love. Children strewed
Vs by the way-side and sang gay
s. Each guest had made a modest
,i«g, but to no one would Alick con-
*|he nature of his gift, wishing, as
Ad, to excite an agreeable surprise.
When they liad returned to the cot
ie Alick kissed his wife, telling tier
woul’d leave her but for a short
iiaon. He left the house, and, with
last, lingering look at the doorway
[re Amy stood waving a merry adieu,
ied off in the direction of the
Hues, and a curve in the road soon
him from view. As his lithe liguro
disappeared Amy uttered a faint sigh,
suggestive of a dull foreboding evil or
the fullness of her mirthful joy.
l)ays passed, and search had been
made everywhere. Weeks followed ;
then months. But the bridegroom did
not return. Nor could his absence and
strange disappearance be accounted for.
No dew was gained by the. % who
searched untiringly. At length hope
was abandoned. The widowed bride
cluing tenaciously to one idea, which
almost like a foll^i* life or
before she was called away from earth.
This belief afforded her comfort, and
the neighbors, while they did not share
the conviction, humored her in the
thought, and spoke regretfully of the
sad changes that sorrow had wrought
in her fresli young face.
Forty years were gone, and but for
the sad wistful face of old Amy, and
the whispered stories of the peasantry,
the unaccountable disappearance of
Alick would have been forgotten. But
the tale told in an under breath by
many a hearth was, that, Alick had
been earned off by an evil spirit, with
whom he bad held compact. Many
even went so far as to say that his soul
haunted the old cottage, and had been
seen during stormy nights in the moun
tains. Amy indeed asserted that she
often heard his voice calling her, and
the light that burned always from
nightfall until dawn in her casement
told that her heart ever kept vigil over
his fate.
The old cottage continued to he
thought haunted by ghostly visitors,
and because of this superstition none
would occupy it. It gradually fell into
decay. The women of the village rarely
passed the dead miner’s house without
offering a prayer for the restless soul.
The old mine»s having been worked,
it was at length determined that new
excavations should be opened. Amid
the operations a subterraneous murmur
was heard mingling with the sound of
the pike. Suddenly a wailing cry rent
the air, and the earth seemed to trem
ble. Those above rushed in terror to
the mouth *of the pit, and the most
fearless were about to descend, when
the call-bell was rung violently. Every
rope was at once put in use, while the
miners were white and trembling with
intense fear.
To every inquiry they accorded the
most disconnected replies, such as
“a man,” “a demon,” “a miracle!”
At length from one old man they gar
nered that they had worked steadily to
open communications between the new
and the old mine, hut finding only a
small obstruction at bust a sturdy blow
was made, and the dividing wall had
given way ; that when the cloud of dust
had passed from before their astonished
eyes they saw a young man ; that he
was lying upon a rocky bed ; he seemed
to he sleeping ; that his cheeks looked
fresh and fair, and that his lips were
still red. Instead of approaching him
they had fled in fright, filled with the
belief that it was an evil spirit in hu
man guise that they beheld.
The owner of the mine listened atten
tively. As the old man ceased he rush
ed forward exclaiming : “To the mine ?
To the mine 1” Soon the truth was
known. Ere many minutes three min
ers issued forth, bearing between them
the body of the young man. With a
feeling of irrepressible horror they laid
him down upon the green sward. His
clothes were old, and indicated a style
worn years and years ago ; all were,
however, iu a perfect state of preserva
tion. lie seemed dressed as though for
a fete. In his hand he held a box. It
contained a gold cross, chain and me
dallion. Time had blackened these
little pledges which the stranger had
doubtless intended for some village
maiden.
They were about to raise the body
and hear it away for burial, when old
Amy w;us seen approaching.
They made way for her, and those
near at hand \^pre struck by the singu
lar expression of her face. Her eyes
sparkled with new life, and her steps
usually so feeble, seemed almost to have
gained the elasticity of youth. Waving
them aside with an imposing dignity,
she advanced directly toward the dead
man. Kneeling, she parted the dark
hair on bis brow and murmured, in a
tone of inexpressible love and tender
ness, his name—“Alick !”
At once all was clear. In an instant
the old people present recognized the
companion of their youth. Again she
siKike ;
“Alick, friend of my childhood, my
husband, I knew that we would meet
again on earth.”
As she ceased speaking, her head
drooped lower and lower, until it sank
upon his breast, as if in prayer.
At length the young men advanced
to remove the body. Gently the women
raised the figure of the forlorn woman.
Seeing that she made no resistance, they
bent over her, and found that she, too,
was deatl. Her long, loving vigil was
at an end. The same grave holds them
both, and many a sweet flower is laid
upon it in remembrance of their fate,
while the legend of their love is often
The Rattlesnake Saved
His Life.
Game there was none. We could
not break camp now with our weak
men upon our hands, and it only re
mained for some one to attempt the
desjierate journey across the San Juan
range, by way of the Devil’s Pass, to
Animas, and return with food or a res
cuing party. Failing of that, spring
time would find our cabin inhabited by
corpses.
