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foreman o* 1’IIE SHOP.
*-A HE Should Nut
Sb«'" <l He
^ge Be.
•.; 0 n of foreman of a shop or
P of p a „i<r S of workmen out demands of fair as
^ > Sod the turning a
- e f work Some fill one
ponut of f L demand and others the
feen ,r- but it is only the man
who fills both.
are sometimes at fault in
&M' 0 - foremen the largest
from in given time,
of work a
r k f and mishiug, grumbling than
sp b occupied more time
a 0 nud picking up every
, n ; p tion as a direct attempt
P g rion If a foreman is honor
P pC f !l sensitive he will not bear this
P ami so in simps ruled by such
P“| f or changes such instance of foremen occurs are fre- to
P- ff/’inst One proprietor of a very
now of a
business, requiring the services
^ nd a good foreman?” he inquired.
“ have an excellent man for the
oU ,ri‘. iu your shop,” was answered,
lace “ “Oh, he’ll never do; he’s
r. ^the Him driver
men himself. I want a
K°L ought to be a stranger.” estabhsh- The
r tinn of foreman in that
r is periodically vacant, and a
&er Es and who has can the bring qualifications fair recommen- of a
KL,” ^position, can generally have has assurances to wait
even if he a
7} 1 time for proprietor his predecessor s shoes usual
vet this is in no
^ ‘“a hard man;” 1 he simply has a
kssf idea of the duty of a foreman,
-a* foreman is a mechanical blus
ffi, w ideal cydones in the shop,
Kff) who stirs up general
Ldaces an atmosphere of un
_ hop round
Liness; and “makes the men
My.” as he once remarked. The
kemm^and make trouble for every new
his “life is not a happy
bne.” hovrever, some foremen
| Lo I],ere are, instructors rather than mana¬
are Under their rule
gers of men. more
Le L is spent in the in details “doing of work,
correcting errors, over,
itim should be required to complete the
L Lement, The scrap heap, under their man
grows to enormous propor
Ls; slight every mistake slight error in apprehension m work and of
e verv another accretion to the
order makes
growing pile. ‘Under such foremen the
[workmen |or material. never learn economy of time
| of capacitated foreman is
sibility, A truly and his portrait is drawn a from pos¬
L [where f iffl cy sketch. In the establishment
he is a manager a strike has not
[occurred [twenty-five since it had Probably an existence— there are
[many' years. and his portrait
[Eland like him, may
| for those of others.
Although he is generally as exact as
[tie lis workmen stir as them to “bell if he hour,” is late there and
L no among attention when he
letting down of
[goes [job and out. does He it, assumes wearing a his part honorable of every
overalls like his men. He is not afraid
of a loss of dignity or a relaxation of
authority by addressing his men famil¬
iarly. He suffers no diminution of well
haraed superiority in asking advice of
home of his more experienced men. If
one of his men “funs against a snag,”
lie goes at once to his foreman, who
either knows what to do or has some
proper and timely suggestion to make.
Be contrives to have his men interested
i)n the work from incipiency to finish,
and when one of them shows hearty in¬
terest in the work and turns out a good
job he is told of it in plain words that
cheer his heart, instead of being re¬
warded with a grumpy “That’ll do.”—
Scientific American.
The Slaughter of the Aunamitcs.
| [capital A description of Annam, of the is published. fall of Hue, The the
report is hv a Trench officer, an eye¬
witness of the slaughter of the con¬
quered and cooped-up Annamites.
“The beaten Annamites were cooped
up in the burning village,” says this
lurid sketch. “The only road of escape
lay under the guns of the fort. We saw
them halting at the end of the village
with singed garments. Then the poor
helpless creatures rushed under the
French fire. A great battery then com¬
menced. Two volleys were fired. It
was quite a treat to see these fan-like
streams of bullets sweeping down upon
the fugitives. They were poured in
twice in one minute at the word of com¬
mand, It and in a sure methodical manner.
was like a jet from a huge watering
pot, which mowed them down by doz¬
ens. In a cloud of dust and gravel,
continues this fierce report, we could
see some who seemed to be driven mad,*
picking themselves up, limping now one
My, now another, like wounded ani¬
mals. Gathering ud their robes in a
comical manner, their long hair unfast¬
ened and streaming down their backs,
hade them look like women.
