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9
r-s
Not Much of a Show.
The other morning, while the urbane
manager of Woodward’s Gardens was
smoking a four-bit cigar and meditative
ly listening to the muffled wails of atom-
cat that had just been swallowed alive
by the big anaconda, a tall, thin, scien
tific looking man, with a goatee and
blue glasses, entered the gates and re
marked in an insinuating manner :
“Of course you pass the scientific
fraternity ?”
“Of course we do not,” said the show
man.
“What, not the savans, not the pio
neers in the great march of the mind
into the hitherland of the infinite be
yond ?” returned the Professor, with
great surprise.
“I will not deceive you,”, sarcasti
cally replied the proprietor of the only
salamander; “we pass nothing but the
quills on the fretful porcupines—I mean
the press. You can’t see the ostridges
unless you come down and put up.”
“Dear me, dear me!” sighed the
scientist, reflectively. “To think that
a professor of cosmographic conchology
should be denied admittance to a third-
class Zoo! Has the skamgatibus been
fed yet ?”
“Skam—which?” asked the tiger
importer.
1 ‘ The skamgatibus. You've got one,
haven’t you ?”
“ Y-e-s-s ; I believe we’ve a small fe
male somewhere,” said the grizzly’s
friend, doubtfully.
“I never knew a first-class collection
to have less than two pair,” said the
Professor, contemptuously. “ How do
your azimuths stand this cold weather,
eh ?”
“Azimuths?” asked the Napoleon
aggregator of curiosities; “what’s
them ? Some new kind of bird—f ou
don’t mean ostri ?”
“ Ostridges be hanged !” said the suc
cessor of Darwin ; “ ostridges are noth
ing. I’ve shot more ostridges with quail
shot than you’ve got bail’s on your head.
You don^’t actually mean to sit there and
tell me you haven’t got a single azi
muth to your hack ?”
“ Don’t believe I have,” admitted the
alligator breeder, mortified ; “ what are
they like ?”
“Oh, they’re of the order Spinalie
spicmotis, about eight feet high. Fur
peels off in the spring, you know—the
Siberian species, I mean. I suppose
you’ve got one of those rectangula
African flipgoohlies that reached New
York the other day ?”
“No ; I’m darned if I did,” said the
much agitated showman. “Here I’ve
been keeping an agent in New York on
a big salary to look out for attractions,
and he doesn’t catch on to the first
blamed thing. Spends all our m#iey on
second-hand panthers and kangaroos
with the rheumatics. I’ll bounce him
by telegraph 1”
“Havih’t even got a flipgoohly, eh ?”
mused the scientist, in a tone of great
pity. “ And I shouldn't be surprised if
you didn’t have a golden-crested cuspi
dor in your whole show.”
“Neither I have; neither I have,”
replied the wretched promoter of peli
cans, in a tone of great bitterness.
“S’poseyou just step in, sir, and look
round ; mebbe there’s something else
you could say ”
“N-o-o, I guess not,” said the tall
man. “It would hardly pay me to
spend so much valualU^ scientific time
in a fourth-class show like this. Not
even an azimuth, eh ? 1 should think
you’d be afraid of being actually mobbed
some time. I’m sorry for you, my
good man; sorry for you. I’ve no
doubt you mean well, but—not a soli
tary skamgatibus ? Great Scott!”
Cullings.
In a town not many miles from Bos
ton, a man stepped into a neighbor’s
house, where he saw the head of the
family lying upon his back on the
floor, and his wife standing over him,
as he thought, with a threatening air.
He was about to withdraw, when the
prostrate man shouted : “Come along
in, Steve; she is only chalking me out
a pair of pants.”
Mrs. Partington and the judge :
‘Are you the judge of reprobates?”
saul Mrs. Partington, as she walked
into an office of a judge of probate. “I
am a judge of probate, was the reply.
“Well, that’s it, I expect,” quoth the
old lady. “You see, my father died
and he left several little infl-
r Want to be their execu*
VANISHED HOURS.
