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SIX LITTLE MAIDENS.
ril tell yoo * story, I'll sing yon a song,—
It’s not very short and it’s not very long,—
Of mx little maidens : in white they were
dressed, each the
Ani each was the sweetest and was
beat.
Invited for four—well, now, let me see :
Waiting was dull, so they got there at three.
Tin revere little Miss Kati<5 and Nellie and Sue,
And little Miss Bessie and Polly and Prue.
ft mifdit have been June, T if it hadn t be
May, beautiful
The first of the month, and a day;
They kissed when they met, as the , ladies , all
<lo—
Kate, Susie, and Nell; Bess, Polly, and Prue.
They danced and thev skipped and they sang
a '“ 10}
and and '
And they formed pretty groups no in m the the snn sun
the shade;
And I said, when they asked mo of which I
was fond.
"Brunettes are the dearest, ... and so are the
blonde.
And that night as I bid them adieu at the
gate.—
Bess, Polly, and Prue, Rue, Nellie, and Kate,—
How I visited that “gnod-b>e!” could have
been ••how-d’y’-do!”
ADd I said: “Como at three !” so as to get them
at two!
—St. A 'Kholas, for August.
That Terrible Scar.
Midnight had tolled its solemn chime,
yet still the weary watcher sat be.si e
the hearthstone plying dim and her busy sunken, needle. her
Her eyes were
cheeks thin and pale, tier lips pinched
*ud purple, and her slender fingers so
®hrivelli d with the icy chill that was
fast palsying her that tho plain gold
ring on her wedding finger aud tho
thimble that she held were every now
and then dropping into her lap. Her
delicate form was shivering even under
the heavy shawl that she had thrown
About, her shoulders, and she looked c iften
swith ft wistful glance at the little bas¬
ket of fuel that stood beside the fire¬
place. passed and the clock
Another hour
ctruelc one.
4 4 He must soon be here now,” whis¬
pered she in a half-frightened tone.
“I will lay aside my work and make
things as cheerful as 'l can.”
So she brushed the ashes from tho
hearth, drew the coals together, threw
<011 them ahandful of the carefully-saved
•fuel and fanned the faint flame till it
flashed high in (lie chimney Then aught she
looked about the room to see if
■could be mended; but the few articles it
held were all in their wonted places,
and everything as neat as the hands of
love couid make it. An arm-cliair was
■drawn from a corner close to the crack¬
ling fire, the dressing gown that hung
upon it spread out anew the fender. and a pair The of
slippers were trimmed upon afresh, table
lamp was beside it the d knife
dusted, and was pine, a
almost as bright ns though the blade had
been silver instead of steel.
“I have done the best I can,” said the
pale watcher, ns again she sank into her
chair. “Oh, if I were only sure of one
kind word,” she continued, “Hmk 1”
fiho started up and listened, ‘It is he—
and how lie bangs the gate? I shall
have a fearful time with him. ”
She hastened to the front door aud
gently opened staggered it. in, and reeling this
A man
way and that, reached finally the room
his gentle wife lmd made so bright and
cheerful. But what was her reward? A
Tolley of oaths so foul that it seemed as
if an army of fiends bad spoken with
one voice. He cursed the niggardly tire,
though to make that she and her chil¬
dren had been half frozen all day; he
■wore at tho patched dressing-gown, thin wardrobe
though out of her own
•he had planned it; he raved at the bread
«nd meat, though her own lean fingers
had earned them both. And when, angel
like and woman-like, too, she gave him
» smile for every frown, an endearing
epithet for every oath, and would have
Around her arms about him to win him
back to reason ami himself, lie raised
hia heavy band and dealt her a power¬
ful blow; aye, he struck her till every
nerve quivered with anguish, and sho
his wife and the mother of his beauteous
Children! And now, when sho lay
prostrate before him, he raised himself
to kick her from thence. A slight young
hand pushed off the booted foot even a-*
it wa= falling on the trembling woman,
And a voice, agonized in its tones, ex¬
claimed :
“Forbear, my father, f r though your will
Crife, she is yet my mother, and I
Cave tier from your rage !”