We drew lots among ourselves, there
fore, we well men to decide who should
undertake this perilous trip, and the
risk fell upon me. It was best, perhaps,
that it should have been so, for of all
the party I best knew the trail. With
out waste of words or time, I prepared
myself for the journey, and, thoroughly
armed, early one morning, before the
pale moon had fallen behind the western
mountains, I hade good-hy to my com
rades and started. Turning my back
upon the camp, I settled my course by
a star, and at a brisk pace steered
southward. All day I continued on the
trail, ever with a watchful eye for In
dian signs—for I believed our old ene
mies still in the vicinity—hut all day
unmolested,’ and at last, weary and
worn, as the chill shadows began to j
creep across the great white plain be
hind me, I saw looming up in front t;he
San Juan range, gashed with a narrow
gorge—the Devil’s Pass. Once through
that horrible grave—for it was little
else—and the road to Animas would be
comparatively easy. My spirits rose
hopefully.
As' darkness came fairly down, I
found myself just at the mouth of the
canyon which led up to the pass, and
deeming it a most sheltered place for a
camping spot, I soon gathered a heap
of dead limbs beneath an overhanging
rock where the snow had not yet come,
built a roaring fire, which warmed and
cheered me, and prepared for the night.
I felt little fear, for the narrow, frown
ing canyon walls would hide the light
of my tire from all the plain country.
The only disturbance which I might
look for would he the howling of the
wolves, who threatened, hut dared not
attack me ; and I eared not for them.
With these comforting reflections,
therefoi'e, I ate a hearty supper, drank
a little melted snow water, lit my pipe
and rolling myself in my blanket,
crowded close to the rock wall behind
me, now well warmed by my tire. And,
so, in the -flickering light, protected
upon all sides, I gave myself unhes
itatingly up to slumber.
How long *1 slept I cannot say. It
was deep in the night when I woke with
a sudden chill. It was as if some one
had pouched me with a cold and
clammy hand, but even before I was
well awake my frontiersman’s caution
returned, and I opened my eyes slowly,
and didn’t move.
The fire was all.but out, and the ghastly
light from its dying embers touched the
snow and rocks and trees about with a
strange color like thick blood. The air
was growing chill and still, too, except
for the cry of a coyote far up the canyon
wall opposite, who whined and barked
incessantly.
There was something almost oppres
sive about the silence to me, when sud
denly, from just beyond my smouldering
fire the sound of a step started me, and
before I had time even to move there
was bending over me a hideous, painted
face—the face of a savage. And in his
hand, already creeping toward my heart,
was his heavy scalping-knife 1
To describe my sensations is impossi
ble. Some terrible spell seemed to hind
me. Not only was I facing a danger
which meant instant death, hut I was
unable to move, even in the attempt to
save myself. It was as if I were fas
cinated.
I tried to reason with myself. This
wiis but a single enemy—if I should
spring upon him I might kill him and
so be free; but although the reasoning
was all right, the action I was unable
to bring about, and all the time the
terrible knife drew nearer. The redskin
knew that 1 was awake, and that 1 saw
him, hut he gloated over my helpless
ness and delayed his fatal blow.
At last, however, I saw the gleam of
his eye, the tightening of his muscles,
and knew that in an instant more all
would be over, when a sudden harsh,
metallic rattle sounded, as if it were in
my very bosom. I felt something glide
from my side—a long, scaly, snaky body
shot out to meet the dusky on-coming
arm. There was a blow, then a cry of
horror, and, as the knife fell ringing to
the earth, a rattlesnake crawled slowly
away, unpabgye, with his
the blood dripping slowly from his
parted lingers, withja long, wild death
shriek turned and disappeared in the
darkness. The ratler which my lire
had drawn from his winter quarters had
saved my life and the lives of my com
panions.
A week later, with a party of thirty
good fellows I recrossed the San Juan
range and rescued my party from star
vation and the Indians; and it is be
cause of what that snake did for me in
Devil’s Pass nigh on twenty years ago,
that I let the critters live to-day.— To
ed/) Bee.
Early Marriage.
Early marriages are nowhere so com
mon as in the prosperous manufacturing
districts of Lancashire. Boys and girls
not out of their teens, but earning big
wages and having their feeling of inde
pendence prematurely developed by the
absence of home life, get united in holy
wedlock at a time of life when, in the
higher ranks of society, they have not
left school nor begun to think of the
calling. Saturday is a favorite day for
getting married because it is a short one
and the ceremony can be got through
with a minimum of loss—a thing certain
to be considered by a thirifty operative.
The town is paraded for a few hours in
cheap towdry finery of glaring colors,
which can never serve any useful pur
pose again ; perhaps one of the watering-
places is visited if it he line, and on
Monday morning by the stroke of 6 the
newly-married couple may be found at
their looms, in defiance of all poetry
and romance and the wear and tear of
life begin with them once more in real
earnest. Marriage makes no alteration
in the position 0 f the wife so far as mill-
work is concerned ; she 'puts in her ten
hours a day now as she did before. In
deed she has incomparably the worst of
the bargain, for when the day’s work is
over it is her privilege to light the lire
at home, get the supper ready and do
the necessary household work, while it
is the prerogative of the husband to use
his leisure according to his own sweet
will. When the time comes for the
baby to he bom the mother expectant
withdraws from the mill for a few
weeks, and when she is well enough to
resume her place at the loom the baby
is placed in the care of some old crone,
who is past work herself and makes
sufficient to live on by taking care of
five or six of these luckless babies for
the consideration of a shilling or two a
week, according to the age.
