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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.