Whore are they gone, those dear, dead
days,
Those sweet past days of long ago.
Whose ghosts go floating to and fro,
When evening leads us through her m >ze?
Where are they gone ? Ah 1 who can veil?
Who weave once more that long-passed
spell ?
They did exist when we were young,
We met our life with strengh and trust,
We deemed all things were pure and just,
Nor knew life had a double tongue.
We lightly sang a happy song,
Nor dreamed our way could e’er be
wrong.
And then all changed; as life went by,
The friend deceived, or bitter death,
Smiled as he drank our dear one’s breath,
And would not also let us die.
Day followed day : as on they went
Each took some gift that life had sent.
Yet it was ours, that perfect past!
We did have days that knew not pain.
We once had friends death had notta’en;
And flowers and songs that could not 1 ast
Were ours in that most blessed time,
When earth seemed heaven’6 enchanted
clime.
And so I think when lights burn low
And all the house is fast asleep,
From out a silence vast and deep
Those dear dead days we worshiped so
Breatho on us from their hidden store
Their long-lost peace, their faith once
more.
God keep those dear old times; ah me 1
Beyond our vision they may rest
Till on some perfect day and blest
Once more those dear dead days will be;
For death, who took ail, may restore
The past we loved to us once more.
After Long Years.
“What is thi3, Burt ?”
“This is the mortgage of an estate
called the Derby Place, Mr. Faxon
foreclosed more than a year, I believe.'
“Well, its what I’ve been looking for,
I will take charge of the papers and at
tend to the matter soon. Down east,
isn’t it ?”
“Yes, .sir.” 1
Mr. Faxon put the papers into the
breast pocket of his coat, came down
the office stairs, and stepped into the
glittering, purple-lined phaeton, beside
his wife.
The delicate Arabian, Mrs. Faxon’s
horse, sped away out of the city con
fines, and soon tossed his jetty mane
along the open roads, lined with gar
dens, ornate cottages and villas.
“Going away to-morrow, dear?”
asked Mrs. Faxon, suddenly lifting her
fair countenance, as she interrupted her
husband. “You seem to be away all the
time, lately. Take me with you ?”
“Not this time, Violet.”
And Violet Faxon’s husband fell into
a fit of abstraction, from which the
smartest chatter failed to arouse him.
They came at last to the Faxon man
sion, grand and simple, and fulfilling
the promise of a beautiful interior.
Amid the white lace and crimson silk
of her chamber, Violet was brushing
out her long fair hair, when her hus
band paused in the doorway, and looked
at lief sharply. Then he came slowly
across the room, and lifting the oval
face in his hand, looked closely at the
roseate cheek, pearly ear, and curved
eyelashes.
“What is it?” asked Violet; a
freckle ?”
“No,” he answered, smiling faintly,
and looking across the chamber. ‘ ‘You
looked like my sister then—that wdl
all.”
“Your sister, dear ? You never told
me about her.”
“No,” he answered,anctaaid no more.
Mr. Faxon bore no resemblance to his
delicate patrician wife. A little less
than thirty^-dark, strongly built,active,
vigorous, he impressed one as a strong
character. If, with a remarkable rich
comliness of countenance, there were
some sensual lines, there was also a
certain evidence of strong, good sense,
and a look of deep experiences. Mr.
Faxon looked like a man who carried
weight.
He was up and away at daybreak the
next day. An early train bore him
eastward, and nine o'clock found him
landed at a litte station called Seabrook.
The dismal little building was set in
a field of clover, around which a road
wound away among mounds of verdure.
After a glance around, Mr. Faxon
took this road, and walked slowly along.
The robins hopped across it; the bobbo-
links sang in the trees over it. The un
assuming white clover among the grass
Iierfumed the cool morning air.
