Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

THE MILKING HOUR. Yon good old Boss, stand %nictly now, And don’t be turning your head this way You’re looking for Donald, it’s plain to see, But he won’t be here to-day. Nobody came with me, dear old Boss, Not even to carry my pail; for, yon see, Donald’s gone whistling down the lane, And Donald is vexed with me. And all because of a trifling thing; He asked me a question, and I said “Nay.” I never dreamed liat he would not guess It was only a woman’s way, I wonder if Donald ba« ever learned The motto of “ fry and trv again.” I think, if he had, it might have bee* He had not learned in vain. And there needn't have stretched between ns two, On this fair evening, the meadow wide, And 1 needn’t have milked alone to-night, With nobody at my side. What was it he said to me yester eve, Something about—about my eyes? It’s strange how clever that Donald can be; That is, whenever he tries. Now, Bo«r, old cow, yon mustn't tell That I’ve cried a little while milking yon; For, don’t yon see? it is nothing to me What Donald may choose to do. If he chose to go whistling down the lane, I chose to sing gayly coming here. But it’s lonely without him, after all; Now isn’t it. Bossy dear? I—hark ! who’s (hat ? Oh, Donald it’s yon Did you speak?—excuse me—what did you say? “May you carry my pail?” Well, yes; at least, I suppose, if you try, yon may. But, Donald, if I had answered No, Do you think it would have occurred to yon Not to be vexed at a woman’s way, Bnt to try what coaxing would do? — M.D. Brine, in Uarper's Weekly. STORY OF A SHOE-MAKER. I was bom in the Luxembourg just alx>ut 50 years ago. Goodness ! How I used to work at the beneli when I was a lad, sewing and hammering, hammering and sowing on boots and shoes. There was that dear old father of mine, with Ids big steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, who set me an example of thrift and honesty. “Above all,” he would say to ns, for a brother then worked with me, “be a irood shoe-maker. Never scamp any¬ thing. Do the best you can, and do it mil the time.” We would work from sunrise till far into the night. The pay we got was little enough, so small that we used to watch the candle that fluttered in the wind, and worry over its cost. If we worked very, very hard, and custom was good, we might counton a gain of 10 sons each, bnt sometimes we would all ■top pegging away because tho poor people in our village had no money to pay for shoes. Oh ! how difficult it was to buy a sack of coarse flour or a little ■crap of meat. We lived from hand to month. Poor old father, do what we conld to help him, he got into debt, and owed at one time as much os 30 francs. What a huge sum that seemed to mo to be! wbat a whole mountain of embar¬ rassment ! I starved aside. myself One in order I to put a little money “This day work. said to father: thing don’t I am going to clear out. I can’t stand it.” “You will leave me, my son? Your poor old father is ian naumbrance to you ?” “No, not at all. But I must go away to work for him." “It is well,” replied my father, “You are a good shoe-maker. Your stitches are strong and even. You shape well. Go see the world, and God’s blessing accompany you." Paris and led miserable I went to a life there for a timo. I hardly gained my bread at first. Tho babitE of the Parisian shoe-maker horrified me, for I had been good brought np by a pious father. I was a workman, however, and after a while found steady ompkiyment, but I oonld help poor father but very little. Oh ! it used to make my heart sore to think of him cramped up in his little, life, dingy with room, the working away for dear meagre reward of a crust of dried bread. The habits of economy he had taught me helped me then. I scraped together sou l>y son and at last sent him lOt He wrote me that the Bum had saved him from being turned out of his poor old chamber. “This will nover do," I said. “I must go somewhere else. I am a good shoe¬ maker, and my experience in Paris has given me the finishing touch. I must go somewhere else, where the art of Crispin will be appreciated." One tine day in 18501 took a place as landsman on an English lauded bark, from Havre to Bos¬ ton. I in the United States with just 40 cents (2f.)m my pocket. I sought work at once. I saw in a little shoe¬ maker's shop up a narrow street a sign written on paper and stnok on the gln> with wafers. I could not read it. I not know a single word of English then, but over the door there was a German name. I made bold to enter and talked German to the proprietor. that bench, “Sit down,” he said, “on and sow mo on that sole.” “I am a fair shoe-maker, ns yon will see," I replied. It was a pleasure to take hold of tin tools onoe more; they seemed to know me. How I blessed my lather then. My boss was satisfied, and I got a job right off at $1 a day and my food. That was h