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THE MOTHER OF A FAMILY.
Her Solitary Honrot l.iesnre Described in
it Musical Medley,
[From the Portland Transcript.]
Characters— Mother nf the family, children,
servants.
SOLO—MOTHER OF THE FAMILY.
ttecit. —At length my labor is over and done!
’Tis true the morning is nearly gone,
But still there's a half hour left, I find,
So now I'll sit down and improve my
mind.
I’ll write that letter I’ve owed so long.
Set right those accounts that would
come wrong,
I'll peep into Scribner and Harper, too!
Oh ! in this half hour what won't I do?
Aria — Sweet it, is when the dishes are washed !
Sweet it is when the children are
dressed, stockings
Pleasant the time when the
are darned.
ITail to the hour of noontide r, st !
Hail’.hail! lmil!
To the hour of noontide rest!
What though a bonnet be yet to trim,
Feathers and fringe, for my Sunday
best!
Time for that when the daylight’s dim !
Hail to the hour of noontide rest!
Hail! bail! hail!
To the hour of noontide rest!
SEMI-CHORDS I.— CHILDREN.
Oh! please, mamma, my jacket is
t orn !
Oh ! please mamma, my kitten is gone !
Oh ! please, mamma, look where I will!
My cap aud mittens are missing still!
(Da capo.)
DUET—COOK AND HOUSEMAID
Cook — Oh, madam, ’tis my duty to inform you
That empty stands the Hour bin to-day;
You haven t any fuel for to warm you,
And the neighbor's dog has stole the
beef away.
Housemaid—Oh ! sorrow and grief!
The beautiful beef!
Cook—The beautiful beef!
Oilsorrow and grief!
Cook and Housemaid—Ob! powder and shot
for the rascally
thief, the
Who stole beauti
ful, beautiful
beef t
The beauti-ful beef!
Housemaid—Alas! mum, here's your vase of
Injy-cliina— of it I cannot under¬
The way
stand, carefuller
You’ll find no fingers
than mine are.
But here ’tis all to pieces in my
hand!
Cook—Oli! piteous case!
The illegant vase!
Housemaid— The illegant vase!
Oh ! piteous case!
Cook and Housemaid—Oh ! dagger and knif*
the miscreant
base
Who broke the illegant,
illegant vase? vase,
The ill-igant
SEMI-CHORUS II.—CHILDREN.
Oh ’ please, mamma, I want some cake !
Oh! please, mamma, my teeth do ache!
Oh ! please, mamma, what shall I do?
My doll’s left leg is broken in two.
TRIO AND CHORUS—MOTHER, COOK, H0USEMA1P
AND CHILDREN.
Mother—Sweet is the hour—
Cook, sotto voce—Oh ! sorrow aud grief !
Mother—When the dishes are washed—
Cook, s. v.—The beautiful beef!
Mother—Sweet is the hour—
Housemaid, s. v.—Oh ! piteous case !
Mother—When the children are dressed.
Housemaid, s. v.—The illigant vase !
Mother—Pleasant the time —
Children, s. v.—Oh ! please, mamma,
Mother—When the stockings are darned—
Children, s. v.—What shall I do ?
Mother—Hail to the hour—
Children, r. v. —My doll’s left leg—
Mother—Of noontide rest!
Children, s. v.—Is broken in two.
ALL TOOETnER.
Labor to pleasure lendH livelier zest,
Away with the hour of noontide rest!
Away ! away! away! noontide rest!
With the hour of
For oh ! it’s a glorious thing to he
The mother of a familee;
Of a fam-i-lee !!
_ Deluged , , ,, With r ... Molten „ r Iron.
A A recent . English r, paper gives . the ,, fol- f ,
k.mng accoimt of the terrible accident
which occurred at the time of the meet
“S t 10 Ir ? n an< * Steel Institute, at
Middlesbrough: . Several well-known
members visited the Northeastern Steel
Company s work& in the and marshes. their works Ihis
company is a new one
by their magnitude at once attract the
attention of the visitors to the lees.
