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I Have Forgot the Tumult of the
Town.
I have forgot the tumult of the town,
Its pitiless oppression, its sad ills,
Amid the girth of everlasting hills-—
Forgot the lure of riches and renown
In emerald meadow cloak and wood
land crown; ; :
And in the gossip of the birds and
rills
The exultant freedom that my spirit
thrills
Quickens the smile and banishes the
frown.
Oh, come and share my pathway! Low
and sweet
The airs will blow, in most beguil
ing wise;
Cool aisles will open to lead the wan
derer’s feet -
Toward heights that step on ferny
step uprise;
Care—the grim Vandal—vanquished
will retreat,
And life will wear Youth’s radiant
rainbow guise..
—Clinton Ecollard, in the New York
Sun.
ASerious Mistake
“And you really love me, Joan?”
I murmured, hardly believing me
ears.
“More than my life, she replied,
passionately. ;
As in a dream I gazed into the
beautiful eyes of Joan Ainslie, while I
held her tightly in my arms. ~
- We stood in the old garden which
surrounded the home of my love in
the little town of Errington. Joan
was an orphan, and, with the excep
tion of an old servant, she lived alone.
She sometimes spoke of her brother,
Jack Ainslie, who had long ago gone
to Oregon, and had never since been
peard of, but otherwise she had no
living relative.
I met Joan at a garden partly al
most directly after I went to live at
Errington, and at once I fell in love
with her. Now, six months afterward,
I had asked her to marry me, and
her reply was still sounding, like the
music of the fairies, in my ear.
“Allan, I have a little confession to
make to you,” said Joan, during the
evening. She nestled closer to me
and hid her face against my shoulder
as she spoke.
“How terrible!” I cried, with a
laugh. “Say on, and I will consider
the case.”
“You—you are not the first man
whom I promised to———" = She paus
ed, and her hands clutched nervously
at each other.
“Ha! Then therc is another?” I
cried, in affected dramatic style.
Joan seemed glad that I was only
amused, and then told me that two
yvears ago, when she was only eigh
teen years of age, she had agreed to
marry a visitor from Philadelphia.
His name was Jack Carstairs, and he
left Errington, promising to write to
her. This he did, but eventually went
to South America, since when Joan
had not heard anything from him.
“And what was my rival like?” I
questioned.
‘Oh, not your rival, dear,” mur
mured. “I did not really love him; it
was but a girlish infatuation, which
I got over almost directly after Mr.
Carstairs left Errington.’
“But what was he like?” I repeated.
“Well, not quite so tall as you, nor
so good-looking, and he had a thick
beard. Ugh! I'm glad you haven't a
beard, Allan.” Joan stopped and
blushed violently, and after a little
while she made me understand why
she preferred clean-shaven faces.
Time went on, and Joan and I lived
in the little earthly paradise that we
had constructed, until, as in olden
time, the serpent entered.
Although I had laughed away the
story of Jack Carstairs, yet I could
not get rid of an absurd, jealous feel
ing that clung to me. By degrees I
began to hate this man whom I had
lnever met, and whom I thought I
never should.
It was one evening about nine
months after our engagement, that I
climbed into Joan’s garden, over the
fence, in my usual manner, for it
saved going round to the gate. Sud
l denly I caught sight of a figure strid
ing up the path. In astonishment I
paused, and there came a wild, jeal
ous tug at my heartstrings.
It was Jack Carstairs!
There he was, just as Joan had de
scribed him. Slightly shorter than I
was, wearing a beard, an® bronzed,
presumably by the warm sun of South
America. :
The door was open, and, without
knocking, he deliberately é€ntered.
From where I stood I could see Joat
through the open window. I saw her
spring to her feet as her visitor en
tered, for a moment they gazed at
each other uncertainly. |
“Jack!” |
zdoant"”
I heard their voices distinctly, and
then—then they were clasped in each
othre's arms. |
For a moment all became dark
around me, while a great pain seemed
to tear my heart asunder. Again I
looked, and he was Kkissing her.
Then, with a smothered groan, I
burst from the garden and rushed
madly away, whither I knew not, nor
cared.
When I returned to my senses, dark
ness had settled down over the land.
A little way ahead of me throtigh the
trees I could see the light in“ Joan's
house, and toward this point I hur
ried, a dull rage burning in me, and
a red glare seeming to burn before
lmy eyes.
