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AH AGNOSTIC VIEW.
\t tUs end of every road there Rtands a wall
Not built by hands, i i - netrable. bare;
Behind b° s an unknown land, and all
paths men plod lead to it and end there.
jjash n:au, according to his humor, paints
Ou that bare wall strange landscapes dark
or bright, forms of
Peopled with forms of flends or
saints.
Hells of despair or Edens of delight.
IThen to his fellows, “Tremble!” os. “Bejrice !’’
The limner cries, “For lo! the land beyond!”
And ever acquiescent to his voice
Faint echoes from that painted wall respond.
But now and then with sacrilegious hand
Borne one w ipes off those painted landscapes
ail,
Mult ■ring,. “,U fools and s’ow to understand,
Behold yonr bourne— The impenetrable wall!”
Whereat an eager, angered crowd exclaims:
“Better than yon dead wall, though pale and
faint,
Our faded Edens. Better fiend* and flames
By Fancy painted in her coarsest paint
“On the blind, bald, unquestionable face
Of that obstruction than its cold, unclad,
. UncaUous emptiness, without a trace
Of any prospect, either good or b&d!”
And straightway the old woik begins again
Of picture painting. And men shout, and
call
l<V,r response to their pleasure or their pain,
Oi tting back echoes from that painted wall.
MY LOVERS.
BY MART N. PRESCOTT.
We were only shop-girls, that., you know,
and, for the mntter of we are shop¬
girls still. But one day wo had a little
*noney left us—just a trifle—aud as we
wvre tired to death with pleasing other
people, we decided to please ourselves,
• «nd take a vaoation at the beaoh.
“For once," said Letty, “let us be
grandees. Let us go in good style, if if
takes every cent. Let us go as we might
. have gone if you hadn’t been sentimental
and had married Mr. Dunn.”
Hr. Dunn'was a bachelor, immensely
rich, bald and stout, and no longer
young; not the lover I bad dreamed of,
jnot the realization of the “dim, swee!
vision” which had haunted my thoughts
i—for even a shop-girl lias dreams anrl
fancies. I had been greatly surprised
when he asked me to marry him, and
Ij ve on Beacon street, and drive in my
coupe. Of course lie didn’t mention
these things, but Letty did; and I had
said, “No, could thank there you,” in at once. Wliat
poetry be marrying Mr
JDumi? Living in luxury on Beacon
Greet would be pleasant enough, but ir
would put love and romance and happi
n- ss forever out of the question. I
thought. Letty disapproved, I know,
and so did Mr. Dunn.
“Why don’t von love mo?” he asked.
“Other women iiave;” and ho smiled and
Unshed at the confession.
“Oh, I like you very much as a friend,
Mr. Dunn," I said, to soften the blow.
“ ‘Friendship is easy enough to win,
But one isn’t loved every day,’”
he quoted. show
It was a pretty at the beach,
sifter the first excitement of arriving and
unpacking lmd worn off; after we had
potten used to bathing, and sitting idly
on the piazza with the sea rolling at our
feet, or reading novels in the liammoek,
or watching the flirlations and the
scheming. We didu t know anybody,
you see, nud there was nobody to intro¬
duce us. We talked with some of the
la,lies, but they seemed to Iiave known
•each other before; and while they dis¬
cussed this or that acquaintance, the
opera of the season past, the soirees
where they bad conversation. met., we naturally
dropped out of the Then,
when there was dancing, we had no
partners, and it was not exactly pleasant
to play the wall-flower while others
wore in the awing of everything. Letty
lmd said, “I think we had better go
In me and use the balance of our cash in
joining the Harvard Annex, and improv¬
ing our minds," when one evening, as
we sat forlorn on the piazza, who should
come to meet us but Mr. Dunn ! I
never was so glad He didn’t to see anybody in my
life before. seem to bear me
any grudge for having refused him.
