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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