“The gentlemen were watching the
emptying of a Bessemer converter,
which contained over ten tons of molten
iron. In due course the red-hot liquid
was poured into a hydraulic ladle and lift then raised to
by means of all to on which a
bogey, or railway wagon attached. When a
emall locomotne was
backing, m engine order jerked to couple with is called the
bogey, the and what thus threw
a ‘clutch from its place,
the ladle with its terrible molten con
tents out of balance. In a moment the
whole of the burning liquid ora fell upon
Hie platform like a thunder-shower,
There were five or six visitors standing
close to the ladle, togetner with staged about that a
dozen workmen and it is
then- lives were.bare* preserved by the
vtma JwiTh’vt tbe cintcb w' nl.nr nf
• •imnnn «in»o a tlm
hw nwnpr n(
Hi. Warfield Hra-imrv He“ Tmn nmi SparonHvoneo?
-
Se most interested of the observers in
ai lo rpmirkiiur in n
friend ‘I should like to seo this’ he
stepped to within a few feet of the ladle.
Wl,kn Hia nrno.i Afr (}r»n nf
Monmouthshire who was by the side of
Mr. Davison, rushed along the platform
calling on the other to follow. Instead
of running, Mr. Davison endeavored to
escape girders—Mother bv jumping on one of the lower
reports say by springing
at a lift that was close at hand. How
ever this might be, before he could ex
tricate himself the molten metal closed
around his legs like a sea-wave on a
shore. His clothes were burnt from his
body, his face was charred so as to be
unrecognizable, his hair and whiskers
had disappeared, and, says the dreadful
account, ‘his whole body bore marks of
fearful injury.’
“The doctors could do nothing for the
unfortunate gentleman, hours and he died that
night, after many of anguish too
terrible to think of. Several workmen
were also seriously injured and amoug
them* lad who had only just recovered
from a fraetnre of the skull. The
clothes oi many of the gentlemen molten were
completely bV'ets.” riddled by the shower
as if by
ffianoT ttp aWs’ wb7> lives bv
Hope tmkther is Utand, and
Uiev tliat nmmima miike little
u-rnole P moirovWoLson. of Tsvellintr to-rlw y nn Bie profits 1
af to
A T THE MILL.
What did you see, my farmer?
Gray walls of wood and stone,
A mill wheekturning to grind your grist
And turning for that alone.
You hear the mill-stone’s murmur,
The splash oi' the tumbling rill,
As you plod with your oxen slowly down
The sunny slopes of the hill.
The heavens are blue above you,
There’s sun and shade on the road;
You touch the brindle backs of vour team
And reckon the bags in the load.
You clip the heads of the daisies,
Aud wonder that God should need
To litter the fields with the staring blooms
Of a stubborn and worthless weed.
You’re honest and true and sturdy;
Here ^ive me your brawny hand—
A singei of idle songs, I greet
The farmer who tills the land,
Plod home with your grist in the gloaming;
The baby crows at the gate,
And over the hill by the pasture bars
The lowing cattle wait.
What do I see, my farmer?
The mill and the riff and the wheel,
The moss on the shingles, the mould on the
stones,
And the floating mists of meal.
But the poet’s vision is clearer,
Revealing the hidden things,
I see the rivulet flow to the sea
From cool, clear, woodland springs.
I see the brown fields quicken
With the green of the growing wheat,
When the swallow’s a-tilt at the bending
eaves,
And the breath of the morn is sweet.
I see the swaying reapers
In fields of the golden grain;
And oxen that pant in the summer sun
Yoked to a loaded wain
I see white sails careening
On the opal-tinted seas,
When the silvery sunlight glints the waves,
That are stirred by freshening breeze,
I see the storm-rack gather,
'Ihat blots out the evening star;
And flung in the foam of a billow’s crest,
A drowned man lashed to a spar.
I sec in the city’s shadows
A figure that creeps and’serawls
“Give blood or bread,” while the wine flows
red
And there’s mirth in the city halls.
I seo a rich man’s darlings,
As fresh as the rose's bloom,
And the gaunt, white face of a little child,
Dead, in a barren room.
Plod home with your grist;my fanner,
Nor heed how the wide world fares;
The eyes that are clearest are saddest alway,
With their burden of alien cares,
Hushed is the mill-stone’s murmur,
The dripping wheel is still;
And over the dusky vale I hear
The song of the whip-poor-will.
—Boston Transcript.
OTHER PEOPLE’S EYES.
