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SPRING PLACE JIMPLECUTE.
J. C. HEARTSELL, Ed. and Pub.
vob xm.
Church pastorates are still sold to
the highest bidders in some parts of
England.
According to the insurance tables
expectation of life at ten years of age
is greatest in England, 49.2.
It is estimated that the chinch bug,
Hessian fly, army worm and cotton
worm have cost the United States
more than the Civil War.
'There is said to be no successful
remedy for dandruff, though experi¬
ments have been made for twenty
years to find one. The best palliative
there is is simply good plain soap and
warm water.
An illustration of the inconveniences
of too much learning is furnished by
a page in an encyclopaedia where ap¬
pears : “Sweet Hag, see Acorns; Sweet
gum, see Liquidamber; Sweet pea, see
Lathyrus; Sweet potato, see Batatas.”
The Now York Press feels it is rather
discouraging to be told by Mrs. Emma
Ewing, who is an authority, that while
improvements have been made in all
other directions, practical cooking
stands where it did one hundred years
ago
_
A Boonville (Mo.) man has estab¬
lished a chinch bug station similar to
that of Professor Snow, of Lawrence,
Kan. “In anot^taP year, ” predicts the
Chicago Herald, “Missouri’s name will
be put in the bright lexicon of bug¬
less States. ”
Professor Virchow, the great Ger¬
man scientist, reaffirms his belief that
no trace of “the missing link” between
man and the lower animals has been
discovered, either in the human skulls
which are believed to be most ancient,
or in the physical struct lira of modern'
savages.
Aluminum is to be used wherever
practicable in the accoutrements, arnuf
and equipments of the German army.
By its use the weight carried by in¬
fantry soldiers will be a trifle over
fifty-seven pounds, where now it is
slightly more than sixty-eight and one
half pounds.
The people of Marlehead, Mass.,
have hung up in their town hall Na¬
tional colors, which they have bought
for the new war cruiser, which has
been named after their famous town.
But Marblehead will not end her gift
to the warship with this one. Now it
is proposed to place in the cruiser
something more substantial, perhaps
a silver vase; and it is suggested that
a fund be started to be called the
“‘citizen’s gift,” to pay for the new
gift
_
The driving of sheep through, the
Interior Department building is the
latest suggestion, avers the Washing¬
ton Star, as to a means of getting rid
of the fleas that have located there. It
is a curious sort of remedy, hut it
seems to be theoretically sound. If it
can be demonstrated that these insects
have such a fondness for mutton that
they will desert the habitations of hu
man beings to gratify it, no considera¬
tions of compassion for the sheep wil
have any weight.
'The worst feature of a flood is the
Jact that the river is apt to leave a de¬
posit of sand, varying in thickness
from one inch to ten feet, over a large
exfcent“of land that was formerly fer
, tile. In the flood of 1858 a great
manf farmers in the American bottom
in Missouri on going baek to their
premises after the subsidence of the
waters found their property covered
with river sand in beds so thick that
two dr three years elapsed before good
crops could be raised.
Some of the officials of the United
. States Government Weather Bureau
are advocating the establishment of
weather stations on the Bahama Isl¬
ands, with a cable connection with
Havana. . Such stations would enable
the Weather Bureau to learn something
about storms forming north of Cuba;
and whether or ..not these storms are
likely to stride the coast of the United
• States. While the Weather Bureau
gave warning of the recent West In¬
dian hurricanes, nevertheless the Bu¬
reau was not able to tell, as its officers
would like to have lmd it done, the
probable force of each one of the
storms.
SPRING PLACE, MURRAY COUNTY, GA. SATURDAY. NOV EMBER 18, 1898
.
RETROSPECT.
The roses were not just so sweet, perhaps,
As we thought they would surely be,
And the blossoms were not so pearly white
As of yore, on the orchard tree ;
Bnt the summer has gone, for all of that,
And with sad reluctant heart
We stand at rich autumn's open door
And watch its form depart.