| ‘ Our men continued to kill them all
i the same when they came up to breathe
bke seals. The men then amused them¬
selves counting the dead—fifty on the
■eft, eighty on the right. In the village
toe small heaps. With those killedin
the southern forts about eight hundred
® a thousand must have been disposed
°t After all this massacre had conclud
™> a “d ‘the route of the Annamites was
*mpiete,’ ercely the French sailors were
dpless hunting Ann after the wounded and
J amites. Some were crouch
hi holes, others feigning death,
rile others at the last gasp were
fetching er out their hands pleading for
cy and shouting ‘Han, Han !’ in
fed eartrending them accents. Our menslaught
jtonwith with bayonets or brained
the butt ends of their mus
Piaxtation Pleasantries - -Dere’s a
Tfh t° poverty in dis country. No man
Pb too po’ ter keep a dog. I have
hiow d whisky ter make a plain, dull
speaker ’pear eloquent an’ witty, but it
as the listeners had drunk it. De man
; a , thinks cast-iron pistols can’t hurt
to body sutinly nebber fired off many er
5^- «long He agricultural colleges must be
way off, ’cause heap er farmer
, • , *s goes off ter ’em an’ nebber gits
ack ter de farms agin.— Texas Siftings.
AFTER THE EVACUATION.
Ilow New York City Cooked After it was
Turned over to Washington by the
British.
The appearance of the town at the
time of its restoration to liberty and
peace at the end of the He, volution ary
War, is described bv one who saw it as
the most desolate and gloomy imagin
able. Beginning at the foot of Broad
way, there stooa the old fort with its
dismounted cannon lying under the
walls over which they had apparently
been toppled by the British soldiers in the
wantonness or haste of their departure.
In the Bowling Green was still seen the
pedestal from which the leaden image of
George III. had been hurled on the re
ceipt of the news of the Declaration of
Independence. Immediately above ibis
point began the burned district, extend¬
ing up both sides of Broadway to Hec¬
tor street, except some half dozen houses
left standing near the Battery. To
the east of Broadway, as far as Broad
street and up to Beaver street, all was a
heap of ruins, while on the west side all
was swept away except St. Paul’s Church
and a few buildings beyond the compact
part of the city as it was at that time.
Opposite St. Paul’s were several dwell¬
ings of the better class, From this
point the fields were open to the north
as far as a line ranging eastwardly from
Warren street, where the prospect was
bounded by a row of more useful than
nr:: amental public buildings—the bride¬
well, the Poor-house, the jail and the
gallows. Toward the west there -was
nothing to obstruct the view of the
North river but a few low houses and the
half ruined buildings of Columbia Col¬
lege. No visible attempt had been made
since the fire to remove the ruins, and as
many of the edifices destroyed were of
brick, the skeletons of the walls cast
their grim shadows upon the pavements,
imparting an unearthly aspect to the
streets. The semicircular front of Trinity
Church still reared its ghastly form and
seemed to deepen while it hallowed the
solitude of the surrounding graves.
Turning from those ruins, Wall
street presented some of the aspects of
a living city. There stood the mined
shell of the old Presbyterian Church.
At the head of Broad street was the old
City Hall, in all its primitive nakedness.
At this time, and until it was fitted up
for the use of the federal government,
this building stood upon brick arches,
permitting a passage from street to
street underneath. Above Wall street,
toward the Common, lay the best por¬
tion of the city, the residences of the
upper classes, though even upon these
the hand of the destroyer had made
deep and broad impressions. The
churches were ruined and dilapidated
shells; the shops and stores were few
and poorly stocked, and the old sugar
house, no longer vocal with groans and
surrounding execrations, desolation. frowned dismally on the
Nor was the
ruin of the material city greater than
that of its social institutions and pecuni¬
ary resources. The resident population
was less by more than one-half than be¬
fore the war, though after the restora¬
tion of peace many of the exiled fami¬
lies returned to their former habitations,
commerce was completely anilhilated and
all industrial pursuits and social and re¬
ligious observances' greatly depressed.
The revenues of the city were of course
in a ruinous condition, as neither rents
nor taxes had been collected in many
years. The old landmarks were in many
cases entirely effaced and often no avail¬
able means remained for determining
the boundaries of estates. The hooks
of public records had in many cases
been destroyed or carried off by the
former royal officers, civil and military.