He introduced us to all the young swells
and nabobs end their sisters as his par¬
ticular friends; in fact, I believe he told
one of the dowagers that 1 bait declined
to become Mrs. Dunn. He didn’t stay
jt great while; he was due somewhere else
—ut somebody’s couutry place—and i
was rather glad when he went; for al
though I had refused him, I couldn’t
Help feeling a sort of ownership in him,
mud when he flirted with the other wom¬
en I didn’t like it. One doesn’t like
ctig’s discarded lover to recover too
soon, if at all. We were no longer wall¬
flowers; wo danced and sang and rowed
and bowled with the best. We were
Mr. Dunn’s friends. I think perpaps
-Some of the women were even grateful to
yno becauso I had not married him.
However, it seemed to me that pres¬
ently -Cuthbert I forgot Mr. Dunn. themcasureof Clarence
liegau to fill my
thoughts completely. I “Ail hardly knew if
anybody else existed. shadows." men beside
were to me like We sat to¬
gether secluded on the piazza, or walked
in cm the the sands by moonlight, or strolled
pine woods aud read poetry, or
s-isg beating together on the rocks with the surf
at our feet. He seemed the em¬
bodiment of all poetry and lofty senti
r.iont and romance. He had a voice like
the wind in the pines, or an iEolian
li.irji, full of tender meaning and deep
unfathomable feelings I believed: be
was like the princess whose lips dropped read
pearls and rubies of speech. He
B'-ron so beautifully that one felt he
- would have written it all if Byron hadn’t,
s 1 be had composed sirs'lo some of
. i? Gly's divine verses, which he taught
ja • to sing. Oh.it seemed to me just
i n as if I were a real live heroine
b. athing romance. About this time T
Ii opened to have a severe neuralgic
b aadache, which confined me in my
JLttty room several days, and one evening when
came up to bed she said.
“I don’t the know, other, if I but were I should going to prefer mar¬
ry one or
Mr. Dunn to Cuthbert.”
“How disagreeable you are, Letty !
I said. “You had better come to
bed. ”
“Mr. Dunn is sincere at least, if he i
bald,” she pursued; “and he isn’t w
dreadful bald either.”
“Well, Clarence isn’t bald at all.”
“No, but he’s been going on with
Miss Erskine as if ''you didn’t exist
«!-oiling in the woods, looking into In
■yes, and repeating poetry. She shown,
me some lines he had written to her, am
[ believe they were the very same In
composed to you, only brown eyes were
changed to blue.”
“Letty, I don’t believe a word of if.
It’s only her vanity and your jealousy.
Wee these exquisite roses he sent v<
. :,d this delicious note.”
“I should think it was a recipe froi
Miss Parloa. Miss Erskine wore a fin
i much — real Jacqueminots, a dollai
,ipiece—in to dinner.”
“I don’t value mine according to tin
price; they’re Marshal Niels, too. If
lie had sent me a bunch of buttercup
they’d be as precious. But you don’t
deserve to read the note, and you
idia’n’t.”
“I don’t want to. I dare say it’s th<
fae-simile of Miss Erskine’s.”
“Letty,” said I, severely, “don’t apeak
tome again to-night.” thought it all
Of course I was nonsense,
f didn’t want Clarence to be mope
when I was out of sight, and him not to able./, malic
speak to a soul. I wanted
himself as fascinating as possible to the
other girls. To be sure, I made believe
I was jealous of Miss Erskine playfully,
when I went down stairs again, and
pouted about it; and he said, just as 1
knew he would, that Miss Erskine was a
nice person, who threw herself at a
man’s head, however, and demanded at¬
tentions ; and her ogre of a mother was
so afraid somebody would marry her for
her money that it was a great lark to
scare the old lady a little; but as for
falling in love wi’th Miss Erskine, es¬
pecially when another person was in the
world, that was simply impossible. After
that they got up some private theatri¬
cals for a charity, and Clarence had to
take the part of Miss Erskine’s lover,
*ud although he acted it Erskine to perfection, didn’t it
wasn’t pleasant. Mrs.
'ike it either. “It looks too real,” said
she.
“They would be poor actors if il
didn’t,” I said.
“Why, he’s—kissing her!” she cried
“It’s only a stage kiss,” I assured her.
ft did seem to me that he rather overdid
i be part.