The skies were not just so blue, perhaps,
As we hoped they would surely be.
Aud the waters were rough that washed our
boat,
Instead of the old calm sea:
But the summer has gone, fora!', of that.
And the golden-rod is here ;
We can see the gleam of its golden sheen
In the hand of the aging year.
The rest was not quite so real, perhaps.
As wa hoped it might prove to be,
For instead of leisure came work sometimes.
And the days dragged wearily:
But the summer has gone, for all of that.
The holiday time is o’er,
And busy hands in the harvest-field
Have garnered their golden store.
The summer was not such a dream, perhaps,
Of bliss as we thought '(would be.
And the beautiful things wo planned to do
Went amiss, for you and me ;
Yet still it has gone, for all of that,
And we lift our wistful eyes
To the land where beyond the winter snows
Another summer lies.
—Kathleen K. Wheeler, in Lippincott.
AN ARTIST’8 ROMANCE.
FIRST came here,”
.ft said Denis O’Hara,
“in one of those
fits of enthusiasm
') W at which you all
•r ¥ laugh. I had de¬
termined to do a
great work, and I
found everything
here I wanted—
I l" light, vie w s,
climate and
models. Our friend
Trenoweth introduced me to the place,
gave me inestimable hints, and (no
use shaking your head, Jasper; you
shall not always hide your light under
bushel) in every way made mo athomo
and comfortable. We were much to¬
gether, for he was, or said he was, in¬
terested in my work, and approved of
my subject. Sometimes I painted out
of doors, favored by the soft,. gray
light and equable climate for which
this place is famous. Sometimes I
would work in the studio, and often,
taking pity on my loneliness, Treno¬
weth would drop in here in the even¬
ings, and we would talk—as he alone
can make any one talk. Altogether it
was very pleasant, and I am not Mill'.
that I felt pleased when one evening
he strolled down here to show me *
a
letter he had received from one of our
fraternity asking to hire a studio for
three months in order to complete a
picture.
“The handwriting was bold and
clear ; the signature at the end of the
simple, concise words only, ‘M. Dela¬
porte.’ We discoursed and speculated
about M. Delaporte, We wondered
if he was old or young, agreeable or
the reverse; if he would be a bore, or
a nuisance—in fact, we talked a great
deal about him during the week that
intervened between his letter and his
arrival. Trenoweth saw to the
arrangements of the studio. It was
No. 2 he had agreed to let, and gave
directions as to trains, etc., and then
left me to welcome the newcomer, who
was to arrive by the evening train. I
had been out all day, and when I came
home, tired, cold and hungry, I saw
lights in No. 2, and thought to my
self, ‘My fellow artist has arrived,
then.’ Thinking it would be only
civil to go and give him welcome, I
walked up to the door and knocked,
A voice called out, ‘Come in!’ and,
turning the handle, I found myself in
the presence of—a woman! For a
moment I was too surprised to speak.
She was mounted on a short step
ladder, arranging some velvet
draperies, and at my entrance she
turned, and, with the rich-bued stuffs
"forming a background for the pose of
the most beautiful figure woman could
boast of, faced me with as much ease
and composure as—-well, as I lacked.
U t Mr. Trenoweth?’ she askecl in
quiringly.
“Hfer voice was one of those low’,
rich Contralto voices, so rare and so
beautiful.
•“ -‘I’m not Mr. Trenoweth, ’ I said ;
‘I'm only m artist living in the next
studio,- I—I oance to see if Mr. Dela¬
porte had arrived; I beg your pardon
for intruding.’
“ ‘Do not apologize,’she said, frank¬
ly. ‘This studio is let to me and you
are very welcome. ’
“ ‘To $pu?’ I said, somewhat fool¬
ishly. ‘I thought you were a man.’
“She laughed. ‘I have not that
privilege,’ she said. ‘But I am an
artist, and.art takes no count of sex.