fortune to me theu. I worked foi six months steadily and, save for a se oond-hand pair of trousers, bought by me at a bargain, I hoarded every penny. I seat the dear old father $50, and back name his blessi iTh He wrote he had never seen so mu money at one time in his life. But I was ambitions. Just then the California fever was raging. Somethingtold me to go to the Pacific coast. I took ship and crossed the Isth¬ mus. Just before arriving nt San Fran oisoo there was a heavy gale: we lost Cj|ine new being shipwrecked, quite and I my I hat. I remember that well. landed in San Francisco with $1 exactly. On board there was a carousing shoe¬ maker, who had been sent for from the East by a man who had kept a shop in San Fr.ir.eisoo. I heard him say that he had come before his timo, and that, any jhow, if he could do better he was not going to work at cobbling. He men¬ tioned tbe name of tbe man who was to hire him, and I had his consent to apply for the place. and I went to the shoeshop at once asked for the position. who “It is given to another man, ought to bo here soon, and I can’t make of you. Besides, yon have no hat.” “That makes no difference,” I re plied. “I see shoemakers’ wages are $6 a day—was the flush'times of California then)—give me $3 and feed me. and odIv let me stay until the man you hired turns up, for I am indeed a shoemaker.” grudging The boss gave * kind of con sent. Then I set to work, and slept that night in the shop. When the master came to the place in the morn¬ ing he found everything in elegant break¬ ora?r and I had made So before fast fiy mending a boot, I suited him lived exfic tiy—for with that 1 am a good for shoe-maker. year, and I man a saved all mv money. I sent the deni old fellow at home $100. If you could have seen theietter that cameback! The blessed old daddy wanted to know if I thought he was a spendthrift? do for That the $100 he was going to make next three years ! There was a chance I heard of m Sacramento. I went there, my master giving me some of his shop¬ worn stock. I did a splendid business. In six months I had made for my share $3,000. My fortime was before me. Poor old daddy was not forgotten. this I got a cross letter from him time, the poor simple soul wanted to know whether I thought he was going to the dogs. Did I want to make him a drunk¬ ard, a gourmand, his and put all Too kinds of temptation in way? all evil. much money was the source of I was robbing myself to pamper him—but for all that there was a lot of sweetness in the letter. Well, I thought that fortune was now mine. But one night a bad fire broke out and I was burned out. Fires oc curred in Sacramento every night and were the work ot thieves. I gathered together the few pairs of boots I could put my hands on, and placed them with my money, it’out all in gold, in a trunk, and I carried of the wooden shanty just as the roof fell in. For better security I sat on my trank, and gazed bewildered like at the flames. “I have something left,” I said, “after all, to begin the world with.” Just then I was struck a heavy blow over the head with a club, and lost all consciousness. When 1 came to I found myself on the ground and my trank gone. The thieves had done the business for me. Ah! then 1 gave myself up, just for a moment, tc despair. “I am ruined—ruined for ever. Poor old daddy !” I thought. But I was not ruined, for that crack on the head was the means of my making my for tune, I didn’t cry over things much, for I am a good shoe-maker, and that is al¬ ways a solid capital. I had a little money in my pocket, and went to San Fran¬ cisco. I knew my old master would take me back, and he did so. I resumed my old place. There was an auctioneer among his customers with the tenderest feet I ever saw, and as I am a shoe-maker that explains all my good look. This auctioneer had been grumbling ever since I left San Francisca. When he saw me ho was delighted. “At least now,” he said, “I am out of my great misery. I shall limp no longer.” At once I made him a pair of shoes, and he was delighted. “Ihad One day he said to me: an auc¬ tion yesterday, and I put np without French getting a single They bidder, wjn’t a lot sell of very because fine boots. there is a glut of boots on the market. They were imported a year ago, but the shape is out of fashion now. It was a square toe then, now it is a round one. Do you buy them ?” “How much?” I asked. “Make your own price.” “But I have no money.” “That makes no difference; you may have them on credit; pay me when you can.” I went to look at those cases of boots. They were of tho finest quality, them and excellent as to make. Some of were cavalry boots, bnt such as officers only dandy Remember, horsemen or General good shoe¬ wear. Inm a maker and know my trade. I bought these boots at one dollar per pair. The leather alone was worth twice that. At night I used to work on them. I made