—Herald.
Why Chilvers Didn’t.
As the three of us rode out from Wa¬
terproof, La., on horseback, we overtook
a citizen jogging along as if at peace
with the world. No introductions were
needed, and presently we were chatting
away on the most familiar terms. After
awhile, and when about six miles from
the town, we met a man on horseback
who had a shotgun lying across his lap
and a revolver on hie hip. drew
“Morning, gents,” he said, as we
rein. “How far is it to town ?”
“Six miles,” answered our stranger.
“And mought you be acquainted ir>
Waterproof ?”
“A few.”
‘ ‘Mought you know a chap as is named
Chilvers—Jedge Chilvers ?”
“Wall, I’ve seen him around.”
“Likely to he thar’ now?”
“I should say so.”
“That’s all; good-bye.” of sight, _ and then
We watched him out
one of the men said to the stranger:
“That chap had a wicked look.”
“Oh, he’s on the shoot, lie is.”
“Is he going to shoot Chilvers?”
“He thinks he is, but he won’t.”
“Why?” I’m Chilvers myself! Per¬
■ “Because
mit me to introduce myself.” tell him who
“And why didn’t you you
and what he wanted ? ’
was see
“That would have brought on the
shooting and some of you would have
been hit,” he answered, “I rather sus
pect he’s a chap from up the country
about 30 miles whose brother I shot in a
little fracas last year. If it’s the man,
he’s a terrible poor shot, and if one of
them ar’ bosses of your’n should get hit
you’d have to pay all damages.”
“But won’t he waylay you on the way
back?” !”
“No, sir. I shall waylay him
That evening, an hour after our re¬
turn, the Judge led his limping horse
into town, and when asked what the
trouble was he replied: decent
“It’s enough to disgust every shots
man ! That fellow had five square
at me, and yet he must go and put a
bullet in an animal worth $200.”
How the other party came out we
didn’t inquire. The Judge didu’t act
like a mau who would answer leading
questions until he knew whether the
horse could be saved. —M. Quad.
The St. Paul Pioneer Press says:
“Three little girls called at the lockup
the other evening to apply for the re¬
lease of a drunken father. Their plead¬
ing words and faces, as they clung to
their parent, made one of the strongest
temperance lectures the hard, gray walls
of the city prison ever looked upon.
A FAITIIFL’L DOG'S DEATH
AFTER IT HAD SAVFD THE FIVE*
OF ITS MASTER AM) 311 sTREsS.
ciimhins on to Wnitcrs.uraimmV lirenst
,he Ni«i>t it u Hin<» cteks ins
Io r T~ A " ; ' k " ,tr '‘ C Wud * "’ e ,,unse °“
["From the New York Snn.1
For four years Mr. Walter S. Graham,
aNew York business man, has lived at
Netherwood, N. J. His home there was
» neat brick cottage, two stories high,
with a peaked roof ami a high basement.
There were bay windows at the side and
a high stoop in front and a grassy yard,
with walks and flower beds all around.
On Wednesday the flower beds were all
trampled down, the grass was covered
with brick and mortar, and ragged brick
walls only remained where the house had
been. During ihe time Mr. Graham had
lived there, and for years before, the one
pet which constantly shared the house
and the affections of himself and wife
was a Skye terrier called Nellie. Nellie
weighed about seven pounds, and when
her long silver blue hair had been combed
she was a very handsome dog. Unfor¬
tunately Nellie lost her sight, from an
unknown cause, about a year ago. She
was none the less, but rather the more,
a pet ou that account. She usually slept
at night at the foot of Mr. Graham’s bed.
The bedroom was on the second floor.
Mrs. Graham and the girl also had rooms
on the same floor.
Nellie was in her usuai place on Tues¬
day night. Mr. Graham says he was
very tired that night, and slept soundly
until about 2 o’clock Wednesday morn¬
ing. Then he was awakened to find
that the dog had climbed on his chest
and was licking his face and whining.
