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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