The eyes of tho drunkard quailed a
moment before the upturned gaze ot
his first-born, so mournfully holy was the
look that beamed from his tearful face :
then a fiendish glare burned in his own,
and exclaiming:
“You, too !—must I level my house¬
hold ere I can find peace ?” he seized the
glisteniuc knife aud struck his child.
*******
/
“Will he live?” moaned the pool
mother to the surgeon, when he had
bandaged the boy’s head. “He is very
pale and weak.”
“It is a ghastly and dangerous wound,”
*aid the surgeo 1 ; “only th ■ eight of an
inch deeper and it would have been
fatal—vet with care he might survive.
tone “Mother,”—there was a pathos in the
that drew her eyes earnestly to the
speaker, a stripling of about 17 years—
'‘mother, I aui going away.”
“Away !—and where, Ernest ?” she
inquired.
“I eanuot say.” he replied ; “G.hI
must direct my steps—but go from here
I must. The curse of the drunkard’s
con’s on me. None will regard me—
®*ne even give me work. And more,
mo'her, if I stay here I must forget my
IBible, for how can I honor my father
When he so dishonors himself?”
V< ry long did the boy talk and plead
•re he won the tearful consent; but she
gave it at length, aud, with a little knap
Cack on his back, his mother’s Bible in
■one pocket and her slender purse in the
■other, Ernest went forth in the great
world to seek, not so much fortnue ot
fame, as that peace and joy which a
drunken father would not give him in
his home.
Years passed away, and there ■after came the nc
pdings from Ernest, save that
first one, and each quarter brought tin
mother a remittance, and each succes¬
sive quarter one of a higher figure.
Welcome, too, were they all; for, bill
for such generous aid the workhouse h:n
claimed her and her children ; for down¬
ward, still downward, went her husband
his absence no longer counted by hours,
but weeks and months.
In a bustling city, many miles frort
his native. town, a stranger one merh
f onnd pim in a gutter, half frozen
starved, weary and sick. Like a g< »< m
Samaritan, he picked him up, and as 11
was j 00 W( . a ] t to walk, placed him in
conveyance and had him taken to lii
own home. A warm bath, clean gai
ments wholesome food and a soft be.
were freely offered lmn, and passive as ;
child when worn and languid, he snl
fwed tf) deal with Jlim as they
chose and soon sank into a deep, re
slumber.
It was' hours ere he awoke, ana t’nei
^ 8ftemed na in a dream. The filthy
gutter in which he had lost his con¬
sciousness was nowexchanged for a downy
bed, with pillowb white and soft as snow,
with snow-white counterpane and damask
hangings. His rags had disappeared,
and in their sten.l he saw himself robed
in fine linen. The dirt was washed from
his face and hands, liis hair was combed,
and his tangled beard neatly shorn.
He put back the curtains. Glad, golden
sunbeams were stealing through the
crimson drapery of an alcoved window,
and their brilliant light showed a lofty
chamber, with frescoed .walls, a carpet
from Oriental looms, and furniture that
a prince might covet. “It is a dream,”
breathed he, and lie closed his eyes.
Light footsteps aroused him soon, and
unclosing him them again he saw bending
over a noble-looking and man in life’s
early prime, beside him a lovely
woman, and in the eyes of both large
tears were standing.
“Tell me,” said he, eagerly, “do I
dream, or am I the poor drunkard so
greatly cared for ?”
‘ You are sick and we must minister to
you,” replied the lady.
“Sick ! ay, sin sick,” he said. “Bn 1
you do not know how vile I am, or you
would cast me out at once. Listen. 1
have broken the heart of mv wife. I hav.
driven my only son from heme; ay, and
half killed him first; a. d I have ill-treate.
my other children till they fear m
more than the evil one. Will you car
for me now ?”
He almost skrieked out the question
and it seemed as though life and dent I
hung on the answer.
“We must forgive even as we woul.
be forgiven.” “While said the be master of tin
house. you can nappy, stay
with us.”