“1 made desperate love,” said lie,
I'.'toward, “just because that old harri¬
dan was looking on. I knew yon would
understand. Kissed her? Yes, I kissed
her; sho seemed to expect it—such a
dose!”
“But you needn’t have kissed her at
rehearsal. ”
“True ! that didn’t occur to me. Live
and learn.”
I was sitting on the beach one morn¬
ing a little later with Mrs. Erskine,
watching Clarence and Miss Erskine
swimming among the breakers.
“I do wish Rose would come in,” said
her mother, fretfully. “I’m afraid she’ll
get fond of this Mr. Cuthbert, they’re
thrown together so much.” I gave a
little start. “All the young ladies seem
to be perfectly wild about tlie fellow ;
but I do wish ho wouldn’t make love to
Rose, and make her believe she’s so ir¬
resistible. Perhaps if she hadn’t a for¬
tune 1 should believe in him more. Yon
ought to thank your stars, Miss Linda,
that you’re a portionless girl, and your
lovers are all disinterested.”
“Mrs. Erskine,” said I, “I will tell
you something. You needn’t Cuthbert's give your¬
self any uneasiness about Mr.
iutentions. I am engaged to Mr. Cuth¬
bert. It hasn’t come out yet—” dear
“Let us congratulate you, my
Miss Linda,” said she, and she really
kissed my cheek. “My heart feels
light. You can’t tell how I’ve been put
to my wits’ end to keep Rose under my
eye and out of harm’s way. Mr. Cuth¬
bert is so taking ! But now I may take
my ease with the other chaperons.
Thank you for the confidence, dear. 1
really feel as if you had done me a favor;
and 'Mr. Cuthbert's a real hero of ro¬
mance, after all, with no mercenary
feelings. Now, if Mr. Dunn hail fan¬
cied Rose, I should have had no mis¬
givings.” “I don’t think Clarence is
fond oi
money, or lie never would have thought
of me, ” I said.
“Well,. I dare say; only I can’t tell
yon how much I’m obliged to you, I
shall always regard you ns a friend.”
This was a little different from the
way she turned upon me one day, a
month later, when, having returned
from a steamboat excursion with a large
party from the house, it was found that
Clarence and Miss Erskine were missing.
“I am going back with Miss Erskine for
her sun-umbrella,” he had said to mo on
tlie boat. “She left it on a bench in the
park, and I can’t let her go alone, you
know. If we lose this boat there’s an¬
other an hour later.” But the next boat
did .not bring them. Mrs. Erskine spent
most of the night down at the wharf
with some companions, and when I went
down-stairs next morning she was still
in her excursion dress, with dishevelled
hair, and holding an open letter.
“See wlmt you've done,” she said,
giving me the letter. “You engaged to
him ! You ! You connived at this, you
hypocrite!’’
“Dear Mamma” (wrote Rose) —
“Don’t lie anxious about us. Clarence
and I went immediately- to the church at
Beverly Springs, and wero married be¬
fore your boat reached the wharf. I
knew' you’d never consent, and it’s so
much more romantic to elope.
“Affectionately your daughter,
“Rose Cuthbert.”
There was a note for me, too, very
brief; “I love you, Linda, but
‘Would the flame that we’re so rich in
Light a tire in the kitchen, the spit ?’
Or the little god of love turn
That’s my only excuse for being a
knave.”
Letty and I returned to our work. It
would have been better for us if we had
never tried to make acquaintance with
the world of the idle and happy, never
tried to become a part of it. We had
spent our trifle of mouev foolishly
enough, and had gained a bitter surprised experi¬
ence. But after a while I was
to find that I didn’t feel as blighted
as I expected—didn’t have brain-fever or
nervous prostration, like my favorite
heroines. I began to think that my love
for Clarence had been only skin-deep
after all. I had been taken with his
debonair graces; I had made no acquaint¬
ance with his soul. I began to compare
him with Mr. Dunn, to Clarence’s dis¬
credit. It was rather late in the day,
to he sure, to appreciate Mr. Dunn.
But J fell to thinking of him every day.
I watched for him every evening,
and started whenever the door-beii
T3/11P* I.-stty, day,
“After all,” said one
throwing down the a veiling paper,
“it was lucky you didn’t marry Mr.