the sqnare toes pointed—for I am a good shoe-maker. Some of them I cut down into bootees. Oh ! I worked night after night on them after hours. Then I hired a small shop and hung np a few pairs in the window. A Mexican came first. “How much?” “Ten dollars.” He took the boots. Then a miner passed. “How much ?” “Fifteen dollars.” Then a gentleman on a fine horse came by and looked Iron) his horse at the lioots, and he tied up his horse and asked “How much?” “Twenty dollars.” Ho put a double eagle down. I miiBt have made $2,560 clear on those boots. Then I found more of them—a mini- of these boots, and I put in my pocket six thousand dollars in three weeks. I worked on for a year and made money in my trade steadily, for I am a good shoe-maker. Then I got married in San Francisco to a woman I loved, and my married life has been a very happy one. It was a pain when I "said to my wife: “I must leave yon my love, for a short time—only long enongh to pay my deal old daddy a visit.” 1 left my business in her charge. It was a voyage of busi¬ ness and pleasure, for I went to Paris to buy goods. daddy There thesainc Poor old ! was magpie in the wicker-work basket, and he saluted me, for he remembered me. When I was a little boy I stuck a tail of false feathers on his with some cobbler’s wax. feathers He never forgot me, and raffled his at me as soon as he saw me, as if my insult to him had been of re¬ cent date. There was hardly a change in the room. There hung father’s old watch, as big as a saucer, ticking away, with a spray of box-wood over it foi Inek. Then there was on the shelf the same old earthenware jug. The bandit l broke leather one unfortunate bound romid day, and it, a piece of was and it hung on a nail by a thong. He had the same awl m h\a hand at least it was the *ame handle for once I came near getting - - thrashing for having whittled it. Even an old almanac of a year long gone past was there, tacked to the w-Jl with shoe brads. He had on the same apron, only it was worn thinner. The dear old father was bending over his work, pounding slowly at some bit of leather on a last. Yon could count one, two, three, four between the ham¬ merings. In my time it was rat-tat-tat, like a dram heating, with no interval be¬ tween the'strokes. 1 strode in and tbe old gentleman first looked at my feet; that was a way he had. At a glance, for he was the king of shoe-makers, he could take in all the differences between your foot and the feet of the rest of the world. He looked and looked again. He must have recognized a family foot for I saw his hand tremble, and then be pushed up his great steel-rimmed spec¬ tacles, and the tears ran down his cheeks as he rose and then tottered and then fell into my arms. How we kissed one another. “My succeeded son, my son, you never would have had you not been a good shoe-maker; did the you best never scamped anything; you you could al) the time,” was what he said when I told him of my good luck. “Like my dear old daddy did before me,” I added. Then I kicked over his work bench and said, “No more work for you, old pappy, for I am rich. I have a wife, I have a baby—a boy baby, named after you— and yon are to take the cars—first class —to-morrow or the day afterward and come post-haste out of-the old country to California, so that grandchild shall sit on your knee, and you shall teach him to be honest and pious, an' 1 to love you.” “And may I not make inn. a good shoe-maker?” he asked. “But it. you go too fast. Let me think over You ask me to leave this old Luxembourg where I was born. I should never sec again the grave where ydur mother, my good wife, has slept for these last thirty odd years. I don’t know. I am very old. I should be in the way. I love my old trade. Do they wear shoes in California ? May I cobble there ? I as¬ sure just you, though the hog-bristies bother ham¬ mo a little at times, and my mer moves just a trifle slower, still I can turn out a decent job. I wonder if I cannot beat you now. Come let us try.” To please the old man, I took up a bit of work and commenced on it. “It is well done,” said father admiringly. “I see you have not forgotten my lessons, Perhaps that one stitch there is not quite—quite as even as it should be. My remarks don’t worry you? Still,” and he held in his shaky hands the old boot near his eye, “it will pass muster.” At last the blessed old man consented to go with me. Next day we had a feast in the village. All the old cronies were invited, the cooper, the watch¬ maker, the butcher, the drover, the tailor and the tax-collector. The Curate gave the party his blessing. old Oh, what a good time we had ! The man was radiant I was introduced to every one as “M. -, the American shoe-maker, who had learned his trade in the Luxem¬ bourg.” We kept it up all that afternoon and late into the evening. It was a feast such as that sleepy old town will remem¬ ber f8r