He passed only a few houses, but he
observed them attentively. They w’ere
all old and humble farm houses. Ap
parently this property, which had by
the foreclosure of a mortgage fallen
Mr. Faxon, was not situated in a very*
rich or enterprising heighborhood.
When he had walked nearly a mile he
came to a green door-yard, among wide
spread
among them, and a residence, though
plain, move pretentious a'nd more com
fortable than the others.
There was a narrow and well-worn
path among the short grass and butter
cups to the porch, where a bitter-sweet
twined its strong arms. In a corner,
under the verdure, was an arm-chair,
with a book on the seat, and a cane
lying across it—a gnarled, twisted stick
of hickory that Faxon looked twice at.
The book he saw was a Bible.
There was an old lady, with a sweet
faded face, and snowy cap-strings tied
under her double chin, knitting at a
window near by, but his quiet step had
not disturbed her.
He had put his hand to the knocker ;
he took it down, again as he caught sight
of this placid face. He stood there
quite still for several minutes. A gray
cat came and rubbed against his leg,
Some apple-blossoms floating down,
touched his cheek.
At length the gentle lips moved. •
“Father,” said the mild old lady,
“you had better lie down and take a
rest. ’ ’
“Such old people, and I have come to
take their) home away,” said Mr.
Faxon.
There was a strong pain in his dark
face now, as he stood looking down at
the porch floor.
After a moment he stepped off the
porch on the further side, and walked
away under the apple trees.
When Mr. Faxon came back from his
brief stroll his presence, as he crossed
the yard, was observed.
A white-haired old man, who had
come to the open door and taken up
the hickory stick, turned back hastily
with a few hurried words, and the aged
women dropped her knitting and rose
up, with a paleness dropping over her
face.
But, while Mr. Faxon hesitated on
the porch again, both came to the door.
Sad, startled faces they both had, but
they were civil. Their greeting was
kindly, as to a friend.
“My name is Faxon,” said the vis
itor ; “I—”
“We know who you be, sir,” said the
old man; “we know who you be,
though we have never seen you before.
Will you come in ?”
Mr. Faxon stepped across the white
hall floor into the quaint, cool and com
fortable sitting room.
The rough blue paper, like chintz,
on the wall, some “honesty” and dried
grasses in opaque white vases upon the
high, narrow mantel-piece, uncon
sciously struck his eye while he took
his seat, his mind occupied with other
thoughts.
“We’ve been long expectin’ you,
sii^” said the old lady.
Her hands, clasped on her spotless
gingham apron upon her lap, trembled
a little, but the serenity of her manner
was not much changed.
But the old man’s eyes swam in
tears. He rested both hands on the
hickory stick between his knees, as he
sat in a corner, and bending his fore
head upon them, partially hid his face.
Yes 1 yes 1 but it comes sort o’ sud
den,-now,” said the old man.
Mr. Faxon sat in speechless sympa
thy.
After a little pause, old Mr. Derby
looked up and met his eyes.
Of course it’s all right, sir. We
don’t question your right to the place ;
but we’ve been sort of unfortunate. I
think so—don’t you, mother ?”
The old lady lay back among the
cushions of the dimity-covered chair.
She had a look of physical weakness
Mr. Faxon had not noticed before. She
did not speak.
Her husband looked at her atten
tively. A sudden flush went over his
thin face.
“It’s not for myself I care—it’s
her 1” he cried, striking his cane vio
lently on the floor. “She heli>ed to
earn this place when she was young.
There was no kind of work but what
them hands you see lyin’ so weary in
her lap, sir, was put to. She was up
early and late, always a doin’ fur mo
and the children. God never made a
better wife and mother. And now, sir,
it’s hard that she should be turned out
of her house in her old age.” ,
“Hush, hush, Daniel 1” said the old
lady, softly. “The Lord will provide,
and it’s not long we have to stay frtthe
world, you know.”
“Will you tell me the history of the
place, Mr. Derby?” asked Mr. Faxon.