Dunn.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Oh, he has managed to lose all his
money—all but an annuity.” if I
lie had said to me once that ever
changed my mind, if ever I thought I
could love him, perhaps I would let him
know, and I had promised I would.
“ He will never ask me again to marry
him,” I thought, and so I kept my prom¬
ise. Every day I thought as I left my
work, “I shall find him waiting for me
at home,” Every morning when the
postman came up the street my heart
beat double ; but at the end of a fort¬
night nothing had happened. One sum
mer night, after the day’s work was
over, Letty and I were resting in old- our
little parlor that opened upon the
fashioned garden in Roxbury, with its
hollyhocks and love-lies-bleeding and
London pride—for I forgot to tell you
tliis was a little place which had been
left to us, with the trifle of money we
squandered so foolishly, and from which
we went in and out to our w'ork in the
city, being unable to let it. It was a
warm night, and we had lighted no
lamps, and the fire-flies were groping
among the rose bushes outside, where
the trees made a soft shade, and the
scent of flowers blew in at the open
window. As the twilight dropped through down the
and the stars trembled
leaves'I saw Mr. Dunn open the gate
and come slowly up the garden. 1
could not be mistaken. I had watched
for him too long to be deceived. I flew
to the open door, but nobody rang. there
Then I threw it wide open, and
was no one to be seen. I ran down th
garden ' path, but met nobody. returning t
“ Oh, Letty,” I cried, dead—L
the parlor—“oh, Letty, he is
is dead!”
“ Who’s dead, for pity’s sake?”
“ Mr. Dunn, Letty.” is that t>
“Mr. Dunn? And what
you?”
“What is that to me, Lettv! Why.
it is everything to me. I saw him com
up the garden path, and the garden i~
empty. I couldn’t be mistaken—don't
I know every turn of his head—”
“I congratulate you on your discov¬
ery,” said Letty. “It’s rather late,
though, isn’t it, to find out that Mr.
Dunn is everything to you ?”
“Better late than never.” said a voic
at my elbow, and Mr. Dunn’s arms were
about me. I had left the hall door open
in my alarm.
“I was going away to seek my fortune
in Australia to-morrow,” he explained, could
still holding me fast; “but I not
go without oue last glimpse of in. yon. 1
Linda. I didn’t mean to come
ought not to have come in.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” I cried.
“I only meant to see you, if possible,
moving about your pleasant home, 1
standing alone in the dusky garden out¬ sah
side, only to know that you were
and happy once more, I was disap
pointed to find the house so dark, and
stepped back into the street. I could
hardlv make up my mind to go away,
and while I hesitated Miss Letty lighted
a lamp, and I came back in time to hear
your confession.”
“And you are going to Australia to¬
morrow ?” I said. enough
“We will defer the trip long
to buy tickets for two,” he answered. I
said we were shop-girls still, and so we
are; that is, I resign my situation to¬
morrow in favor of Rose Cuthbert, whose
husband lias required only a year in
which to lose her fortune. Yesterday I
received the letter I wrote Mr. Dunn
from the Dead-letter Office. 1 had just
directed it to “Mr. Dunn, Boston/’ ns if
there was only one Mr. Dunn in the
world. When I look in his face, I won¬
der I could ever have thought him too
old; when I read his heart, I wonder I
could ever iiave believed that romance
and lie had parted company. —Harper's
Bazar.
“It is no use,” said the policeman to
the sufferer whose pocket was picked on
the Fourth of July, “for you to put a
guard on your watch, unless you also
keep a watch on your guard. Move
on ’
A Charge.
At the first assault npon Vicksburg,
says M. Quad, a captain in the Illinois
regiment whose company numbered
about sixty men was determined to
charge the parapet. Three times he led
his company np, and tnree times it was
hurled back to the foot of the slope.
Standing a fair target for the muskets
above he called out to his men to make
one more attempt.
“It’s no use, captain J” called out one
of the men.
“You can do it—yon must do it!