many a day. Just occasionally I noticed that the old man weakened when some ancient chum took him by tin hand to bid him good-bye. Then 1 would grand-child say: “ Dear Daddy, it’s you that claims you. How d you expect that he will ever bo a go shoe-maker without your teaching him ? That was an all-powerful argument The blessed old man made the trip wit) me across the ocean without much fa tigue. How glad my wife was to set her husband and father, and, m to tin baby, he went at once into his grand¬ papa’s arms. old Of course, father was too to work, bnt still he insisted upon having his bench. As he grew feebler the stitches became more uneven, and we were often alarmed about the awl, which might have pricked him. He lived, though, He happily with us for some years. grew more unsteady little, day still by he day and wandered a but -would upend an hour or two every day at his bench. He made a goat harness for the little boy and qnite a number of pretty things in leatner. heard him his One day I in room tap¬ ping, tapping away on his lap-stone with more than ordinary vigor. Then I list¬ ened to him. He said : “A good job ; a very good job. Capital, though I ought not to praise myself. There never was but one man who could equal me, and that is my dear, dear son, and his son, my grandson, shall also be a first-class shoe-maker, if the good God, whose name be blessed, only lots mo live a little, a very little longer,” and then I had heard the rattle of a hammer as if it had dropped on tho floor, and I went into his room, and the dear old man passed quietly away, with n lust prayer on his lips. There are no shoe-makers uowa days like in the old time. Sober Second Thoughts. True friends visit ns in prosperity only when invited, but in adversity they come without invitation. Children are travelers newly arrived in a strange country, we should there¬ fore make conscience not to mislead them. Great trees, as fig-trees, make shade for others, and stand themselves in the glowing heat of the sun. They bear finite for others, not for themselves. These solitude, truth-speaking women are friends in arc fathers in matters of duty, they are mothers to those who are in distress, they are a repose to the traveler in the wilderness. The law of the harvest is to reap more than yon sow. Sow an act and you reap a habit; sow a habit and you reap a charac¬ ter; sow a character and you reap a des¬ tiny. Tnis place is full of Osage orange hedges. They surround most of the peach orchards—probably to keep peo¬ ple ont. “Did yen ever try to get over aud Osage orauge-hedge ?” an old man asked me this morning. “No,” I re plied; “did you?’* “Yes,” he said, sadly; “I tried onee—a long time ago.” “Did, eh?” “Yes.” “How long did it take you to get over it ?” “How long did it take me to get over it ?” said he. sadlv . loD g * did it take me to get ° ovei : it r Alul th old man !ooked 0 eI the continual landscape, and scratched him self, aud : “How long did it take me to f over it ? Whv j dou - t think I am quite over it yet.” About Telegraph Operators. “I suppose,” have said a reporter, “you operators must some funny exper¬ iences.” “Yes, in there are some droll things every once a while, but we get so used to them that we don’t mind anything about them. I suppose you have heard that story about the countryman who saw an operator working an old Morse paper in¬ strument and called his girl up to see ‘this fellow make paper collars. »>t “How do you manage to keep your ear on one instrument when there are twenty or thirty going in the same room ?” “There is no difficulty in that,” was the reply. “It is as easy as it is for you to keep the run of a friend’s conver¬ sation when there are other persons talk¬ ing in the room.” “But no two voices are alike,” hinted the reporter dubiously. sound “No two instruments alike tc an operator, and there is no more diffi¬ culty in distinguishing in the click of your instrument a roomful, than/ in dis¬ tinguishing the familiar tones of a broth, er’s voice.” “Can you tell who is sending at the other end ?” “We can easily detect a friendly hand, although I don’t know as I could make you understand how. ” “Do you hear anything that goes over the wires ?” “We could if we cared to, but that gets to be a very old story. We only listen for our call, which is repeated till we answer, and then the message is sent.” “I suppose you have some sad experi¬ ences when you receive messages of death or sickness. ” “Well, hardly. If we were affected ual by such things we should be in a perpet¬ state of grief. Yon don’t notice them at all. Why, once I received a message addressed to me saying that I had be come a father, but I had become used to to such things—I mean to receiving such messages—that I never noticed to whom it was addressed, and sent it down to the counting room I with a bundle of other dispatches had received at the same