J hope we shall be friends as well as
neighbors.’
‘‘I echoed that wish heartily enough.
Who would not in that place and with
so charming a companion? Thereand
then I set to work to help her arrange
her studio and fix hep easel. The pic¬
ture seemed very large, (o judge from
the canvas, but she would not lot me
see it then. I forgot fatigue, hunger,
everything. I thought I had never
tnet a woman with so perfect a charm
of manner. The ease and grace and
“TELL THE TRUTH”
dignity of perfect breeding, yet withal
a I ran k and gracious cordiality that
' vas as winning' as it was resistless.
there—what use to say all this!
Only when I once begin to talk about
Musette Delaporte I feel I could go on
forever. i
,,, r . a as a memorable .
.... evening. I
" hen the studio was arrange 5- to her
satisfaction, she made me £ tea
with a little spirit-lamp arrangement
she had, and then we locked up the
room, and I took her through the lit
tie village to try and find lodgings. Of
course, Jasper and I, having decided
that M. Delaporte was a man, had ex¬
pected him to rough it like the rest ot
us. I could not let her stay in Tre
newlyn itself, but took her up the hill¬
side to a farm house, where I felt cer
tain they would accommodate her.
She was in raptures with the place,
and I agreed with her that it was a
paradise, as, indeed, it seemed to me
on that August night. I remember
the moon shining over the bay, the
fleet of boats standing out to sea, the
lights from the towns and villages scat¬
tered along the coast or amid the
sloping hills. I did not wonder she
was charmed; we all have felt that
charm here, and it doesn’t lessen with
time; we all have acknowledged that
also. But I must hurry on. When
Trenoweth heard of the new artist’s
sex he was rather put out. I could not
see why myself, and I agreed that the
mistake was my own. M might stand
for Mary, or Magdalen, or Marietta,
just as well as for Maurice or Malcolm
or Mortimer. However, when he came
down and saw M. Delaporte here, I
heard no more about the disadvantages
of sax. She was essentially a woman
for companionship, cultured, brilliant.,
artist to her finger-tips, yet with all
her beauty and fascination holding a
certain proud reserve between herself
and ourselves, marking aline we dared
not overstep. At the end of a month
we knew little more about her than we
did on the first evening. I opined
that she was a widow, but no hint,
however skilful, no trap, however
baited, could force her into confi¬
dence or self-betrayal. We called
her Mrs. Delaporte. Her name
was Musette, * she told me. Her
mother had been a Frenchwoman; of
her father she never spoke. She
worked very hard, often putting mo
to shame, but still she would not let
me see the picture, always skilfully
turning the easel so that the canvas
was hidden whenever Jasper or myself
entered the studio. Wo were never
permitted to do so in working hours,
but when the daylight faded and the
well known little tea table was set out,
we often dropped in for a cup of tea
and a chat. It was all so pleasant, so
homelike. The studio with its drap¬
eries and its bowls of flowers, its
plants and books and feminine trifles.
I wonder how it is that some women
seem to lend individuality to their sur¬
roundings. The studio has never
looked the same
He paused and laid down the sketch.
The usual gayety and brightness of
his face was subdued and shadowed.
“I—well, it’s no good to dwell on it
all now,”he said abruptly. “Of course
I fell madly in love with her. Who
could help i|? I bet any of you fel¬
lows here would haye dejne the same.
I neglected work, I coiild only moon
and dream and follow her about, when
she let me, which I am bound to sav
was not very often. I’m sure I used
to bore Trenoweth considerably at
that time, though he was patient. And
she was just the same always; calm,
j friendly, work, and gracious, to. all absorbed in her
i appearances uncon
scious of what mischief her presence
had wrought. As the third month
drew near to its end I grew desperate,
I thought she avoided me j she never
let me into the studio now, and I must
confess I had great curiosity to see the
picture. But she laughingly evaded
all my hints, and would only receive
me at the farmhouse, I believe
j Trenoweth was equally unsuccessful.