Once more. Now for the glory of old
Illinois l”
“Old Illinois glory be hanged!”
yelled the *
same voice. “If she had ex¬
pected one company of her boys to lick
Pemberton’s whole army some of the
Chicago papers would have said so before
this."
HE WASN'T TRIFLING.
“Are you married ?” asked the justice
of a mail who had been arrested for va¬
grancy. married, but wife
No, I am not my
is. r
“No trifling with the court.”
“Heaven bless us ! I’m not trifling
with the court. I was married, but got
a divorce. My wife got married again, but
bat I didn't; so I am not married,
my wife is.”—Austin Siftings.
AWAY DOWN SOUTH.
ABOUT THE MOONSHINERS OF SOUTH
CAROLINA.
Why They Make Whisky, and How The,
Make U — Very tattle Profit in the
Business.
Let any man, except a Government
official, thoroughly investigate the moon
shine business in South Carolina and
he extenuation cannot help of the bn t illicit find^ distillers. somethingjin The
district around Greenville, S. C., was at
one time a perfect nest of moonshiners,
and last spring the county jail was
crowded with prisoners awaiting trial on
charge of making contraband whisky,
and the number was distilleries being constantly
added to. Illicit in the
Paris and Boston Mountains and other
strongholds is more nearly broken up
at this date than at any other period
since the war.
It is rare to find a moonshiner who is
not a farmer. In forty-nine cases out He
of fifty he is also a poor man.
lives up in the valleys of the mountains
where he is sure of nothing but a good
corn crop, and he lives in the most prim¬
itive style. His home is a log cabin
of the poorest description, ignorance
surrounds him, and he has to work hard
for whatever crop his lands yield. It is
not one out i>f six who owns a foot of
land, each holds his heme by paying
rent. shiner inaSouthem Take the toughest-looking jail and will moon¬ find
you
the only charge against him is that of
illicit distilling and its results. You
will be told that he is honest in his deal¬
ings with individuals, a hard-working
man, and, in some instances, a prom¬
inent church member.
There are two excuses which the
moonshiner assigns for his course in de¬
fying the laws of the land. Up to the
war there was no government tax on
whisky, and almost every Southern plan¬
tation was supplied with a still. Every
planter made whisky, and nearly every
man drank it, and it was looked upon as
a natural beverage. Begin he a conversation will
witlia moonshiner, and at once
advance the argument:
“If my father could make whisky, why
can’t I?”
“There was no tax then.”
“But why should there be one now ?”
“Well, it is the law.”
“So they say; but if there was no law
twenty years ago why should there be
one now ?”
You may argue and discuss, but you
cannot convince him that it is a crime in
him to follow in the footsteps of those
who were never disturbed in doing as he
does. He may be good-hearted, but he
is ignorant. He knows nothing of the
world outside of the three or four coun¬
ties around him. and he looks upon the
government as a tyrant imposing collection. unjust
duties and forcing their
The other excuse is his poverty. As I
said before, his main crop is corn. He
may raise a few potatoes to sell, but
very few, and he never has any garden
truck to dispose of. After his land rent
is paid for in corn he must market the
rest to supply his family is with wliat is
needed. Greenville a market for
points in the mountains moonshiner thirty miles
awav. If the can borrow
or hire a second mule or horse (he gen¬
erally owns one), and hire a wagon he
must take three days over the late fall
roads to get a market. If each trip
brcAght him $5 for his load he would be
elated. He is in fact shut out from
markets. He can raise com, but lie
cannot get profit. it to market He in have a&y way to
realize a must clothes
and provisions, and how shall he get
them ?
There is corn, are
and ravines and hiding places, and
whisky can be carried away six gallons
at a time and sold for ready cash to men
calling themselves the respectable por¬
tion of the community. Some one has a
Becond hand still for sale cheap, two or
three neighbors are ready to form a co¬
partnership, and and it arbitrary is by a natural train of turn cir¬
of events an
cumstances that the farmer turns moon¬
shiner. The still is purchased, set to
work in some spot supposed to be safe
from the revenue officers, and the work
of earning coarse clothes and humble
provisions I talked goes with on. half dozen different
a
shinners regarding the profits of illicit
distilling. There are none. If the
owner of the best forty-gallon still in the
mountains was left at peace for five con¬
secutive years he could not earn the
money paid the average mechanic. He
must buy his corn, ran risks of accident,
“tote” his whisky down to the towns,
and the men his who buy of him take ad¬
vantage of situation. He must sell
his “Mountain Dew” for $1 a gallon,
and he is the one who takes all the risks.