time.” “Speaking of curious experiences,” chimed in another operator who had been listening to the conversation—“speaking of curious experiences, I remember when I was working nights at a little station on the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy road. About one o’clock one cold, sleety morning tho circuit was broken off for a little while and then I heard the word ‘H-e-l-p’ como over the line several times. This was repeated at intervals for some minutes. I was decidedly done till frightened, daylight. but nothing could be After the break had been located, men were senj along the line to repair the wire, and as soon as the instrument began to work we re¬ ceived word that Charley Adams, the day operator, had been found there dead, with both his legs cut off. We afterward learned that Charley had been to a dance in a neighboring town, and had fallen, unseen, from the freight train as it crossed the bridge, and had been run over. With his little remain¬ ing strength he had crawled to the edge of the bridge, and broken the wire. He had telegraphed the word ‘help’ by touching the ends of the wire together-'” Flying From Home. The police detectives are searching for one young girl who has fled from home, and have just captured another in a New York concert-ealoon. An old de¬ tective was asked if many complaints of this kind reached headquarters. “Yes,” he answered, “a great many, but not so many as there might be.” This was puzzling and an explanation girls of was and asked. dis¬ “Many young drift poor sipated parents being away inquired from them without ever after. Where do they go? Usually from pov¬ erty, which they have long endured, to the shame they have become familiar with by contact with the dissolute wo¬ men they have grown to envy. The pa¬ rents know well enough what the girl’s disappearance means, and either do not search for her or do so only to demand help from her. In such cases they do not ask or desire police aid or interfer¬ ence.’' “And of those recaptured and reclaimed?” “Well, we either never lieai’ of them again or very soon the same old story is repeated to us.” As a rule detectives are inclined to take the darkest views of life, and it is to be hoped this one was no exceptional character.—New York Tribune. Fishing with Cormorants. To be of ttse for fishing, cormorants in China are taken when young from tho breeding bring rocks and regularly trained to all the finny prey they capture to their owner’s boat. When young a thin collar is put around their throats to pre¬ vent them from swallowing their prizes; but in time the birds understand their duty, which and, except for occasional small fry, they probably think are hard¬ ly worth going back to the boat with, carry all they catch to the common store. As fishermen, they are among tho most expert of birds, and their tactics, when larger they find themselves engaged with a fish than they can manage, are very intelligent, for, if alone, the cor¬ morant strikes out the eyes of tho fish, and then tries to guide the bewildered, role floundering if thing to the boat. But as a one cormorant sees another in trouble with a larger fish th>m it can tackle single-handed, it goes to its com¬ rade’s assistance, and the two, or several together, put all their beaks into tho job, and thus bring the captive within teach of the boatman’s gaff or net The Motor Business. The opening of the Keeiy motor vin¬ dication is again postponed. Bnt in place of the vindication a thrilling dia¬ logue is given between Mr. Keeiy and a man who has worked for him as an as¬ sistant for the last fourteen years. “How much do you know alwnt miming this motor?” said Keeiy. “Nothing,” replied the man with fourteen years’ ex¬ perience. It is that the Keeiy general opinion, fully says "as much an exchange, running knows about the motor as this assistant of his. Thb woman who paints her cheeks and thinks the world won’t know it, must imagine the rest of creation color blind. HOW LABOR IS REWARDED. John Roach explains Why Some Workmen Fail. , Mr. John Roach, the shipbuilder, took the stand before the Senate Committee. He commenced by saying that he wished to confine himself to his own branch of industry. He employed 3,000 men, rep¬ resenting twenty-five different branches of industry. He then related his career from his very humble start in life, and while doing so he remarked incidentally that there was one duty the government owed him, and when that was once dis¬ charged he felt he had no reason to find fault. Capital he regarded ns the sum of all _ labor, and the government was ac¬ cordingly bound to legislate in the in¬ terest of the laboring classes. “I start¬ ed my apprenticeship, ” said the witness. “in New- York, and worked for twelve shillings a week, or twenty-five cents per day.” Many a time, in order to be able to pay his board, he watched his oppor¬ tunity to make