George’s Love Test.
“How she must have loved him.”
As Myrtle Redingote spoke these
words softly to George W. Simpson a
blush of maiden modesty flamed for an
instant across her pure young face and
disappeared silently behind the tiny pink
ears that stood like pigmy sentinels on a
battlement of rose tinted flesh, soft and
warm, and with beautiful curves whose
dimpled outlines would have made even
an anchorite resign. George had been
telling her that beautiful story of the
princess of olden times, who when her
lover was stricken down by a poisoned
arrow, knelt by his side, and with her
own ruby lips drew from the wound the
fatal element. When he had finished
the girl gave utterance to the words
with which this opens. And then, for
an instant, silence fell between them.
George was the first to speak. “If
I were wounded by a poisoned arrow,
darling, would you emulate the example
of the princess V”
The girl’s form shook with a sudden
tremor, and her head fell upon his Hhirt
front.
“I ttmld not do it,” she sobbed
through her tears.
“Why not ?” asked George.
“Do not press me for an answer,” re
plied the girl,
“But I must know,” he said in low,
agonized tones.
“Then,” she murmured, pressing him
still more closely to her, “you are from
Kentucky, and I do not cure to catch
the delirium tremens.”
William Taylor tells ol a young
preacher who took his audience on this
wonderful flight of fancy : “Yes, my
friends, the mind of man iH so expan
sive that it can sour from star to star,
from satohelite to satchelite, and from
seraphone to seraphene, and from
cherrybeam to
th
Tenure of Land in Syria.
During my residence in Damascus
tried one or two villages in the neigh
borhood as a summer retreat, and a
length fixed upon a village called Mar-
aba, as being at a convenient distance
from the city to ride there in the morn
ing and return at night. Finding,
however, that the native houses wor
scarcely habitable I determined to ha
a small house built close to, yet no
overlooking, the village. To carry out
my plan I had first of all to apply to the
Yali for permission to do so. His Hig fc
ness, with an outburst of Oriental libe
ality, declared his readiness to give me
not only a piece of ground but a garden
as well. This I declined with thanks,
knowing the,value of such an offer, hut
showed him on paper the spot I had
chosen, consisting of a barren rock, and
asked him to send a competent perso
to the place to examine the site and
value it and at the same time see fror
the plan that none of my windows
would overlook my neighbors. In the
course of a few days I received a no
tice that a commission of six officials
would meet me on the spot and settle
the matter at once. 1 provided a lun
cheon alfresco, to which the sheikh of
the village was invited to negotiate on
the part of the villagers. After a long,
preamble, setting forth the value of
land in general and of this spot in pa^
ticular, he offered at length to sell ti
site for 5000 piastres (a piastre is equl
to 2 1,) “ F ifty pi astres, ’ ’ wrote
the s ribe. “By the life of your fatt
it is too little; say 3000.” “Seven!
live,” said the scribe. “Say 1C
Allah it is worth 5000—but Allah ,
great,” One hundred piastres
sum agree 1 upon, and I had permis
to begin building at once. When
house was half finished an orde
stop, on the ground that it
over the tomb of a Moslem saml
that the departed spirit might ' J %
the vicinity of Christians F C&g
himself by doing us some
for which the Yali would ncs^j
sible. After a great deaD
investigation his Iligl*^# -
vinced that the existenc^^e]
was a myth. The nej
against me was that
to build a house I was fr/y,,
ing a convent in the mids6|
medan population. I had
gle to convince him
had no such institutions.
Now all these
trumped up by
of receiving tli
was determined u
made up my mind
through honestly
more effort was ma
rather to force me
“backsheesh,” viz. 1
was built over a road
village to the stream,
convenience of the villag|
sul had at length to
ernment Engineer w
gate the matter
which was to the el,
no vestige
viciilh«
left in pea<j
one could
but, not having"
scarcely expect to fin!
case I wished to sell it.
was to secure the necessa
Month after month I applied
them. The Governor pretender
shocked to hear that his orders
been carried out. He sent for the
and threatened him with his f
displeasure if such an act of negl
should ever again be reported aga
him. The scribe pleaded a spr
wrist as an excuse for the delay, b
the life of the Prophet he would
the document at once. I took a
leave of the Vali and rushed off aftr
the scribe, determined not to lose sight
of him again. He had, however, disap-
jieared, as if the earth had swallowed
him up. These scenes were repeated
over and over again, till at the end of
twelve months, having to leave Damas
cus, I had to sell the house at a great
loss, not having the title-deeds. The
purchaser, the American Vice Consul,
trusting to his official position, hoped to
be able to succeed where
I have no doubt but ti
the usual Orient*
sheesh, and divic
t he official*
been
title!