A week passed away, and still the old
man tarried in that beautiful home, now
toying gently with Lily, the wee, deli¬
cate babe, and then playing gay household, pranks
with Harry, the pride of the
a boy of four summers; now dreaming
in the pleasant chamber where he first
awoke again to manhood, and then lolling
in an arm-chair in the parlor, tears and
smiles chasing each other over his
wrinkled cheeks as the lovely lady of the
mansion sang, now a gay ditty and then
a Rolemn hymn. But he never offered
to cross the threshold.
“I dare not,” he would say, when
asked to ride or walk; “there is danger
in the street, and this calm is so very
sweet. If it could only last. ” And then
he would sigh, aud sometimes weep and
sob like a child.
“There is to be a grand rally of tlie
friends of temperance to-night—the new
and splendid hall is to be inaugurated.
Banners will wave, music ring, and
ladies smile 1 Shall I invite you, my
wife, to accompany me ?” said the mas¬
ter of the house.
“Of course, after such a programme,” depend
said she, gayly, “and you may
upon my going, too. How soon must I
be ready ?"
“In an hour’s time,” ho replied. “1
will send a carriage for yon, and meet
you myself at the door of the hall. Be
sure that you are ready, for there will be
a tremendous crowd.”
“I will be in time—trust me for that,”
said sbe, and hastened to pterform her
duties to the little ones; but what was
her astonishment when she returned to
the parlor, all bonneted and cloaked, to
find her wtanger guest awaiting her.
“I cannot surely be tempted there,”
said he, in a low sail voice; “but if you
will suffer me to ride with you 1 will
gladly plete go. there It may salvation he that I shall hero com¬
the com¬
menced.
Gladly did the lady acquiesce in the
request, and they were soon at the door
of the thronged hall. Not her husband,
but an intimate friend of his joined them
there, and led them to some reserved
seats near the platform.
There had been stirring music by the
band, fervent prayers by the clergy and
thrilling speeches from orators from dis¬
tant parts of tho country, the hearts of
that vast multitude were aroused as they
had never been before to the dangers of
the cup. Then, while yet they were all
riveted to the subject, the president an¬
nounced “a voice from our horn?.’’
There was a breathless silence for a
moment, and then long and loud acclam
mations greeted the good Samaritan of
our sketch as he bowed to the waiting
throng. It had seemed to them as the
last speaker hushed his voice, that the
theme, world wide as it is, was quite ex¬
hausted, hut so impassioned was the
eloquence that now mastered it, that
they hung upon every word as if he had
spoken of something fresh from heaven.
Where others had generalized, he in¬
dividualized. He did not take the mass
of drunkards, bnt onlv one cult of them
all, and he portrayed his course in such
vivid colors that the audience seemed
gazing listening upon dissolving views rather than
to chosen words; and so
wrought up were they that when he pic¬
tured that horrible scene in the tragedy
of drink, where the husband levels to
the floor the wife which once slept so
sweetly the upon his bosom, the wife that is
mother of his children, they seemed
to and hear sobs the and gentle sighs and broke wronged* one fall,
forth from the
assembly. The speaker paused till they
were from quiet, liis wiping, meanwhile, the tears
own cheeks.
“Do you ask,” said he, when he agr.::.
resumed his theme, “do you ask why I
stand here to-night and speak these
things ? Why, I not only speak but feel
them? Look at this,” he said, lifting
the glossy locks from his left temple.
••Do yon see that scar on my forehead ?’
In the brilliant gaslight it was per¬
fectly visible to many a watchful eye; it
was a ghastly frightful-looking scar,
marring the beauty of a brow that might
otherwise have been a painter’s model.
Slowly and solemnly did the speaker
utter each word, then as he stood push¬
ing back the raven hair, he continued:
“After the drunkard had felled his wife
to the floor he would have kicked her
prostrate form but that her young son
rushed between the two. What did the
drunkard do then ?” he exclaimed in a
voice of thunder. Another pause and a
breathless liush. More slowly, mere
solemnly did lie speak: “He seized n
knife,” lie continued; “aye, and the one.
too, liis gentle wife herself bad laid be¬
side bis plate for him to carve the dish
tier worn aud weary fingers had e.u.
to sustain his life: he seized it and—d
this!” and he pointed to liis fort-hen.