He at once laid the dog on one side and
then got out of bed, having a feeling that
something was wrong. Picking up a re¬
volver, he stepped to the room door and
out into the hall. There he distinctly
heard footsteps going down the basement
stairs. He ran along the hall and into
a rear bedroom. Putting his head out
of the window he saw a man climbing
the low terraced hill back of the yard,
and another coming up the outside steps
from the basement. He at once fired
two shots at the nearest man, hut whether
he wounded him or not is not known.
The man ran away, saying something to
his companion as he did so.
As the man disappeared behind a shrnl i
Mr. Graham thought he saw a puff of
light blue the smoke roll out of tlie laundry
door, in basement. He drew in his
head and hurried along the hall toward
the stairs. He had slipped on his trous¬
ers when he got out of bed. Hanging
in the hall was an overcoat. As he
caught the coat off the rack his wife,
awakened by the shooting, came out of
her room and followed him down the
stairs, begging him to return lest ho
should be killed by the burglars. He
hastened out of the front door and
around the right side of the house, shout¬
ing “Thieves !” as he ran.
He had hopes of getting another shot
at the men or of enabling his neighbors
to do so. As he rounded the corner of
of the house he found that flames were
stieaking the volumes of smoke that
were pouring out where the first puff
had come. The laundry was on fire,
and the flames were rapidly spreading
through the open door, all over the
basement, and up into the rear of the
second floor. Then he shouted 1 ‘Fire !”
and ran back to the front of the house.
His wife had discovered the fire also, and
had gone up stairs, and was wrapping
some clothing in a sheet to carry out.
When Mr. Graham got into the house
again the whole upper story was filling
with dense smoke. His wife had tried
to get some valuable sets of silver plate
from a closet in ihe second story, but
the closet was locked and she could not
find the key.
Without waiting longer Mr. Graham
assisted his wife and the girl through
the smoke to the front door, leaving the
stuff behind because of the urgency of
the case, and then ran into the dining
room to get out some movable property
tliere. The dining room table, a rug
from the floor, and three or four cups
and saucers, the first things at hand,
were carried out. A basket full of silver
plated taule ware which the robbers had
packed up but had left on the floor
when discovered was not taken at first,
because it was so easy to remove that he
thought he could get it at any time.
When he went for it he found his way
cut off by the fire. Nothing else was
taken out of the house.
A host of neighbors answered Mr.
Graliam’s cries for assistance. Some of
them tried ineffectually to put out the
fire with buckets of water, others broke
into the chapel and rang the bell, and
everybody shouted. In the midst of the
noise and confusion, Mr. Graham re
membered that he had left blind Nebie
on the bed on the second floor. A neigh¬
bor had a long ladder iu his yard which
Mr. Graham had seen. He got it liis as
quickly as he could and raised it to
bedroom window. Then he started to
climb it, but his neighbors pulled him
back. They believed it would be cer¬
tain death for him to venture into the
building. lives,” said
“The dog had saved our
Mr. Graham. “If I had slept a few
minutes longer the smoke would have
suffocated ns all. I suppose I acted as
if I were wild when I started to go up
the ladder.”
As the alarm Spread some one tele¬
graphed for the Plainfield Fire Depart¬
ment. The call was at once answered,
but it is over a mile from Netherwood to
Plainfield, and the fire was under con¬
trol when the engines arrived.
The house contained a fine collection
of vases, plaques, and other bric-a
brac, a large number of valuable paint¬
ings, silverware, and jewelry, and the
usual furniture. The loss will amount
to §10,000. Mr. Graham had §6,000
insurance on it. The building was valued
at §12,000. It was not insured.
Mr. John Plummer saw two men pass
his house, coming from the direction of
Mr. Graham’s just after the shots were
fired. One of them was groaning.
Men of noble birth are noted tobe en¬
vious towards new men that rise ; for the
distance is altered and it is like a decent
of the eye, that when others come on
they think themselves go back.—Bacon.
AN UNLUCKY MA-N.
a eft a pte it or mishaps which be
fifil.l. HIM.