At last I could stand it no longer. I
spoke out and told her the whole
truth. Qf course,” and he laughed
somewhat bitterly, .“it was no use. If
she ffad beeg my njother or my sister
she could not have been more serenely
gracious, more pitiful or more sur¬
prised, I- J had made a fool of my¬
self, as we meu call it, and all to
no purpose. It was maddening, but
1 knew it was hopeless. I had al¬
most known it, before my desperate
confession. I couldn’t bear to see
her again. I felt I hated the place, it
was so full of memories. So, slid
denly without a word to Trenoweth or
herself, I packed up my traps and
started off on a sketching tour through
GqjgwalJ. When I came back had the
studio was closed, and Trenqwetfy in
gone away, The man left charge,
and who made the arrangements for
letting them, told me that a new rule
had been made by the landlord. They
were never to be let to women artists,
That is all my part of the story. This
—this sketch is only the figure I re
member. She was standing once just
like that, looking at the wall of the
studio, as if to her it was peopled
with life, and form and color. ‘I—I
was fancying myself at the Academy,’
she said to me, as I asked her at what
she was gazing, ‘at the Academy, and
rgy picture on the line.’ I do not know
if she eyei attained her ambition.” he |
added. “I have never seen or heard
oi He her glanced since.” Jasper Trenoweth, j j
at
who silently held out his hand for the
sketch. »
For a moment silence reigned
throughout the room. The eyes of
all were on the bent head and sad,
grave face of the man who sat there
them, his thoughts apparently far
away, so far that, he seemed to have
forgotten his promise to finish the
story which Denis O’Hara had begun,
At last he roused himself. “There is
not much more to add,” he said slowly.
“All that Dennis has said of Musette
Delaporte is true, and more than true.
She was one of those women who are
bound to leave their mark on a man’s
life and memory. After Denis left so
abruptly I saw very little of her. She
seemed restless, troubled and dis¬
turbed. Her mind was absorbed in
the completion of her picture. That
unrest and dissatisfaction which is ever
the penalty of enthusiasm had now
taken the place of previous .hopeful
ness. ‘If it should fail,’ she said to
me. ‘Oh, you don’t know what that
would mean. You don’t know what I
have staked on it. ’
“Still she never offered to show it
to me, and I would not presume to ask.
I kept away for several days, thinking
she was best undisturbed. All artists
have gone through that phase of ex¬
perience which sho \vas undergoing.
It is scarcely possible to avoid it, if,
indeed, one lias any appreciation for
or love of art in one’s nature.
“At last one. day I walked down to
the studio. I knocked at the door.
There was no answer. I turned the
handle and entered. In the full light of
the sunset as it streamed through the
window, stood the easel, covered no
longer, and, facing me, as I paused on
the threshold, was the picture. I stood
there too amazed to speak or move.
It was magnificent. If I had not known
that only a woman's hand had con¬
verted that, canvas into a living,
breathing history I could not have be¬
lieved it. There was nothing crude,
or weak or feminine about it. The
power and force of genius spoke out
like a living voice, and seemed to de¬
mand the homage it so grandly chal¬
lenged. Suddenly I became aware of
a Nouud in the stillness—the low, sti¬
fled sobbing of a woman. I saw her
then, thrown face downward on the
couch at the furthest end of the room,
her face buried in the cushions, her
whole frame trembling and convulsed
with a passion of grief. ‘Oh, Mau¬
rice !’ she sobbed, and then again only
that name— ‘Maurice ! Maurice ! Mau¬
rice !’
“I closed the door softly and went
away. There seemed to be something
sacred in this grief. I—I could not
intrude on it. She was so near to
Fame, She held so great a gift, and
yet she lay weeping her heart out yon¬
der, like the weakest and most foolish
of her sex, for—well, what could I
think, but that it was for some man’s
sake. > >
He paused, his voice seemed a little
less steady, a little less cold.