Slowly Alice Austin where came back had from
garden gate, husband. she just
with her young The
sunshine was as golden as when
they had left the door, arm in arm; the
roses glowed as the brightly birds upon the blithely trellis
over the gate; sung as
the apple-blossoms; but her face
bore a shadow that it had not carried
she left the sunny breakfast-room,
her eyes had not a glance for bird
bloom.
Entering the house, she wont to the
overlooking the pretty
and stood looking idly out a few
then taking up a pair of scis
began impatiently to clip the dead
an a blossoms from the plants
in the window.
A11 thi8 was observed by quiet . Aunt
KutVl , sitting by the opposite window,
w j 10 Dually sa id, in her soft voice :
“Alice, I think I hear Bess calling!”
“Oh! yes; I suppose so!” answered
^b ce< “I never get. a moment for my
gelf! I don’t see why she can’t sleep
tins morning; I wanted to do a little
writing in time for the morning post.
j 5ut j suppose I must give it up, as I
] 1(ive Marston—she to everything else ! Notv her there is
Mrs. washed never sees dressed baby
nll til lie is all and and
brought in by the nurse in the morning,
ftnd never has to be kept awake nights
pr deprived of any pleasure days by the
care of him. Hhe always keeps a nurse
f or him, and only has him with herself
w hen she feels like it; but I am just tied
to “Why, my baby Alice day ! and said night 1”
Aunt Ruth, sur
prised at this outburst, little blessing “I’m sure you
have the best of a baby
that ever lived ! She’s as good as gold,
t he darling!” and she arose aud went
m t 0 the next room, from which she
presently returned with a plump baby,
seven or eight, months old, who looked
at her mother with placid violet eyes
and contentedly sucked lier thumb,
“There, now !” said Aunt Ruth, as she
tumbled and rolled the laughing ^ infant thlS
“ to lts la P’
blossom of ft baby and then talk to me
Marston’s poor little starveling!
I feel as ff I should cry every time I see
Eint child! Turned off, starved on a
1>ottle . cared for or neglected, nobody
knows which, well by a hired nurse-why, it
nnay just as be a hospital foundling
aud be done with it What the good
L °rd ,x>rmits some folks to have children
for f mothers \ hearts 1 don are * 8ee made - n , or of! wkat some with
winch vigorous remarks Aunt Ruth sub
snlcd mto her chair again and began to
eonnt the stitches m the little wool shoe
destined to cover the fat foot of baby
,, aun .. ^ T a- - } mean hit that 1
’ ,’i
don , t love my baby, said Alice, with a
more cheerful face, “nor that I don t
like to care for her. But then, you know,
there are times when even the best ol
mothers get wearv and the best of ba
b m s a little exacting. And sometimes
when I tliiuk of Jennie Marston, with
nothing to do but to enjoy dressed, herself, and
see her baby, so beautifully out
"'tk mirse in its costly carriage, I'm
afraid I feel a little bit envious, espe
dally, Aunt Ruth, as I don t see why I
should not be able to have as much as
8,ie ’ f(>r ' ve were married at about the
Kat ^ t, “ e ' a ' ul everybody said that Ed
ward and John Marston, in means and
business position, were equal. But now,
«» the end of three years, we are living
nist as wlien we besran our married Jife
while they have moved into a fine house
and she has—well, you have been there,
auntie, and you know how her house is
furnished, and she seems to have no
more household care than if she wore
hoarding, and does verv little of her sew
i u g, either. ”
“And so I suppose she is a great deal
happier than you are, isn’t she?” in
quired Aunt Ruth.
“Oh ! 1 don’t mean that,” said Alice:
“that couldn’t very well be. No,” she
continued, thoughtfully, “she does not
seem very happy, with all her luxuries,
You know she iooks fretted almost al
ways, and it is said that her husband is
not verv devoted to his home. Some
say ho drinks heavily. I’m sure I don't
luiow about that; I seldom see him when
we go there but I think he seems mo
rose and unsocial.”
“Is that what you envy her ? Or is it
her punv baby or her idleness ?” quietly
queried Aunt Ruth.