“To my grave shall I carry this scar at.'
not till I rpst in my grave shall I ecus
to plead for the drunkard’s children.”
With these words fresh on his lips In
withdrew. There was no applauding,
hut a silence as of death rested in tin
vast hall. Ere it was broken by prayc’
or hymn an aged man, older though it
Beemed with grief than years, tottered
upon the platform. Trembling in every
nerve and muscle, he leaned against tin
desk, and finally grasped it for support.
Many times did his lips move ere he
could utter an audible sound, and when
he did speak his words were rather felt
than heard.
“The son has spoken,” he said, “now
let the father. With the scar on his
forehead yet bleeding, my Ernest, my lii.
first bom, my noble boy, went from
home to seek among strangers the peace
•Ins fa'lier would not. give him on his own
hearthstone. Ten years from that time,
one week ago to-night, that son picked
up his father from a gutter, and instead
of spurning him as a fallen sinner he
took him to his home as though he had
been the angel instead of the demon of
liis youth. Deep is the scar on his fore¬
head, but deeper are the sears on my
heart. Ye have heard him—ye see me.
Let the story and the sight be your sal¬
vation, as it even now is my owu.”
The old man was exhausted and fell
hack into his sou’s arms.— Truth.
Romantic Old Age.
A veritable romance was concluded in
the orthodox fashion in Philadelphia.
As the steamship British Crown swung
up to the American Line dock an old
woman who had been walking the deck
since sunrise leaned over the taffrail,
and ejaculated, ungramatically. “That’!)
him !” and disappeared in the cabin.
At the same moment a still more elderly
man on the dock shrieked “That’s my
Benedicta!” gambolled up the gang¬
plank, followed by a body guard of
friends, and rushed after the retreating
woman into the cabin.
Twenty-eight years ago a scene as sad
as this was joyous was enacted by the same
pair on the Ouuard dock at Liverpool,
when Thomas Barbour bade farewell to
Bauedicta Price and set out to find hit!
fortune amid his kin beyond the sea.
Kin at home had made the union of this
couple an impossibility for the time
being, and although their ages ware
then respectively forty-two and thirty
five years they conclu led to await the
removal by time of the family obstruc¬
tions to the course of true love. Time
took nearly a third of a century for tho
task, meantime up-etling most of the in¬
stitutions of the year 1855 except the
ocean mail. Its expeditions hardly kept
p ice, however, with the epsitolary ardor
of the lovers until about a month ago,
when the strain o'l the postal service
ceased with a letter from Miss Benedicta
announcing that at last she was free, to
redeem the pledge she had kept so well.
The result was the union and demonstra¬
tion on the British Crown.
As the concluding episode, the happy
old couple took a carriage and were
driven to Frankford, where they were
married in the evening. Barbour owns
a cooper shop aud has several thousand
dollars invested in real estate.
Up In the Mountains.
Dr. Felix Oswald says that consump¬
tion is more easily cured than ony other
chronic disease. The population living
lit an elevation of 4,000 feet above the
sea level have been shown to be quite
free from consumption. What the Doc¬
tor calls “indigestion of respiration” is
bred o* humid climates and stagnant air.
He believes in the theory of the German
Dr. Koch that parasites are a phase of
the disease, but maintains that their
appearance does not amount to a death
sentence. “Cease to feed the lungs with
azotic gases,” he says, “and Dr. Koch’s
nnimalcula will starve and disappear.”
He claims that all except the first stages
of consumption can be snbdued by out¬
door exercise. He condemns the night
air superstitions, and recommends moun¬
tain excursions, even in the event of a
three-months’ tour under the disadvan¬
tages of insufficient clothing and pro¬
tracted fasts, as certain to effect a cure
in a majority of cases. He points out
malnutrition of the lungs as one of the
primary causes of consumption, and
suggests the fatty substances aud sweet
cream as best lung food. A vocal
effort, he says, does not injure the res¬
piratory organs; on the contrary it
strengthens them, and he thinks that
consumptives should envy cattle drivers,
“whose business gives them a plausible
pretext for yelling.” Too many clothes
he considers harmful, whereby the per¬
spiration is forced back upon the body,
and the lungs have to do double work.