No one can point to a moonshiner who
has greatly bettered his previous circum¬
stances. He may have paid off some
old debts, reclothed his family and put
by a few dollars to pay for medicines
and a visit from the doctor, but he lias
not purchased land or live stock.
Eight or ten years ago one moon shiner
could not have been bribed with §1,000
to give another away. They were a fra¬
ternity in which every man felt honor
bound. All this has been changed.
When a still was captured by some stroke
of good luck it was given out that this
one or that one had betrayed the lo¬
cality. Thus suspicions were aroused
of each other, and in order to get even
actual informers came to the front.
Moonshiners who were arrested were
promised immunity if they would betray
others, and in this way the fraternity
was demoralized and at this time is
nearly broken up. There is not now
in operation one still where there used
to be ten, and every third resident of
the mountains is a spy upon his neigh¬
bors.
Whenever a raid is made and a still
captured, an informer leads the officers
to the spot. For promises or cash he
leads the raid against a neighbor whom
he has known oil his life, and in soma
instances it is a man whom he encouraged
to enter into the business, The result
is to create a thirst for vengeance, and
when the moonshiner is again at liberty
he will demand blood. It is rarely that
resistance is offered the revenue officers
when their identity is known, and the
moonshine informer who has any pru¬
dence wiii keep far away from the moun¬
tains. Many of them have been shot.
and family feuds have covered many a
dark rock with plashes of blood.
While the moonshiner must obey the
the law, he has more excuses than any
other criminal for breaking it. It is a
question with mm, he thinks, whether
he shall live or starve. No man reasons
with him, but one set betrays bim and
the officers capture him. He is flung
] n to jail to be tried when convenient the
witnesses are If, mainly and‘the men who are worse
than Uims punishment is in
most cases far greater than a man in
other circumstances would receive__)/
Quad in the Detroit Free Press.
~ “
Houma ok the bowery.
the varied scenes it presents.
-
A Reporter SnitUea its Phenomena and
n, ' v “ Youth.
[From the New York Sun.]
After a restless n-ght, followed by
early visit to a dentist, that neaptide of
benevolence which succeeds the sacrifice
of an aching double-tooth flooded the
soul of a reporter as he watched the first
awakening of the Bowery to the dawn of
another day. Its myriad eyes blinked
slowly boys open, one by one, as the shop
took down the shutters, and its
many greedy mouths yawned drowsily
and then shut with a vicious snap
white-faced clerks opened and closed the
doors. The manifold signs of “Hot
Whisky” attested the misleading spirit
of the age; a delicious trio of circular
placards of “Hot Sweet Cider” jumped
madly up thirstily and down in in a show window,
pulsing unison with the fever¬
ish throbbingsof a cider mill; and shame¬
less photographers began to hang out
their ghastly collections of morbid ana¬
tomical trophies.
A street scavenger, ragged and un
clean, shuffled past like a belated night¬
mare, and a last evil vision of the night,
a young girl, flaunted by. Soon the last
all-night restaurant turned off the gas,
swept out the shop, and dusted off the
elderly pies in the window; the last light
faded out of the flaring lanterns of the
cheap lodging dens, and the “Single
beds, 10 cents; double, 25 cents,” began
to disgorge men,” late their victims; Two “sand¬
wich partners in a “double,”
quarrelled the on dark the curbstone transaction, over the odd
cent in but their
language, provoked though clearly actionable,
no actual breach of the Bow¬
ery peace. jar
The rush and of an elevated train,
the deafening rattle of a fire milkmen engine at
full speed, and the yells of ply¬
ing their nefarious trade, and raging at
the sight of Croton wasted on pavement
and windows, swept like a restless tidal
wave of noise through the street. Two
antediluvian tramps, the one a scarred
and battered ebromo of the Hon. John
Kelly and the other a expurgated edition
of General Grant, reeled by, arm in arm.