“Oh ! no, no, no!” laughed Alice,
now her merry self again. “I don’t sup
pose I really enw her at all! But I'll
confess the whole truth, auntie; I’ve
been feeling rather shabby for quite a
while, in house and dress, and this morn
ing I asked Edward to let me refurnish
the parlors aud take the present furni
tnre for other rooms, and he looked
sober and said he was afraid not, he
would think of it, aud, somehow, it dis
appointed me. I thought we could af
ford it as well as our neighbors can af
ford their luxuries or I wouldn’t have
asked it.”
Aunt Ruth’s keen eye ran over the
pretty room and glanced through tne
open door into the parlors furnished, beyond. They
were not expensively and vet
Aunt Ruth thought, she had never seen
rooms more tasteful or attractive.
“Yes, I know, auntie,” said Alice, an
swering the look, “our rooms are cozy,
and usually I feel quite satisfied with
them. But”—here she paused a mo
ment and then, with a blush and a half
shy look at Aunt Ruth, she continued,
“well, 1 will just tell the truth to you,
auntie; I’m afraid I see too often with
other people’s eyes ! Usually, my littie
home, with its sunny rooms aud neat
furnishing, looks pleasant and pretty to
me, and I feel as content as a bird in its
nest; but as soon as Mrs. DeLong or
Mrs. Morris or any of our wealthy lady
friends come in. I at once begin to con
trast my home with theirs and see how
cheap and shabby it must look to them,
just coming from their elegant snr
roundings, until I feel as inferior as my
home looks. I suppose it seems silly to
but it is ?” '
you, Aunt Ruth, true
Here she paused a moment, but as
Aunt Ruth only looked at her as if she
expected her to go on, she continued:
“And when Jennie Marston conv
here, with her baby all dressed in lace
and embroidery, looking so white and
dainty, like a lily, and Jennie looks
around with that grand, languid having air she
has, as if she pitied me for baby, to
look after my own home and it
makes me feel as if I wouldn’t do it an
other day ! and yet I am angry with my
self for letting her make me feel so.
“The other day, when she was in and
Bessy was sleepy as I held her, she said:
“‘Dear me! what a slave yon make
0 f yourself to your baby, don’t you,
Alice? I’m sure I couldn’t stand it!
Why don’t you get a nurse-girl? It
would save you a world of worry.’”
“Save worry ZZy !” my^Xtodith interjected Aunt Ruth
“I should if you
had one ! Only'the other day I saw Mrs.
Marston’s nurse out with the baby in its
little carriage, and she was talking and
laughing with a bold-looking fellow at
her side, pushing the carriage along
without looking, when baby’s long dress
got caught in the wheel in some way,
and the next moment he was dragged
forward over the side and would have
had his head dashed against the stone
pavement ‘ if I had not sprung forward
xud caught |htened him . The girl was very
mueh f ri and begged me so earh
eB poised tl v not to tell Mrs. Marston that "I
not to mention it if she would
be more careful in the future. But I
you Alice I don’t believe in the
whole nurse-girl system. I’ve seen too
mlic h of it! It is unnatural and ilnmer
c jf n ji Why were’ashamed mothers act nowadays as
;f thev of their children
instead of being proud of them and es
teeming them as the best gifts of God 1”
“Neither do I believe in the common
practice of giving a girl, or even a wo
ma n, entire charge of a child,” replied
Alice, “but only as a relief to mothers
at ‘ times.”
“That mav do ” said Aunt Ruth “if
they can be trusted; but how is one to
know? A lady friend of mine had a
UU rse-girl for her baby—a sickly little
thing that couldn’t hold its head up
alone—and she was never done telling
what a jewel devoted, that girl was—so kind to
i> a by, so so willing, and her loved
baby so much ! And she paid extra
wages for her services. One day I went
in there and found my friend was out,
but was told that she would soon return,
so I waited for her. In the back parlor
the baby fretted and moaned in the arms
of the nurse. This lasted some time,
when I heard it make a peculiar sound
or two and stop crying. I leaned for
ward in my chair and looked through
the folding-doors. There sat the nurse
girl, with set teeth, shaking that poor,
feeble little baby till it lay back hushed
and gasping, too weak and breathless to
cly whiIe its ]itt i e brother, four years
old, stood by with d. a frightened look, but
not sayiug a wor
“For a moment I was speechless and
bewildered. Then I called, in a quiet
voicej . Fre ddie, come here and see me a
little while, until mamma comes.’ He
came to my side, and, going to the far
n u > r side of the room, where the nurse
could see, but not hear, me, I took him
ufxui my lap, and said, in a low voice,
‘Freddie, does Annie often treat baby
like that?’ *
“He looked up at me, and then, with
a frightened glance over his shoulder,
whispered, ‘Yes, ma’am; lots of times !