“On the morrow,” he said abruptly,
“she was gone, leaving a note of fare¬
well, aud—and thanks for me. I felt
a momentary disappointment. I should
like to have said farewell to her, and
it was strange, too, how much I missed
her and Denis. Tl}e loneliness and
quiet qf my life grew more than lonely
as the days went on, and I at last
made up my mind to go to London.
Whether by ohanoa or purpose! found
myself there on the day the Academy
opened. All who are artists know
what that day means for them. I—
well. I was artist enough to feel the
interest of art triumphs, and the sor¬
row of its failures. I went where half
London was thronging, and mingled
with the crowd, artistic, critical and
curious, who were gathered in the
Academy first galleries. noticed I passed into the
room. I how the crowds
surged and pushed and thronged
around one picture there, and I heard
murmurs of praise and wonder from
scores of lips as I, too, tried to get
sight of what seemed * to them so
marvelous and attractive. At last a
break in the throng favored me. I
looked over the heads of some dozen
people in front of the picture, and I
saw—the picture I had gazed at in
such wonder and delight in the studio
of Musette Delaporte ! Deservedly
honored.it hung there on the line,
and already its praises were sounding,
and the severest critics as well as the
most eager enthusiasts were giving it
fame.
“I turned however, away at last. My steps’
were, arrested on the out
skirts of the crowd by sight of a woman
whose figure seemed strangely faigil
iar. Her face was veiled aud so.me
what averted, but I knew well enough
that pose qf the beautiful head, that
coil of gold brown hair, just lifted
from the white neck. She—she did
not see me as for a moment I lingered
there. Then I noticed sho was not
alone. Leaning on her arm was a
man, his face pale and worn, as if by
long suffering, his frame bent and ;
crippled. As his eyes caught the pie
tnre I saw the sudden light and wou
der that leaped into his face. I saw,
too, the glory of love and tenderness
in hers. I drew nearer; the man was
speaking ‘How could you do it?’ he
said; ‘how could you?’ ‘Oh, Muriee,
forgive me,’said that low, remembered
heart voice, and ‘Dearest; soul and are name? we not I one m
ished what had only fin
you so well begun,
You were so ill and helpless, and when
$1.00 a Year in Advance.
you went into the hospital, oh, the
days were so long and so empty, I
meant to tell you, but when it was fin¬
ished I had not the courage ; so I just
sent it, signed, as usual, M. Delaporte.
I—I never dared to hope it would be
accepted. After all, what, did I do?
The plan, the thought, the detail all
were yours; only my poor weak hand
i worked when yours was helpless.’
j “I was so close I heard every word,
\ I with 80 close that I saw him bend and she kiss had
reverence the hand that
called poor and weak, so close that I
heard the low-breathed murmur from
bis lips, ‘God bless and reward you,
my noble wife!’ r>
“And she was married all the time 1"
said Denis plaintively. “She might
have told us!”
Jasper Trenoweth was silent.—The
Strand.
j A Mysterious Mountain Light.
I
The Old Rag is a long jagged spur of
the Blue Ridge that skirts the counties
of Madison and Green, Virginia, writes
a correspondent of the St. Louis Globe
Democrat, and loses its name ‘after
reaching further Noutli. It is of
the features of the splendid eh itry
through which it passes—grand,
gloomy and peculiar, its rugged sides
clear cut against the sky and looking
forbidding in its towering majesty.
Here was the scene of the “Gold Bug”
of Poe, ene of the weirdest and most
thrilling stories, in which the great
writer indulges in the mysteries of the
stars and divination.
The eastern side of the Old Rag over¬
looks a long stretch of country and is
seen a great way off About three
fourths the way up the side of this
mountain is a phenomenon that has for
many years attracted the attention of
the people for miles around, caused
much speculation, and yet to this day
remams the mystery of the “Old Rag.”