“Say, George,” said the married man
whose wife had been ill, “I’ve dis¬
charged that nurse we had, and I’m
taking her place myself now.” ‘ ‘Taking
“Oh, I can do it about all,” was the re¬
ply. “I always was a sound sleeper.”
11‘ takes a good deal of courage to
write out the announcement: “Gone
down into the country to sponge off my
father-in-law. Be away all summer."
LOST IT ALL.
The Story ol the Man Alter Whom Coney
Inland \raa Named.
Everybody goes toConev Island now
srs’wws a.'SjzStS.S
laud granted a patent or deed of land
Oil the southwest end of Long Island to
an English woman belonging to a noble
family Embraced within this patent or
deed o, l.od ... i, boo, ,« One,
The'ladv ^enterprising who owned the land was of
an turn, and she tried to
make it pay. She invited some of the
Dutch from New York to settle on her
p ■ ,„ as ; 8 , low Gravesend
“liweries" °or torn.. Mhtan
quarre ed among ltmse i
,
ZeS se^nt oF&eM wmmd
s&z&'sxzisss
P Stt. ,i 7 .1 .hi, row the» -b»d on
name ot Cooney and his famdy-a wife
and child and a m i ' ’
who boarded with them This Cooney ,,
used to spend a Fu 18 1 Market to S> 1
as there was no ton se
ins stock in, he had o
and as for clothes and fuel ui winter he
had to do the best he could for himself
and family, or do wi nout.
People used to wonder how on earth
Cooney managed to live; but somehow
he did manage—they all do -till one day
when Cooney hart walked over to Grave
send, or what there was left of it, on a
stray job, a tremendous storm arose ac
compauied by a terrific tidal wave, w ich
swept everything before it, including the
hut of poor Cooney, containing his fami
ly, and the man Schneck. and They were
ill washed out 1 ° sea, were never
seen or heard of again. Poor Cooney
coming home iound he had no home.
Not a vestige of Ins hut was left;
md home and family were all wiped out.
He couldn t even tell exactly where the
uome had been.
From that hour Cooney was a helpless ...
idiot. He used to wander round the
pot where his little hut and family had
been, and mope and mumble, and look
it the sea as it expecting it to give .lack
ifs dead; but the sea is not in the habit
of giving back anything or anybody.
Ynd one day Cooney himself disappeared.
It is supposed that he was drowned, or
drowned himself.
Generation after generation has passed
since . then, but the name of poor Cooney
the heartbroken, desolate idiot, is still
preserved in the name of the most popn
lar watering place on the face of the
ear *h.
A Colored Prince.
The Haytian Prince who had New
York excited for some time has left for
France. He is of slight bnt graceful fig¬
ure, and dressed fashionably. He spent
money lavishly, and was very popular.
He was a mulatto, but he wore a single
eyeglass, and it was not an uncommon
thing to see him at Delmonico’s, chat¬
ting and drinking with club men. He
spoke English very imperfectly, prefer¬ ad¬
ring to talk French. He was a great
mirer of the actress Lillian Russell, who
has also left for Europe. said:
The bartender at the Casino
“The Prince didn’t come here often
enough to satisfy me. The first time he
came here alone, and, after glancing at
me through his glass, he said: ‘Some
branty, there.’ I thought he was put
ting on a good many airs for a darkey;
hut I remembered that he was a prince,
me p it out the brandy bottle. He took
t swallow, looked at his watch, lighted gold a
-igarette, and, tossing a tive-dollar
liece on the bar, strolled toward the
loot. I called after him that ho oughter
;et some change, but he glanced at me
is much os t ask what I meant by ad
iressing a prince, and went on. He
•ame in once after that, and threw down
1 bill. I put the Change on the bar, hut
,e never so much as glanced at it and
walked awav.”