She shakes him awful—till he gets white
and she has to put water in his face!
And she slaps and pinches me, too, but
she said if I ever told mamma she would
kill me and baby, too. O dear ! I wish
B lie would go away. I don’t like her,
dreadful !'
“Boor little fellow ! I promised him
that she would soon go away, and when
my friend ret umed I told her the whole
story. girl deniedit
“At first the all and said
that Fred was a terrible liar; but when I
told lier wliat I ]iad seen, ffbe dropped
her mask and showed herself in her real
character.
“She hated the squalling brat, she
said, and wished she had shaken its life
out long ago, and said she would have
done it, too, if it hadn’t been for keeping
her big wages. ’ ’
“Oh ! oh ! how dreadful !” cried Alice,
catching baby Bess up from the carpet,
where she lay kicking and cooing, and
cuddling her close to her bosom, as it tu
shield her from impending danger. murmured, “O
my baby, my birdling !” she
“you shall never go from your mother s
loving care ! No one shall ever have the
power to harm you while your mother
lives .
‘‘Of course, all cases are not so bad as
this was, continued Aunt Ruth, but T
cannot tell you how many instances I
have known of evils arising irom moth
crs trusting their young children to the
care of evil or careless nurses. One lady
that I know has a beautiful little daugh
ter who will be a cripple for life because
of a fall from the arms of a careless
nurse. Another was scalded in a bath
until it died. But my dear I did not,
mean to relate a chapter oi horrors to
you; I only wanted to impress it upon
y° u dla t it should be the pleasure, as it
« the duty, of every healthy mother to
look a ^er the safety and welfare of her
children with her own eyes, and give
them, freely of her love and care,
“I have loved you the more dearly for
the devotion you have manifested toward
your husband and child,
“ I’m afraid you will think me a prosy
°kl thing, but I mean to have my talk
ou t while die spirit moves me. You
were speaking of seeing with other peo
pie s eyes. Now, let me tell you wliat
° tber people s eyes see . lou know
Edward was like my own son, and it was
not strange that 1 should feel a keen m
huest m Ins choice of a wife. So it was
with a mixture of hope and fear that I
left my distant home for my visit to you.
of course > 1 k “ ew something of his cu¬
cumstances. I had helped him stait in
business, aud he had been like a good
boh m keeping me m his new life. But
I wondered liow lus new wife would turn
the tide of his future. I knew Ed war a
was a young mail of good judgment, but
} ove > y ov J know, 1S blind, and I an no,
know what tolly the little god might
} iave ^ im S° ^ ^ e P^ J question
big all along my journey whether I
should tmd you idle and hue and
extravagant, spending as fast as
your husband can earn, or whether you
w Qldd be a good, loyal little paitner in
the business that would one day make
y 0 ^ mdependent stood mukr
You didn t hnow you
u *“6'eyes of a gnm old critic that day.
little Alice, when you came out to wel
come the old mother-aunt But I took
Y ou ad up husband, wife, baby and
borne, and had my verdict all ready in
fifteen minutes I said to myself. ‘The
heart of her husband may safely trust m
hcr * a ? d > dear, I have seen no rear
son to change my mind during my three
m ?uths ^ bat. visit not in after your all home I have ! told you
this . morning ? as ked Alice, laughing
kissed Aunt Ruth s rosy cheek.
^o, not even after that! exclaimed
;knnt , Ruth. You are only a human
btde girl. And it Edward can afford it,
it is quite right that you should make
Ypur home just as pretty as you can.