“How you came to lose it V”
• “It was mortgaged, sir,” said the
old ftlan, at ,last, “to pay the boys’
( ge bills. v You see, we had three
Itoscojji^ and little
Annie Mother an’ I didn’t have an j “Mother-father
education, but we said all along that ! not g0 for j
me 1” ’
our children should have; an’ they
went to the distric’ school and then to
the academy—and by and by we fitted
them off for college. Bright, smart
boys they wei*6—everybody said my
boys had good parts, though Roc was
always a little wild. I think mother
there loved him better for that. He
was more trouble, and she clung to him
closer because others blamed at times.
Annie, his sister, was always a pleadin’,
too, for Roc. He played truant, and lie
whipped the boys who told on him ; he
was always putting his bones in £eril,
and twice half drowned—yet in spite of
all he was ready for college when
Selwyn was, though Selwyn was steady
as a clock. Mother and I had been
scrapin’ together for years,’and at last
we fitted them off.
“We went on denyin’ of ourselves,
for it was just the one hope of our lives
to have the hoys graduate with all the
honors ; an’ time went on, but many of
the crops failed, and there came dis
appointment here, and disappointment
there, and failure to get together the
money the boys sent for—especially
Roc—we mortgaged the farm for five
hundred dollars.
“ They were nearly through, you see,
an’ mother and Annie thought that
Selwyn might be principal of the acad
emy or something, when he came home,
an’ Roc would be a lawyer, ’cause lie
could argue and speak so smart in pub
lic, and the money would be paid back
easy.
. “ But from time to time there came
rumors I didn’t like, as to how Roscoe
was up to his old wild ways again, and
at last it came like a thunder-bolt—Roc
was suspended and had run away to
foreign parts. Well, I pass over that,
sir; I tried not to be too hard on the
boy. Then Selwyn came home. lie
had graduated well, but he had a cough.
He didn’t complain, but he was thin
and pale, an’ soon mother an’ I saw
that the son we had meant to rely on
was an invalid upon our hands. The
thought struck me dumb. But mother
was all energy. We traveled here with
him, we traveled there. We saw all
the noted doctors east and west. We
borrowed more money on the place, and
we never paid any back. I had made
one or two payments at first, but they
were but a drop in the bucket. At last
we brought Selwyn home to die.”
“Don’t Daniel,” said the mother,
softly.
“ He wants to hear the rest. There’s
only a little more, but it’s no better.
Annie was like Selwyn—good and
patient; delicate like, too. We didn’t
mind it at first, but her cheeks grew
thin, an’ too red; a cough she had from
childhood grew harder, an’ though the
best doctors we could get came early
and late, it was only a year after Sel
wyn died before we laid Annie down
among the snows. Thank ye, sir, for
your pity. Mother an’ I have shed
most of our tears.”
Mr. Faxbn put his cambric handker
chief back into his pocket,
“Your other son, Roscoe, Mr. Derby
—did he ever come home ?”
“ Never. It’s nigh on to eight years
since we have seen Roc. He knew he
disappointed us ; but that was nothin’,
was it, mother ?”
“I never think of it,” said Mrs.
Derby, shaking her head. “ Perhaps—
I don’t know—we took the wrong course
with Roc. He was restless and active.
He was wild, but he was lovin’—”
Her voice broke.
“Mr. Derby,” said Mr. Faxon, “T
find I know something of your story
already. Your son, Roscoe Derby, who
ran away at nineteen years of age, is
probably living ; and it may come in my
way to obtain some information of him
for you.”
yhe old people had risen from their
seats, and he went on quickly :
“ Meantime, be at no inconvenience
regarding your stay here in your old
home. Your right to occupy it is un
questioned in my mind, and let me say
you will never during your lifetimes be
required to go hence. There is the
mortgage,”—he placed some papers on
the table—“Derby place is your own.”
He rose, putting them gently back as
they pressed toward him, trying to ex
press their gratitude.
“No—no thanks! Believe me, you
owe me nothing—nothing.”