A bookman outside the Casino said:
(iea?“when hT stepp^fntof clbl
oss me anything that came first in his
purse. He never walked I ex
■;ept on Fifth avenue, where he could be
een every afternoon about 5 o’clock.”
The Count left abruptly for Europe
1 few days before Miss Russell’s depar
ure. It is said that he had had a vio¬
ient quarrel the with his brother-in-law, his who
objected to amonnt of weekly ex¬
penditure.
Fashionable Mother.
The condition of society is not im¬
proved to a very great extent by a season
at Newport and the leading watering
places. The attractions are so numerous
that but little time can be given by
parents to the personal comfort and
bringing-up of their children. A few
days ago, says a Newport letter, there
was an extraordinary scene at one of our
cottages, the lady in question being one
of the best-known women in society.
So engrossing were the attractions of a
friend’s house that after an entertain¬
ment in the afternoon she remained the
evening and all night. Just about twenty
four hours after leaving her home she re¬
turned to it in her carriage, which had
been ordered to fetch her. The nurse
of her three children was the first person
she saw.
“No, never mind the children,” re¬
plied madame.
“Send my maid to me for I have to be
at-’s at luncheon.”
This utter disregard of children is no
exception to the rule in Newport.
“Don’t talk to me about beginning
ft ^ j- be bottom of the ladder 1” observed
P-l
sional, recently. “Don’t talk to me
about beginning at the bottom of the
ladd , ,, ®f’ I T -1 began there tt yeare ago, „
and I’m there still If it was to do over
again, I’d begin at the top. It’s much
easier to fall down than to climb up.”
T*. M-J5J5, Ontario.
YS
f“™“W «°.°«> * t“ *?
si &&J2&S ?s?
|o ?*}?{ think if ®fi^es a man is fit for are nothing accustomed else
^ c ?; n 8ettle ‘ 1 °'V 1 °. n a f “ m f ud 8 et on
made the -
have farm the last refuge
“X K* ff £&
the necks of sweet and and “• ^ ^l clerks 8
aud simpenng whose
counter-jumpers, highest
fore a glass. Oh! brealb breath £ Ins perfume T
l'”,”*. Xd
must have one of these institutions in
£*££ Union a dozen H
SS^SjSSjSiX
’j&’JXSFJtXltt&S: decided that
mxdian8 bave the fanners
hold the world on their shoulders and
are Btanding truly Dominion by them. T ey have
altogether f in the more than
eigl ty a8SO ,, iations devoted to the cnl
ture and development ,!f of stock and grain,
This Provillce Quebec has an institu
tion not wi dely unlike that of Guelph,
Ontario, ’ only on a much smaller scale.
'
<Hd n t vi sit this . but am tokl that it
ig condncted entirely by a 1 dy. Thi
Proviuce f ^ y8 35,000 bounty uf toward its
malnteD . u c As against em we have
. ^ little to sho w except the school in
Mi Y et it is true that we have
man y institutioos that profess ^ farming, ®
^ fear th ’ do 1K)t actioe it M t
^ Model Fal m . G f course I cannot
elder bdo de tail or attempt to digest the
b jg boo k making ap their annual report
ou this plan. £ But I may say as a cnrdi
ide that they seek to be solidly
* tical 8ever ely 8 o; to keep the feet
^ students set down firmly on the
hard earth . They ignore Greek and all
such nonsense and try to teach common
Tet no i gl ,oram-i 8 is admitted
h b a a goo f d deal. Each applicant
mugt b at east i 6 years old, must be
of 80U)ld morals and good health and
f g a ver y J se vere matriculation exam
tj if not a gi-aduate of the many
hj * , gcboo]s of the country . So you
fts a ruIe> on j y weU born and well
bred youn g men can lie admitted. The
expense to the stndent is merely the nomi
ua i BOW as the institution, by sale
0 f dne stock and the production of its
5 QQ acres i 8 almost self-sustaining. I
sbou t ed w ith delight at their little farm
() | dog8 _ Such a pretty lot of puppies
tumbling over each other, barking,
leaping with delight to see a stranger, I
never saw. This cultivation of dogs
must be a scheme of the French part of
the dominion, for their dogs at home are
as numerous almost as their children.