I entered the garden, and then I
caught sight of Joan standing alone
on the lawn. The rage within me
burst forth into a relentless fury, and,
hsatening up to her I seized her
harshly by the arm.
“So your lover has gone?” I almost
shouted.
She gazed at me in terror, and tried
to shrink away from me, but I held
her firmly.
“This is how you show your love
for me, is it?” I said, hoarsely. My
grip was tightening on her arms so
that she winced with pain, but in my
blind rage I saw nothing.
Then, as I looked into her beautiful
eyes, and thought of them gazing up
at another as they 'gazed up at me,
and thought of her red lips pressed
against his, my jealcus rage became
so strong that I threw her from me,
and turned and rushed into the dark
ness. '
I went. at once to my rooms, pack
ed a small handbag, and, telling my
landlady I should not be back for
a few days, I rushed to the railroad
station. The whole of the time I was
practically bereft of my senses.
When I alighted from the train at
Jersey City, it was my intention to
cross to New York by the ferry and
prooeed to the Grand Central Sta
tion, but as I was crossing West
street there was a sudden crash—and
then darkness. |
When I recovered my senses I was
in the Roosevelt Hospital. They told
me I had been there nearly a fort
night. 1 had been knocked down
by a cab, and the fall had brought
on concussion of the brain.
“It has been a very narrow escape,”
said the nurse. ‘“Once or twice we
thought you were gone.”
And when I was alone I said to my
self, “Would to Heaven that I had
died.” But I lived on, sicf at heart,
for there seemed nothing to live for
now.
As soon as possible I left the hos
pital and went to Atlantic City to
recoup my health. On the second day
of my stay I was thunderstruck by ob
serving what I thought to be Joan’s
figure among the promenaders, but af
ter a while I assured myself that I
must have been mistaken.
How I longed to see my Mst love
again, to fold her in my arms and
lcall her mine. But my heart ached
when I thought of all that had been,
of how she had proved faithless fo
me.
When I had fully recovered my
senses, all my sudden passion had
left me, with the exception of a dull
hatred in my heart for my detested
rival. Gradually it conquered me, un
til T made up my mind -that I would
follow him and never leave him until
I had killed him.
I sat on the porch pondering on
this, and then I saw what confirmed
my suspicion of the previous day. I
saw Joan, and with her was Jack
Carstairs. '
Great Heaven! the whole world
reeled round me for a momnient, and
then, with a bitter hatred gnawing at
me, I calmly sat and watched them
pass. They did not see me, although
I sat quite close to them. Joan look
ed pale, and my heart beat with un
wonted rapidity as I gazed at her
great, pensive eyes. Perhaps she re
pented her step, but he lcoked happy l
' enough.
Then I got up and walked in an op- 1
posite direction, until I was on a road
leading inland. Here I lay among the 1
furze bushes, alone with my sad |
thoughts. All was quiet, save for the |
ceaseless murmuring of the mighty
waves as they broke upon the heach.
There I lay, thinking, planning,
wondering, and, Heaven knows, near
to weeping. All my senses, all my .
feelings, yea, the whole of me, cried
out for Joan, my lost darling. : '
Then I started suddenly, for I
‘thought I heard my name whispered. i
But it must have been the plantive |
‘note of a bird that I heard, and once |
“more I gave myself up to thought.
- Alanl" _ l
There could be no mistake this
time, some one was speaking my
name. As if in a dream I turned
my head and looked. :
- There was Joan. l
Never until I die shall I forget that
moment. The murmur of the sea i
changed into a march of triumph |
played by a mighty organ. The wail
ing of the sea birds seemed as thei
notes of Orpheus. The yellow bloom
on the furze bushes changed to virgin ‘
gold. And all the sounds that were
seemed to hymn the one werd, “Joan.”
’ I half started up, but the walk,
% combined with the sudden excitement,
'had been too much for me in my
‘weak state, and I fell backward tol
the ground. In a moment Joan was
beside me, and her arms were round
‘me.
“Oh, Allan, Allan, why did you leave ]
me?”’ she murmured. . |
I stammered back some incoherent
reply concerning my rival. Wonder-!
ingly she gazed at me, and then sud
denly her eyes brightened, and a
lqueer little smile spread over her
face. |
“Why, that was Jack—my brother
Jack, from Oregon!” she cried. 7
I was too thunderstruck to reply.