He took his hat. The old man, who
was voiceless, wrung his hands. Mr. old
Faxon turned to Mrs. Derby,
her soft, wt-inkled fingers
palm, bent low
he turned
he had
he said, “ I can-
know you have forgiven
And the next instant the strong man
was kneeling with his head on his mo
ther’s knee.
“ After long years, mother,’’ said he,
as he stroked his temples with, fond fin
gers. “ I am but twenty-eight years old,
but sorro ws for my early faults have
brought some' $ray hairs about my
head.”
“ And you are not Mr. Faxon, after
all, Roc ?” said the father, with a puz
zled smile.
“ \ es, I am, dear father. Five years
ago I had the fortune to gain the good
will of one of the wealthiest American
shipping merchants then in London. He
gave me a good position, and I decided
to return home with him, and served
faithfully in his employ until just be
fore his death, when, having formed an
engagement with his only daughter, lie
gave his consent to our marriage with
the proviso that I would take his name,
and carry on his interests exactly as they
had been. To this I consented, for in
spite-of my settled habits and ideas, I
felt an alien and alone ; but, mother, I
have a good wife and the best of sons—a
little fellow two years old, named Derby.
Does that please ?”
Ah, indeed 1 What loving old woman
is not pleased with her grandchild ?
Soon the house was graced by the pres
ence of Violet Faxon and the loving
boy, whom grandfather could not praise
enough, and grandmother could not
fondle enough ; yet it was sweeter, per
haps, to Roscoe Faxon, to hear his mo
ther’s voice whisper:
“ I like your wife, and, do you know,
I think she is very much like Annie ?”
The Fatal Number Thirteen.
English papers tell an amusing story
of a well-known banker of Liege, Bel
gium. A short time ago he gave a lit
tle dinner party to which ten guests had
been bidden, besides himself and wife,
making twelve in all. They were just
about to sit down when in dropped a
friend from the antipodes and invited
himself to dinner, thus making the fatal
number thirteen. The banker, to pre
vent ill-luck, rushed down stairs to his
office, found the cashier just about to
leave for the evening, dragged him up
stairs, fitted him with a dress coat, and
lead him triumphantly into the draw
ing-room amid the applause of the re*—•
lieved guests, three of whom declared
that they would not sit down to the best
dinner ever served if there were thirteen
at the table. At that moment the bell
rang, and a note was brought for one of
the guests whose wife had suddenly
fallen ill, and who consequently was un
able to remain. Thirteen again 1 Gloom
and despair; and the cashier, finding
himself the Jonah of the evening, vol
unteered to depart. The banker saw
him down stairs, and was expressing his
regrets, when—joy !—the family doctor-
heaved in sight. Him the host secured,
and, happy in being able to offer the
hospitalities of his table to his kind-
hearted and sorely-tried employe, the
three returned to the drawing-room.
Dinner was ordered to be placed upon
the table, but, just as all was ready, the
hostess, who was in delicate health, and
who had been unduly excited by all the
untoward events, fainted dead away,
and had to be put to bed. Thirteen
again ! This time there was nothing
for the cashier but to go and dine with
what appetite he might at the nearest
restaurant.
Beginning to Squeeze.
Two or three years ago a Jersey City
pension lawyer took the case of a widow,
who wanted about $2000 back pay, and
the papers went to Washington to be
hidden among the cobwebs until some
clerk had nothing else to do but ex
amine them. After three months had
passed a young farmer called to ask
about the case, and regularly every
ninety days since that time lie has drop-
ped in with his : “ Well, any good news
for the Widder Jennings ?” At his last
visit the other day the lawyer replied
after the same stereotyped fashion and
added : “ Do you live near the widow ?”
“Only one farm between us.”, “And
she has told you to watch for the .
money?” “Well, not exactly
hut I’ve kinder taken it upon
do so. If the Widder
that $2000 l)efore the Is
heart is|f^g to_
she doul