And that is setting dogs down pretty
thick among the French I can tell you.
I hear that such a thing as a mad dog is
unknown among these people. Is it be.
c use they are kind to their dogs?
Neboe’s Faithful Dog.
SHOT WHILE TOO ZEALOUSLY GUARDING
HIS DEAD BODY ON A RAILWAY TRACK.
The engineer . of the tram that left
Hoboken on the Morns and Essex road
«*w, in the flash of the locomotive head
light, the body of a man lying mile across north
the track about a quarteroi a
Orange. A large brmdle bulldog
stood just outside the rail tugging ene
getically at the prostrate man s coat
collar In an instant the tram had
passed over the man, while the dog, with
a fragment It-etL of tossed its master into s the coat ..between by
wa.s air e
P 1 ^ The tram came to a standstill
and the trainmen, Policeman Brown and
a fe J, h ^ a Sphered around the man s
deftd b ° d 3\ ^ were abont to hft it
^om the track when the 1 dog wfih a
warnmg growl that cause tlie crowd to
fal1 ba f ’ lea ^ d j tbc bod ?i wb “;
,
to iet anyone touch it
^LXl”?SSlZJSS. geeddog.e 0111 ® e e - 23 n
and fired. Neil trembled as if she had
been hit, but did not move away from
her dead master. The policeman fired
again. The bullet entered the dog’s
neck. She fell, but staggered to her
feet again aud ran away in a zigzag
fashion. The body was recognized as
that of George Neboe, a bricklayer, 40
years of ajre, who lived in Joyce street,
Orange. Shortly after it was laid along¬
side the track a puppy of Nell came up
aod nestled itself against the neck of its
dead master and went to sleep, and re¬
mained so until the arrival of the under¬
taker.
Five minutes after the accident Nell
went limping np to the door of Mrs.
Neboe’s residence, where she stood
awaiting her husband’s coming. Blood
was dripping from the animal’s neck.
“Nell, Nell,” said Mrs. Neboe, “where
Is your master ?” Nell whined piteously,
and slowly and mournfully wagged her
tail. Soon afterward a massenger' in¬
formed Mrs. N.-boe that her husband
had lieen killed.
Neboe was an Englishman, and had
lived fifteen years in Orange. He took
a glass too many on Thursday evening,
and, it is supposed, in attempting to
cross the railroad track, tripped and
struck his head upon the rail, the con¬
cussion rendering him unconscious. The
dog is so badly lmrt that she will prob¬
ably have to be killed. She refuses to
take nourishment. Noboe bought her
seven years ago, when she was a puppy.
—New York Sun.
“I have been mamerl for several weeks,
and my husband aud I cannot decide
whether we should retain our old love
letters ®r burn them. What would you
advise ? Mrs. C. —Put them in a paste
boal - d box bl the servant girl's room. A
snp ply of old love-letters has been known
to keep a girl contented in one place for
three months at a time.— Exchange.
Th, ^
„S“ HugentZ“!„d “? “Vi '4
S F
he married three ^cizzftm yearn i't 6 ^ ' vl, °m
He made a£ro g win Went ?-<®e
widow $20,000. a cast-iron rf* 1
He also i * 8 his
$200 and $500 each to a °h P L 8Ua » of
quired people who 85 .°°°- would Notes be oStani^^ t^ 8 oa
he destroyed to the pushed ?T heia
The hired girl and all ammmt lR r
were remembered in sm-ti S relatm *
$15 to afteMhwleWMbe^ officiate at his f p^ nh ^ lan Church
^
a
SSiW «!
party. forgotten, Not a £tS At 'w*”-, ^
wire even to the fW tnbute Waa
His ordere fully out, «
when his body was laid in the and
one in the world had a claim ground no
against his estate and d a cent
clnt” “ no D ° one owed it
,
She Turned the Tables.