The terrible temptations in the window
of a dime museum blushed anew in the
morning sunlight and looked reproach¬
fully at each other’s mops of liair; nf gang
of Italian laborers, with picks and shovels
s waving dangerously, sti aggled uoisch ssly
by on their way to work, and, as if with
common malice, around eveiy corner
dashed shrill-voiced newsboys like
Mother Cary’s chickens, darting in and
out of the disordered ranks and scream¬
ing in the dazed faces of the wretched
I
Seeing a crowd forming, the reporter
hastened to where a lot of vicious idlers
had gathered which leaned around a girl telegraph pole,
against intoxicated a scarce six¬
teen yearn old, and helples s
from opium or alcohol. As the rough
voices and coarse jeers penetrated her
dulled ears, her maudlin smile changed
to a look of shame and terror, and she
covered her face with her hands. An
effort to escape showed her unable to
walk without aid, and she clutched the
nearest railway pillar lips. for support. A
wild cry escaped her At that in¬
stant the delight of the spectators was
rudely interrupted by a gray-haired, who
powerfully-framed roughly aside workman, and forced his flung
iliem way
through the ring. As the girl turned
from her persecutors she recognized the
new comer.
“ Coom, me lass, coom wi’ fayther,”
and the rough voice was pitiful, the
hard hands gentle, as he raised her and
led her away. There was no word of
reproach wasted on tier, and none of re¬
proof to the scattered crowd as the
father’s am closed round her, guiding
the wandering purposeless been steps more
tenderly than if he had a woman
and she a little child.
As the reporter watched the strange
pair, and thought of the goal of suicide
toward which the feet of the girl were
surely tending, he suddenly felt the he
near presence of a helping hand. As
turned quickly the callow youth behind
him seemed to sink into a deep, peace
ftil trance; two ferret eyes, very close
together, focussed stariugly on the tip
of a nose, which, like Earl Douglas’s
drawbridge, “just trembled ou the rise.”
The mere fact that one hand of this
thoughtful young man had just been
discovered astray in another man's pocket
utterly failed to disturb his meditations,
and as the reporter caught the stray
hand firmly, and called the owner's at¬
tention to the circumstance, the act
seemed vaguely a violation of the sacred
rite of hospitality. aroused the reverie, the
Rudely from
stranger looked at his recovered hand
with surprised recognition, as if it were
a newly-born and wholly unjustifiable
addition to his family circle, but ex¬
hibited no vulgar embarrassment. Tak¬
ing in at a glance tbe stale details of the
reporter’s costume, he observed irrele¬
vantly: must ’ave ben hoff thr
“Yer trousers
wery pattern as me hold vuns hat ome.
Hi vos a vonderin’ ’ow they vos a valkin
nout vithout me.”
“But,” persisted the reporter, “your
hand was in my coal pocket, you remem¬
ber.”
‘ ‘Veil, vot if it vos. I halways carries
me ’ands bin me coat pockets—so. Hj
knowed the trousers, an’ Hi never
stopped to hexamine vether the coat vos
hat saing-lined claw hor ha Prince Hal¬
bert. Veil, so long, see yer subsek
vently,” and as the scamp vanished
around the comer, the reporter realized
that the Bowery was wide awake at last.
I HE JOKER'S BUDGET,
WHAT WE FIND T3E
PAPEIJs. “I'Moi; or.
BEFORE THE
fstJtt&st Kearney street hav/strta iTv“*S t”” 110118 on
Kent,, !o " BK their eta tJMV* 5er£S“ «“ 01
I co nyersation „„
morrow. say James, we ’ave a bli,-]'*' 011ii a y to
“ Yes; and isn’t that what country^ «,
\uiat ‘i’ athe « bloody V larsted thing aboht'v- f Bu
all
sur<
com
“ What will we do with & e day,
fred ?” a l,
mind “Well, James, I’ve ’arf made up
“A to capital go shooting.” idea, aa<
on if you’ll invite me boy. I’n go wit]
me ”
“Oome along, old lad. I’ m -
sport an Rafael. over there.” I’ve ’eard there’s^aoik „ 0 ca P ifa
,
• “Whatis the game?”