This is a bright beautiful light which
burns and glows on the side of the Rag.
Not every night, but only when the
atmosphere is favorable then the “eye
of the Rag” may be seen, dazzling and
scintillating, as if it were some im¬
mense diamond set in the rocks of the
everlasting hills. So far, investigation
has not solved the mystery, though at
irregular periods some enthusiast un¬
dertakes to investigate, but gives up
the problem in a short time. Persons
have camped on the mountain for days,
seeing the light then as from below;
but so preoipitous are the sides, and so
impassable from the huge bowlders and
rocks that lie all around, that nothing
definite lias been learned. Others,
more scientific and enterprising, have
spent days in locating the great dia¬
mond, by establishing a line of stations
and signals, but the light still shines
—the mystery of the ridge. It can be
no artificial light, for no one lives with¬
in several miles, and to make such a
light night after night for so many
years would be simply impossible.
Then, too, it is too sparkling, scintil¬
lating and opalescent for art to make,
and whatever it is, one thing is sure,
aud that is that it is the work of na¬
ture, The light on a favorable night
is seen thirty miles away, and at that
distanoe still preserves the peculiar
shooting, darting features which are
seen to much better advantage from
the immediate vicinity.
A Shark’s Effort to Swallow a Turtle.
On Wednesday morning about ten
o’clock as the pilot boat Addie was
cruising off the east end of Dog Island
in charge of Captain Cisco Kent, aud
having on board Frank Comforter,
pilot, they spied a large loggerhead
turtle floating lazily on the water.
They sailed up close and just as the
pilot was about to jump on its back
they saw an enormous shark swim up
swiftly but quietly behind the turtle
and swallow him tail first as far as the
forward flippers. The shark with the
struggling turtle in his mouth, made
ineffectual attempts to dive, but could
not stay long unde? water. Meanwhile
the pilot, whohadjumpod into a dingy,
was paddling towards the combatants,
when the shark, finding that he could
not swallow his prey, reluctantly dis
gorged aud hovered a short, distance
away, while Frank seized the turtle
with a boathook, fastened a tope round
his flipper and towed him to the Addie,
where he was hoisted on board and
brought into Currabelle. He would
weigh about 400 pounds, and was nearly
six feet long and thirty inches wide,
and bore terrible evidences of the strug¬
gle. His under shell was crushed in,
liis tail and three of his flippers were
bitten off and he was gashed up gener¬
ally. The sffark was over twenty feet
long,—Apalachicola (Fla.) Times.
Distinguished Bachelors.
No one need be ashamed of being i
bachelor, says a contemporary writer,
He produces a list of famous men who
never married. Among them are Des
cartes, Spinoza, Newton, Swedenborg,
Kant, Voltaire, Horace Walpole, Ed
ward Gibbon, Francis Drake, Beet¬
hoven, Richelieu, Michael Angelo,
Isaac Watts, Montgomery, Randolph’ Cooper,
Grey, David Hume, John
Washington Irving, James Buchanan,
Samupl J, Tilden, Thaddeus Stevens,
Alexander Stephens, John G. Whittier,
Walt Whitman and Phillips Brooks,
The nobody'knows only comment to be made is that
how much greater they
might have been had they married.—
Buffalo Courier,
NO. 88.
---- — .
AT NOON,
Among the immemorial trees
The sunlight breaks the green gleoin
through.
And falls slantwise upon tis two,
In dalliance with life's golden keys—
Life’s golden keys of youth and love.
We stand before a wall of brush—
The green grass waving long and lush—
A distant call of dove to dov9;
And as our voices break the hush
Of midday silences, a thrush
Sends out a glad, sweet thrill above.
—Vivian Castane, in Atlanta Journal,
PITH'AND POINT.
Bang-up—Shooting-stars.
Current bushes — Electric light
plants.
A practical joke—One which will
sell.—Truth.
Courage is a hardy plant; it thrives
on heaps of sand.—Truth.
