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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.