“Well I’m sure, I don’t know
know, the buffalo whether or the bear hanimals families, beloi/n bat v™
told they re large and £ I’m
qrntoes I believe they ravenous. Tj
tuese h Americans call them <C
tor have such
names Francisco Post. things, you know ' an
IN SECTIONS.
The Secretary of the Lime-Kiln Glut
picked up a communication from Jones
Cross-Roads, follows: Maryland, and read
Honored Sir— The oscillations of th
transatlantic affairs and the hypotlietica
concordmenacing imperial Teutonic machinations of th,
with rumored coalescence dynasty, agglomerate,
a with Ital
against the Gallic Republic, renders l
an unfortunate obligation that a gradua
ted progression be made by all the po
litical and literary aggregations ofthi
utiparalled commonwealth towarc
maintaining unintiruidation that state of unintimidatet
possessed by which has 'ever beei
and must be our unsurpassed conntr
possessed to sempiterriiiy
“Secretary, how ranch mo’ am dar’ t(
dat communicashun ?” interrupted till
the President.
“Five pages, sah.”
“Den put de res’ of it on de table an
hold it down wid a brick. We will tak,
it in seckshuns, one seckshun at a meet
mg."
BETTER BE A LAWYER.
“Is it true that the case of Zabriskii
against Van Riper is settled?” asked Pat] 1
reporter of Lawyer L, M. Ward, of
erson, N. J. This case has been in thJ
courts for a long time. “tliecasi
“Yes,” replied Mr. Ward,
is settled.”
“And it is said, Mr. Ward, that yon
have farm.” come into possession of th]
“That’s so,” replied Mr. Ward, laugh]
ing, ‘ ‘I’ve got the farm, and Garry Acker
son. other of side, Hackensack, has got all the the lawyer on I th] goj
the money,
a mortgage on farm, and then I paid
the balance and became the owner]
The money I paid went to Ackersou!”
“And what have the two farmers got;
Mr. Ward?”
“Nothing. When we began the east
there were two well-off fanners and twfl
poor lawyers. Now there are two pool
farmers and two well-off lawyers.”
ASTRONOMY. yerj
“Soyer’sbeen studyin' figgers, is
said a negro to his son who had jus
come from school. .1
“Yes, sir.”
‘ ‘Knowes near ’bout all de figgers i|
de book, I reckin’.”
“I don’t know, sir. Iknowagoo*
many of them.” studyin ? I
“What else is yer been
“I’ve been studyin’ astronomy.’’
“What’s dat, chile ?”
“It tells about the stars and moonan|
8U ’bout de sun?
“What is yer foun’ out
“That it is ninety-five millions of mnq
hl his squint
TTie old man oast eyes up,
ed book’s fur de sun am’
“Dat a liar, high. Take da
more den two hours make dea
see how low yer ken
weeds ."—Arkansaw Traveler.
WITH THE WATCH.
The boy that wears a watch is an mi
port ant character. At school he is
vied, and on the street he is respeeM
None of the boys they grab might him break and his throj timd
him down for twisting
keeper. He has a way of
chain watch when when lie talks, he hears and a of ral!ro lookup ^3
his six-fire or e^l
and says twelve-ten, or stand arouti
sixteen. The other boys admirat on J
and regard him with ;
grows with up distinguished and probably an, goes but m |
a
an,
admired it .—Arkansaw Traveler.
they shine.
Boarding-house keepers were vo
only ones who profitted by j the p n a ptis
tions held at Saratoga
and Presbyterians. Baptisses ii s tay *■
‘I wish you , ^ as h
ber of that persuasion.
Presbyteyuns. “Sll'bekasejoushine^more^ liar} dan
A FARMERS said Fanner FORESIGHT-^ Jon^
“John,” andje tbem t
aU our and city, visit relatives^ ns. ernui fflt
come the house J ss soov ° C
to state that j j a an
to M— cerW'-Oj»■>*”
m John. R wn women
,
ing off us every summer.
phia Herald.