“And that was all the faith you had
in me?” she went on, gravely. ;
“Oh, my darling, can you forgive
me?”’ I muttered, brokenly.
And her reply was to kiss me.
It seems that Joan and her brother
had seen me on the promenade near
the hotels at Atlantic City, and Joan
had turned back to speak to me, only
to see me disappearing in the dis
tance. So she followed me, and the
rest you know.”—New York Weekly.
Turkish Proverbs.
With patience sour grapes become
sweet and the mulberry leaf satin.
By the time the wise man gets mar
ried the fool has grown up children.
Give a swift horse to him who tells
the truth, so that as soon as e has
told it he may ride and escape.
Be not so severe that you are blam
ed for it, nor so gentle that you are
"trampled upon for it.
1f you have to gather thorns do it
by the stranger’s hand.—Century.
The inch was formerly divided into
three “barlevcorns,” these divisions
| being originally the length of a well
| dried grain of “corn” of the barley.
l MATRIMONIAL ELIGIBILITY.
| Many and Various Reasons That
l Prompt Men to “Pop the Question.”
{ The reasons which prompt men to
make offers of marriage to women are
as many and various as the number
and kinds of women thus honored.
Not alone are the natural graces and
‘charms of feniininity the foci of at
traction for the average man. Acquir
ed accomplishments often count for a
great deal, and it frequently happens
{ that women are eagerly desired for
! qualifications, which, while strongly
‘appealing to' those who desire them,
would not in the least appeal to oth
ers occupying a different point of
view. :
These very general and not alto
gether luminous reflections are sug
| gested by a news item which reaches
us trom northern New York of an
avalanche of marriage offers which
has overwhelmed two estimable young
women, the daughters of a farmer at
Schuyler. They are described as beau
tiful. So far as we are advised, they
“are not distinguished for accomplish
f ments of the kind wnich make for so
‘cial pre-eminence. Perhaps they are
not more amiable, more affectionate,
nor more practical in the general du
ties of housewifery than others. Their
claim to distinction is that they “kill
ed, cleaned, scalded and ‘hung” two
300-pound hogs without masculine as
~sistance. ,
~ Instantly an overpowering passion
'took possession of the hearc of every
‘eligible bachelor within what ‘may be
‘called buggy radius. The rural deliv
ery carrier has had fo provide himself
iwith a wheelbarrow to transport -the
~offers of marriage which come by
'matl, and the concourse of vehicles
lwhicn is strung along the paternal
front fence every day and evening
}suggests that a continuous funeral is
lin progress within. Perhaps it is. A
i great many nascent hopes of domestic
happiness along strictly bucolic lines
perish in the family “settin’ room”
every twent-four hours, and enough
broken hearts are left behind by de
parting suitors to fertilize the farm if
their fragm<#'s could be composted.
The young women are said to decline,
“firmly but kindly,” the offers of mar
riage which are pressed upon them.
It may be that their unique claim to
distinction put them in a ciass which
makes it an impertinence for the suit
or to oifer them the commonplace life
of the farmer’s wife, who can count
upon a hog-killing not oftener than
once a year. Their sphere of social
triumphs obviously lies in Cincinnati
or Chicago.—New York Times.
Hairy Elephants.
The skin of the elephant is practi
cally destitute of the hairy coat which
is the distinctive covering of mam
mals. But the extinct mammoth had
an undercoat of reddish-brown wouolhy
fur, in which dark bristly hairs were
thickly set. Both wool and hair have
been found with remains in the frozen
soil of Siberia. Some years since
traces of this fur were discovered in
the Indian elephant, and from time to
time individuals occur in which the
hairs are developed to such an extent
as to be noticeable by casual observ
ers.
A natural history journal has call
ed attention to the fact tha: there is
now a ‘hairy elephant in the Zoologi
cal Gardens at Basle. So thick is the
growth that at the Congress of Zoolo
gists at Berne, in August, 1904, the
remark was made—of course in jest
—that the animal was really a mam
moth. Rustum, an Indian elephant
that lived in the Regent’s Park Gar
dens from 1876 to 1882, when it was
presented to the Berlin Gardens, was
almost as hairy. The calf born in
London in 1902 had a hairy coat, as
may be scen from its mounted skin in
the Natural History Museum—London
Telegraph.
The German physician who thinks
he has found a cure for laziness
ought to be able to find a great many
patients.