But, after all, it is not rich iurmture
tliat makes a home pleasant, though it
may help. And Mrs. DeLong, who in
-7 our imagination was scorning your
borne, looked around enviously the last
time she was here and said, Mrs. Aus
haa pleasantest house m the
P ia< ; e - It is just like stepping into They fairv
land to come into her rooms are
gst as dainty ns herself. And Mis.
garland hke those replied, stiff parlors ‘They of Mrs. are not Marston’s much
-never a flower or book or bit of work
ground I always feel as if a funeral
bad just moved out of them. They did
llot sa y tlu ? 0 but I was m the oack
P arlor , and heard them talking while
they were waiting and for you looked ” the
Alice turned over
rooms * n silence. The flowers bloomed
brightly in the window, her fine canary
trilled softly in his gilded cage,
tures adorned the walls, and between
the windows, whose soft curtains were
lifted by the soft June wind, stood the
fine piano that was Alice’s delight. ;
“lama very foolish little woman,
she said at last; “ my home is quite
good enough-at least until we are nch
er - So Edward needn t look sober over
new furniture to-night.”
At night as Edward came up the gar
den walk with Alice’s arm in his, and
“Queen Bess” occupying hcr usual
perch on his shoulder, he said :
“ You can have your new furniture.
little wife, as soon ns you like.”
“How is that?” asked Alice. “I
thought you said this morning that you
did not think we could not afford to fur
nish just yet.”
“So I did,” he answered, “but I
thought it over and concluded that you
deserved to have your wishes gratified.
You are not a very extravagant little
woman!”
“ But how do you manage to have the
money to spare to-night when you did
not have it this morning?” persisted
Alice.
“Yvell, Madam Curiosity, laughed
Edward, “I have been plotting a little
extension of my business, and had laid
>»’ a lj ttle sum for that purpose. But i
have made up my mmd to wait another
year mstead of making yon wait Now,
8atlsfied ^ lth account ?
Have you made any change in your
arrangements to-day ? asked Alice,
“ Oh 1 I told Harland that I must de
cline his offer, thats all! ” replied her
husband.
“ Well, then, to morrow you can tell
him that you accept it,” said Alice,
“ What’s the matter ?” cried Edward,
in surprise. “Do you think I’m not
willing to do what you ask ? It is all
right, my darling, and the money is as
free to you as water ! ”
“I know it, Edward,” replied Alice,
“but I’ve changed my mind; that is
woman’s privilege, you know. I’m pot
going to have the worry of tearing
everything up in our home again this the
spring, now that it is all settled for
summer, so you can use your money as
you intended, and I’ll take it—with in
terest, rememoer, sir—by and by.”
“Thank you, my good little wife !
You shall have your interest, and it
shall be compound interest, too !” was
her reward
A few nights after, Edward came
home with a troubled face. “What is
it, Edward ?” cried Alice, quick to read
his every look.
“I have dreadful news for you,” he
answered. ‘ ‘ A terrible thing has hap¬
pened. It became known to-day that
John Marston was ruined. He has lost
every dollar lie owned in the world, and
forged a check for five hundred dollars.
His creditors came in and swept ever} -
tiling out of his hands, and in less than
two hours afterward the officers were
after him on a charge of forgery. Alice,
an hour ago I helped carry my old friend
home, dead by his own hand ! ”
At these words Alice dropped into a
chair, pale and .speechless.
“And Jennie—poor Jennie?” she
said at last. “ Oh ! I must help her ! ”
“ Poor woman ! ” he replied. “ I left
her, perfectly insane with her grief,
screaming, lamenting, blame and declaring
that she alone was to for Iris death.
It was a terrible scene—one that I shall
never forget. And only two or three
years ago his future locked so fair ; and
he was such a good-hearted, kindly
poor John ! poor John ! ” Aud Edward
turned away, overcome by old memories.
Erring John Marston was laid away
with more pity than blame. His wife
never recovered her reason after the
shock of his death, and Edward aud
Alice Austin never allowed themseives
to indulge in any extravagances be¬
cause they fear what might be seen by
other people’s eyes.— Arthur's Maga¬
zine.
Taxing Mustaches and Eggs.
The following amusing dialogue,
which took place the other day between
an official and a number of revolutionary
peasants in the neighborhood of Agram,
illustrates the nature of some of the
causes which have brought about some
of the present troubles in Austria: “\Ye
wish,” said the peasants, “to see the
papers in which the new taxes are written
down.” “I have neither papers nor
new taxes.” “Tell that to somebody
else, sir; we know very well that you
have brought tlifi papers.” “I assure
you it is not so.” After a long parley, docu¬
which ended in a search tor the
ments on the official's body, the peasants
at last believed him, and one courageous
spokesman asked, “So the new taxes do
not exist. ?” “I assure you that they do
not.” “And wc have to pay taxes ac
cording to the length of our mustache ?”