overtime, determined to succeed and resolved to be patient and satisfied as he went along. From his own experience, and from close observa¬ tion of the course pursued by his fellow workmen, as well as workmen in all branches of industry from that day to the present, he came to the conclusion that there was no man who struck out with a fixed object in view could not in the end own his own house. He never knew such a man to fail. On the con trary, he could poiut to the causes of poverty and discontent on the part of thousands who had it in their power to acquire a comfortable living and become independent. But when a man indulged in more ex cursions, more cigars, more hours of so called recreation and enjoyment in the larger beer saloon, and more gunning— The Chairman—What was that last ? The witness is deaf, did not hear the question, hut was proceeding when his attention was again directed to the qnes tion. The witness repeated the word “gunning.” He knew men in his em ploy, who were earning only 'a small com pensation, go gunning for week at a time. Such men never started out to succeed, and they would be very foolish if they expected to do so under such circumstances. Dealing with the main question, he said that labor must co op erate with capital. It would never do for labor to combine by itself and be come the deadly foe of capital. The sooner the workingman was educated to the standard from which he could real ize the force of the maxim that “a man who cannot make cannot own” the better it would be both for the laborer and for the nation. There might, of course bo exceptions to that rule The payroll in his (witness) shop last vear was $1,587, 000. Over fifty of the men working there were employed with him in former years in the same workshop. ‘‘Four of us,” he continued, “walked out of Al laire’s shop one day with just $400 each to start with as capital.” “It iscustomary,”saidMr. Roach, “to cast reflections and look eontempntously during these late years on a class of peo¬ ple known as the tramps. prairies At one Illinois time I was a tramp on of with¬ out a dollar in my pocket, and yet I never flinched in my determination.” Ten years ago, he said, he bought the shipyard at Chester, and at the present time there were more than 1,500 men averaged employed $2.19 in that day. yard, Gf whose these wages per men 287 owned their own houses, the value of which ranged from $1,200 to $5,000. There were men employed saved there, ho added, -would. who never They would a dollar and never work one day and stay at home the next on some slight excuse or pretext. To improve the condition of such men as these was an idle dream. Sometimes they would work half a week and spend what they earned in gin-mills, and if they didn’t spend it there they would get rid of it on excursions. “It w'ould be an idle dream,” he again remarked, “to help such foiks, for they never would save anything.” said Senator Call, “ “Suppose,” should the United States Government say to you: ‘We will give you any salary you name, if, with your superior ability and superior economy, you will take charge of our ship building at your yard,’ would you do it?” “I would, I would,” responded the witness, “but I would want a law passed first that every Senator and every Congressman and every officer of the Government who interfered with me should be subject to a penalty for a penal offense for so doing.” [General laughter.] Too ma ny Book keepers. “There are 23,000 bookkeepers era ployed in the city and more than a qnar ter as many more unemployed. the Yon would be astomshed to learn num ber of able-bodied men who could work at a hundred different things if they had a mmd to, bnt who will persist m dth„ keeping books or keeping idle. 1 onng men with a lifetime ahead ot them and the whole range of ordinary vocations to choose from, will hang around town for months, and run into debt while waiting a chance to keep books. The tune has gone necessarily by when good penmanship will in sure a man a living. There are too many goon penmen now, and I know for a fact that there are some business houses where expert penmanship is dis¬ counted and where one who is able to write too well is suspected of incapacity don’t in other respects. Of course I pretend to indorse this, but it is one of the factors which prevent clever penmen from at once securing employment. book¬ And what do you suppose a good keeper gets a week, anyhow?” dollars,” said the “Twenty or twenty-five reporter, at a gness. “Well, there are very few bookkeepers ia New York who earn $25 a week—very few. There are not many who make. $20. The average pay of an ordinary bookkeeper is from $12 to $18 a week. I will undertake to furnish hundreds of good bookkeepers at from $12 to $15 U- week ** “Why, that is only $2 a day. ” of the “Precisely, $5,000 unemployed and there are not many who bookkeepers three would not take it. Yet it was the only public months ago that I read in prints that it was not possible to secure competent policemen on the Brooklyn uridge at$2a day .”