Er-FKSPtKS? sprung up in the railroad ticket
as was demonstrated at an T Iowa station, a gent,
a few weeks ago.
“I want a ticket to B-” Bai( j
well .
tram known time. lady of the town, juBt before
agent, “Twenty-four cents,” responded the
bhe laid working down his sausage machine
a silver quarter. Being
well acquainted and a practical joker the
agent drew up from his pocket a glitter
Po punts button, passed it over with the
lickefc and scooped up the quarter.
“Is that a legal tender?” asked the
lady, quietly.
“Oh, yes,” he answered, with mock
gravity, “they are the mainstay of the
republic.”
She pocketed it and got aboard, leav¬
ing the agent’s face coruscating with
smiles.
A few days after he told it to a brigade
of while runners he Inlying enjoying tickets for encore,’ B-“and
was the the
lady appeared with—
“Ticket for-, please.”
“Twenty-four cents,” with a sly wink
at the runners. He laid down the ticket.
She scooped it and laid down twenty
four dazzling buttons, exactly like the
first.
“Yon said they were legal tender.
They go a long ways supporting the
family,” she chirped sweetly, as she
liowed from the presence of more than
presidential prerogative.
The Same Kean.
In the biographies of Kean, the actor,
one is given of the style of the great actor
in the character of a rebuker. On one
occasion when fulfilling a stirring en¬
gagement at Portsmouth, he accepted
■a invitation to luncheon at ono of the
chief hotels at the waited place.
The landlord on the party in
person. Kean no sooner caught sight of
him than his manner altered.
“Stay, is your name
The landlord answered i#the affinna
five.
“Then, sir, I will not eat or drink in
your house. Eight years ago I went
into your coffee room, and modestly re¬
quested a glass of ale. I was then a
strolling player, ill-clad and poor in
pocket. You surveyed me from top to
toe, and having done so, I heard you
■rive some directions to your waiter, who
1 > o’ced at me suspiciously, and then pre¬
sented to me the glass with one hand,
holding out his other for the money. I
paid and he gave me the glass. I am
i letter dressed now, I can drink Madeira.
I am waited on by the landlord in per
son; but am I not the same Edmnncl
Kean that I was then, and had not Ed¬
mund Kean the same feelings then as he
has now ?” apology.
The landlord stammered an
•‘Apology !” exclaimed the tragedian, sir. I
scornfully. “ Away with you,
will have of wine. ”
none your hurriedly left tne
With these words he
house.
How Chinese Treat Animals.
One who knows something about the
Chinese savs:—They never punish;
hence a mule which to a foreigner
would not be only useless, but danger¬
ous to every one about it, becomes,
in the possession of a Chinaman, as
quiet as a lamb and as tractable as a
do»- We never beheld a runaway, »
jibbing, vicious mule or pony m a
or a but found the
Chinaman’s employment; cheerful maintained
same rattling, pace by of a
over heavy or light roads means
tur-r or cluck-k, the beast turning to‘he
right or left, aud stopping with bnt
hint from the reins. This treatment «
extended to all the ammais they admired p.es
into their service. Often have I
drove the tact of sheep exhibited through in narrow getting crow ‘J
streets and alleys, by merely having ^
little bov to lead one of the q ule 0 ®
front: the other. » e* , ;!
the flock in the aid either from
followed without the goad. Cattle,
bigi, yelping cur or a cruel cared for.
and birds are equally
people of New 7°5_“! wonder
The call them aty after ter it ab
ing what to k“JR ^ .
-orbs Brooklyn last week cal ‘‘*
We heard a man of ^“:L liDg
fernal old den ml k«lne^ edn ess,” bnt
Babylon of colossa 1 w ic J
then may be that would be
for a man who was writing a poeuu
- u a burry- _Ha wkey e.
ixeM --. :V\ 1 “ br ° daughter -« y., oei- the
A g en ' ) h g on
ebratingthe 1 ® br idge, P r0 !
day of the opening . ^ of
call her \ icton^ in honor
posed to birthday; whereu^^
the (Queen’s Alderman) sugges
( no t an g^get,
appropriate name worn