“Most certainly not. ” “Neither accord¬
ing to the number of children we have ?”
“What are you thinking of?” “Neither
according to the number of eggs in our
houses?” “Whoever told you such a
tiling?” Thereupon with loud exclama¬
tions of joy the peasants, who gathered
together from many parishes, dispersed equally
to their homes. Singular stories
baseless have, however, played a prom¬
inent part in some of the greatest rev¬
olutions recorded in history .—Pall Mall
Gazette.
No Army Worm There.
“The army worm, pshaw ! We keep
two crows on this estate,” Mr. William
Hinsdale said to a reporter for the Sun,
who was visiting him in his office in
Stewart’s Garden City. “I would prose¬
cute a man for shooting a crow anywhere
on the twenty square miles of the Stew¬
art domain. The crows know that they
are not molested here, and instead of
cawing over our heads they come down
and eat the bugs. The army worm may
march across Long Island, but he’ll not
cross the Stewart lands.” Mrs. Thomas
Fairclougli, of Wolcott, Conn., has a
young crow that was cajajured in its in¬
fancy, and by careful handling has be¬
come domesticated. It has its liberty,
but it never wanders off. It follows
Mrs. Fairclougli to her garden, and as
she cares for her flowers it greedily de¬
vours the insects she turns over with her
trowel. It also learned the way to her
strs wberry patch, but there it mischiev¬
ously deranged a choice second crop of
strawberries. Sambo is on excellent
terras with the big black setter, and not
only walks all over him with impunity,
but is allowed to pull his shaggy tail.
Although on the slightest provocation
file crow is ugly, it manifests marked af¬
fection for its mistress, and frequently
takes up a position on her shoulder.
Bribed With his Own Money.
The Marlin (Texas) Index tells this
little story:—
A young man from the country who
visits town frequently, and sometimes
gets on a “high lonesome,” was in town
a few weeks ago, and during his knew stay be¬
came so “exhilarated” that he not
money from chaff.
Oue of the old citizens seeing quite a
lot of money in the young man’s hand,
asked tlie loan of it. The young man,
who is ever accommodating, handed over
all the money he had in his hand. Thus
matters stood until a short time ago the
old citizen met the young man and lec¬
tured him about drinking, and said;
“Now, my vouug friend, I will give
yon a dollar every time you leave town
sober.”
“Agreed,” said the young man.
Since that agreement the countryman,
when sober, regularly calls on the old
citizen for the dollar, and gets it. He
now keeps sober when in town to make
the dollar, little dreaming that it is his
own money.
How to Keep Gkapes. —I will give a
method with which I have never had oc¬
casion to be dissatisfied. After cutting
out all imperfect grapes, spread the
bunches of grapes out upon shelves or
tables and let-them remain until the
stems dry a little, say two or three
days. Then cut up some perfectly
clean dry rye straw about an inch long.
Spread a layer of this in the bottom of
a box; put in a layer of fruit, spread out
so that the bunches will not touch each
other, then another layer of straw, and
so on. Let the last layer be of straw.
Set the box away in a dry but cool
place, and the grapes will continue fresh
and good for a long time. I think that
the place in which grapes are stored
away should be not only dry, but cool
aud well ventilated.
Paper Material. — Paper is now
made in Sweden from the bleached re¬
mains of mosses that lived centuries
ago, and now found in enormous quanti¬
ties. The paper is turned out in all de¬
grees of excellence, from tissue to sheets
three-fourths of an inch thick.
Where Young Snakes Go.
Be.be” in
sarst sat s k ££
“,T?P «'£!' "j
snake,' a$
when she straightened out to
one Mow of the hoe I run <2 with
from her body. cut her head !