—New York Herald. A FeW Bar Stories. -abu thirty had years of age, l bomlnl fif'V buSfr md 7 been to rise late Vrpi ? aim eat breakfast else was done. To get tne sound of fife and drum up t n to face wct towel, in a hurry and in forth a tin A , °? “J g0 uncleaim^T^ with a raff a vum ami a sense of squad-drilled enough to be by a fat little <S Z J° be Military Institute, my son that,* 0 f indeeTf^ He misery. was always How T hated wide that ml, , a * f so awake f° interested in the drill- ha Z '*3 sharp, behind, his coat tails were so £ T fat and his hands looked m^' T white gloves. He made me sick t?,* the deuce did I pare m Wiiat how times,” to “hold and all my that? piece,” I to “kadi!?® £, “T? 8 at. the time was same I got up a bio- V tite for breakfast, which was g.<xl, for we lived pretty well It Camp „ , f ,, a dude recruit whos» r urged ^im to money on him ami meal , of ; life was a hotel extravagance. in Hip s ort of ^mg didn’t Paris and tTx , suit him at all «vi* J s ,?? se would duty was supreme. , r 0JS ’ say, as he took Mg 8 lort meerschaum , from his month and pew up ms r obust figure to its f u jj Height, boys, I want you to distinctly Understand—this t™, and is my last war! This v, am £°’ u " to see it Ulrough t0 t * e bltter end, but after this v° Wa *r 110 m 2I e slee P in S m straw V tv ^ °- s l - r ‘ • TT aa g°°d as his , . word. He n to went 011 *!° ^ of Gordon, ? mg o£ Georgia, a captaincy y°j teacbes scbo °l the city and in of Hew °i ... ,, , battle ,, 1 °J e Je of Manassas tlle ,, mi ..... Hha of all ,, the adjoining counties wer f, ca e ^ an } m 1 utmost haste to l mn’.mimbe.rs. ltl , .jugiments, A colonel of one of 10 ml f arrayed in old tyl . cocked liat and big epaulettes, f a ^f up a monuu S or two before the 1:d 1 as k ^ ,i t0 ^ tlie general ^,1 p 1 1 Bea ” e ? afd appeai'ed, he sal V^ vl 1 « o utmost , sincerity: , 1 General , Beauregard, my men are mostly men of families. ’They left their h “ 1U a lmn ' y w, tbout enough coffee ots frying-pans - and blankets, P , and they r j ’- 11 a ‘ tl ? compose their ^ u! ‘1,1 , ! aboat fam [; ® i*L s n ® re Do you see that f sun - 8lr ,„ ? l )011lta . . S . .. 0 1 ’ “Yes, sir, ” said the colonel, ia rvon dering timidity. “Well, sir, I might as well attempt to pull down that sun from heaven as allow your men to return home at a critical moment like this. Go tell yonr men to prepare for battle at any instant. There is no telling when it may come.” The colonel retreated in confusion. A Scene in the West a cowboy’s bace with a train It was early in tho morning that the pilgrims were favored with an exhibition of horsemanship which is rarely seen. At one of the stations at which the train stopped there appeared among the small knot of natives a veritable cowboy, mounted and fully equipped. He wore a broad-brimmed felt hat over an hon¬ est, pleasant face, deeply woolen tanned by and the sun and atmosphere, a shirt short gray jacket and gray pants. Over his legs from his hips to his knees ex¬ tended a wide piece of leather, the ob¬ ject of which is supposed and brash. to be He to pro¬ tect him from rain was asked if he owned the herd of sheep grazing near, and indignantly responded that he did not, that he was a cowboy. “ Let us see yon lasso that cow.” “Huh! That’s nothin’! The boys aid skin my head.” „ catch the tom. . ‘ ‘ Then let us see you “ Without a word the little pony was urged to the other side of the tracK, and, as the train started, horse and rider made a dash, going ahead of the train. Gradually, as the train got undeb way, it gained upon its opponent until it and the horse stood ‘ neck and neck.] tkte'cjars wrftold to^fmfrom «3 Jtotjon^hJfittte'pony* ^ “£ted which^t 1 wM°headed reached by foj j fl - 0 m the higher ground. Tbd • A iDCrcasc a in flpee d, and the cowboyl offerej . g iutel)t oulyU p 0rl the prizes and ^ hi avo lhe re in to the pony th £2“” B t fliS?5U takin „ t h e th! cigars from ««. 0« l tg and ane ven ground, throng ^ over eleva tions the amm d _ e i oge to the tram tha S*. , ri(1 ’ ^ >8 fee t ca me in contact with itecO i Jh m wilH j 0 ft entirely to wool or a stumble rider . tbrown both horse and H U »kU h ^ — wh ------- mile eels. the ^ ~ race was 1 Ull L‘ kep t U u quarters of a daring nder and at the end of it the acknow greeted with shouts which he thrembankment.--S4m as the hori mmmtiM Mter in Chicago Inter-Ocean. /£* cisco IMantaliou Philosophy true ’ligion in de hoe hA ' Dars more aberage p» *■ die den dar is in de De wbat would abuse a man trouble, would not hep when he’s in frien’ in distress. reads mer she frowns; in de fall she sig in It de ain’t winter de she brave slaps man F r dat - «n -n al’ej I fight when yer stan’ calls bun dan a de > co J T brave man can more