Grit is the only kind of glue that
will ever hold together the stray pieces
of a shattered fortune so that the
cracks will not show.—Puck.
A great many people do not learn
until they are forty-five or fifty that
it is dangerous to become confidential
with people. —Atchison Globe.
Though woman can’t drive in a nail,
She puts to scorn the men
In such a simple little act
As driving out a hen.
—Indianapolis Journal.
“I see Officer Flynn has been pro*
motedfor bravery.” “What did he
do? “Stood his ground while an¬
other officer shot at a dog.’’—Chicago
Inter-Ocean.
Mr. Watts—“I wonder if a woman
ever does get too old to marry?” Mrs.
Watts—“That’s pretty hard to answer.
Age does not always bring wisdom.”—
Indianapolis Journal.
To believe oneself more cunning
than others is a mistake, The fox is
more cunning than an ass; but there
are more fox skins in a furrier’s store
than ass skins. —Puck.
“About 750 languages are spoken on
this continent.”—Rochester Democrat
and Chronicle. And the man speaks
ail of them at once when ho has poked
the lighted end of his cigar in his
mouth.—Dansville (N. Y.) Breeze.
“How about Mrs. Trueheart’s wed¬
ding? W r as it as simple and—” Mrs.
Flyhigh— “Simple? Well, 1 should
say so! She married a man for love,
when she could have had one worth
half a million. ”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
Jack Aston (to the s’teenth heiress)
— “Must it be no, always, Mise
Scadds? My love pleads before a
merciless judge.” Miss Scadds—
“True; but what ought an habitual
criminal to expect?”—Ivate Field’s
Washington.
“Look in My Mouth.”
A good story comes from the Windy
City regarding a well-known San Fran¬
ciscan. Mrs. Dr. Cool went east as a
delegate to the world’s dental congress
at Chicago. On arriving at her des¬
tination she made an early visit to the
fair grounds, and, as usual with so¬
journers in that seductive place, found
upon leaving that, she had spent all
her ready cash. On her way back to
her hotel, therefore, she stopped at a
bank to have a eheck cashed. As usual,
the clerk informed her that she would
have to be identified. As Dr. Cool
was a stranger in a strange land, she
found herself in a dilemma. She pre¬
sented her card, but that would not
do, when a brilliant idea struck her.
Flashing a beam from the diamond*
set in her front teeth pon the clerk,
she said: “Please loc in my mouth.”
“Another one gone crazy,” thought
the clerk, but he complied with the
request, looked astonished, smiled and
paid the check, for on the crown in
the dentist’s mouth the clerk read the
inscription, “L. Cool, 1893.” Identity
was thus established beyond « ques¬
tion, and Mrs. Cool went on her way
rejoicing. —San Francisco News -.Letter.
The First Piano.
No one can tell exactly who made
the lirst piano, for the reason that it
has gradually “evolved” from an in¬
strument as much itself as one could
well imagine. In the twelfth century
it appears to have been a gigantic dul¬
cimer, whioh was merely an oblong
box holding a series of strings ar¬
ranged in triangular form across its
centre. In the thirteenth and four¬
teenth centuries the “clavichord,”
another musical monstrosity, had de¬
veloped from it, and was used well up,
in the eighteenth century. About
1711 Christofali of Padua invented a
real piano, but it is said to remind one
of a coal box when compared with the
elegant and perfect toned instrument
of to-day.—St. Louis Republic.
Coffee as a Brain Food.
An eminent medical authority, in a
recent number of the Boston Surgical
and Medical Journal, maintains that
coffee is a real brain food, and has the
power of absolutely increasing a man’s
capacity for brain work. The writer
further says: “Opium stimulates the
imagination; alcohol lifts a man up
for the moment to throw him into
confusion and. irregularity of action,
but caffeine increases his power of
reasoning, aud absolutely adds to his
brainwork capacity for the time,”