I straightened her
and was examining her, and preperW
about m take six her inches length, long, when a d YoungS? abolt Je
of nn 5®
size a common lead pencil, made
appearance. I cut its head off and
others followed, until 1 had cut the
heads off of twenty-seven. 8ome
them remained dead in the of
their mother, that I know cavitv
so that thev
did not occupy a p ace in the stomach
The snake had swallowed twelve guinea
S.”S eggs, which I proceeded to ejtet bv
ment, and the young snakes from apart
other. This induced to an
me examine the
head and neck which I cut off I ^
covered that there was an opening un
der the tongue, through which the
young snakes entered the cavitv in
which they were found, and that “that
cavity was separate and distinct from
the stomach where the guinea ego- s were
found. down I took the two smooth sticks^ I ran
one throat from above the
tongue and the other through the open
ing but under through the separate tongue. and Both distinct came out’ pas’
sages. Hence I say snakes do not swal
low their young, but something like the
pocket opossum for or kangaroo them, have a sack or
which is entered
through Some the month and under the
tongue. one may want to know
what was-done with the guinea eggs j
answer, I put them back into the nest
and in about a week twelve young gui¬
nea American chicks were Field. hatched from them.-!
To Bust the Inside of a Piano.
It is as important to keep the inside
of a piano cleaned as it is the outside.
This can be done with a feather duster
one with long, flexible leathers. By
working this properly you can cause the
feathers to pass through the strings on
the board.
In dusting a square piano, brush the
dust to the right hand; in a grand, to¬
ward the small end. A still better way
is to pass a soft cloth under the strings,
with a thin strip of whalebone or other
flexible materia). No sharp instrument
should be used for this purpose. In do¬
ing this, all undue pressure on the
strings should be avoided, as this would
put the piano out of tune.
It is well to clean the inside of a piano
just before having it tuned, as tuners
object business. to do this, it dusting being nc part of
their In be careful
not to scratch the sounding board. An
ordinary feather duster can be used for
the iron frame, tuning pins, etc. A bel¬
lows may be used with advantage when
the dust is not thick. A piano may be
kept free from dust by using the bellows
once a week. Always avoid blowing the
dust into the action of the piano as much
as possible.
How to Stuff Tomatoes.
Julia Corson says:—Fry quarter of a
pound of ripe, sausages or tomatoes sausage-meat; of medium wash
a dozen firm
size, cut a small shoe from the stem end
of each one, and scoop out the interior
with a tea-spoon; chop this part of the
tomatoes fine, mix it thoroughly with
the fried sausage, season the force-meat
thus made highly with salt and pepper,
and then use it to stuff the tomatoes; set
the stuffed tomatoes in a dripping-pan
just large enough to hold them, dust
cracker or bread crumbs over the tops, each
put a very small bit of butter on
one, and then bake them for half an
hour in a hot oven; remove them from
the dripping-pan to ahot platter, without
breaking them, and serve them hot, with
a gravy made as follows: After dishing
the tomatoes, set the dripping-pan in
which they were baked over the fire,
stir into it a fable-spoonful of dry flour,
and let it brown; then stir in a pint of
boiling water; season the gravy highly
with salt and pepper, let it boil for a
minute, and then serve it with the stuffed
tomatoes.
How Diamonds are Cut.
“There are three processes necessary
to be gone through with between the
rough stone and the diamond as you see
it here,” replied a jeweler. “First, a
piece of stone the required size must be
cut off. To do this we use a circular
saw made of sheet iron and without
teeth. It is worked like a woodworker s
saw, and two men stand at the treadle.
One man holds the stone to be cut
tightly against the edge of the saw,
while the other, using a small leather
dipped in oil, applies diamond dust tc
the edge of the saw. The saw is made
of very ductile metal, and the particles
of diamond dust becoming firmly set m
it, soon wear through the hardest stone.
Now the piece of diamond passes to the
cutting table, upon which is strapped of a
wheel running parallel to the top cement
table. The stone is fastened by gi
,o a. end ol ..tick ■»
The lapidary takes the s„ against
hand and holds the stone firmly ground down
the wheel until one facet is
Diamond dust and water are constantly
applied to the wheel. The table
upper facets of the stone are old
and the stone is then removed from
wav stick before tee
and readjusted to the callets and
lapidary cuts the under sides,
remaining facets. The stone is manip¬
ulated the same in the third or P
ing process as in the composed cutting 1 T
The wheel, however, is m
of tin, and tripoli and rotten stone are
used in the polishing process.
__*-«Tonr
cause they’re through with their wmp
ping—and the girls are happy becau
they didn’t get any.”
work ill best uncertain fortune
Hard wi
mend.