An Unfortunate Texan Whose Luck Would
Never Turn,
Old man Syntax, as he was familiarly
called, was one of those unfortunate
mortals whose lives are one unbroken
run of bad luck. He was always on the
point of consummating some great achiev
ment, when a combination of disastrous
circumstances would squelch all his
hopes. Sadness and sorrow brooded
over his early life, and grief and be¬
reavement had the drop on him in his
old age. Many and many a time when
he was about to get the better of a
greenhorn in a trade, would some one
take the greenhorn aside, a .<1 Syntax
would be foiled. Often and often when
a piece of buttered- toast would vie
raised to his mouth, would it fall to the
ground, and in nine cases out of ten
would the buttered side be down. Ami
thus the whirling years went round and
old man Syntax was sad and gloomy
He had a son named TV m, and Tom
was wild and would never settle down to
steady work. He and the old man
moved to the vicinity of San Angelo,
Texas, and soon after their arrival, what
fortune was beginning to relax her fea¬
tures preparatory to smiling on them,
Tom was hung by a mob of lynchers
who mistook him for another man. He
was a martyr to circumstantial evidence.
The lynchers felt very sorry when they
discovered their mistake, and they ap¬
pointed a committee to wait, upon Tom’s
bereaved parent and apologize.
The committee called on old man Syn¬
tax:
“Wo regret the—the accident, Col.
Syntax, and we assure you it will uot
occur “Gentlemen,” again.” replied the old
man
sadly, “it’s putty tough on me, but I’m
giftin' “Had kinder much used trouble to misfortune.” before, old man?”
“Trouble! Well I should sob. ’ceptiu’ Why,
I’ve never had nothing else
trouble and disapp’intment. ”
“Is that so ?”
“Yes; some years ago I went into the
cattle business near Austin, and in a
short time, considering my capital, by
hard, hard work, I accumulated a large
herd of cattle, from which I expected to
realize something handsome, but just as
I was gittiu’ ready to drive them off and
sell them, a lot of men came to my
ranch and took possession of the whole
bunch. ”
“How could they do that if you could
prove that the cattle were-”
“Hey?” cattle, they
“They were your were
not ?”
“And after that me and Tom started
a store in San Antonio, and would have
made a heap of money out of it if the
fire insurance company had paid up.”
“Why, didn’t the insurance company
pav you for your los3 ?”
“Hey ?”
“I say, why didn’t-”
“And then Tom and me discovered a
mine out on the Hondo canyon and we
got a rich Englishman interested, and
we had some chunks of ore assayed and
we were mighty near gittiu’ $10,000 for
a half interest.”
“ What prevented the Englishman
from purchasing ?”
“Hey?” didn’t the-”
“I say, why and Tom
“As I was saying, me going we to
come here and we were just
open out in the land business when
yon’uns took Tom out and hung him.”
The old man wiped the moisture from
his eyes, and the chairman of the vigi¬
lance committee was visibly affected as
he said:
“Col. Syntax, the committee requested
me, in token of fheir sincere grief at
having bereaved you of your son, to
tender you a purse of one hundred dol¬
lars.”
The face of the old man lighted up
and his fingers moved nervously as if
eager to handle the funds:
“Gentlemen, I believe mv spell of bad
luck is broken. It is a long lane that
has no turning, and I reckon my turn
. lias come. So you are going to thatboy pay me
for having hung Tom ? I knew
would be a source of revenue to me some
day. Gentlemen, I’ve spent hundreds
of dollars to lawyers gittin’ that boy out
of jail.”
“We were going to give you a think purse I
of one hundred dollars, but I
had better give you--”
“Two hundred!”
“No, ten minutes to leave the town,
you old scoundrel.”— Texas Siftings.
The Irish Harp.
The old style Irish harp was about
four feet high, had no pedals, and The was
strung to the back with straps.
one belonging to King Brien Born, who
was killed at the battle of Clontarf in
1014, is still preserved in the museum at
Trinity College, Dublin. It is black
with age, and polished, but with worm-eaten. silver
The old relic is adorned or¬
naments. The King’s son, Teague, took
the harp to Rome after the battle and
presented it to the Pope, together with
the crow r n and regalia that had been
worn by his father. A succeeding pope
gave it to Henry the Eighth, together
with the titleof “Def'enderof the Faith,”
and Heniy gave it to the Earl of Clan
ricarde, in whose family it was held
until the beginning of the eighteenth
century. It then passed through college sev¬
eral hands until 1786, when the
became its owner.
Footing it featly.Ethel— “I can’t think
what Maud can see in that ungainly,
awkward Captain Heavitree. ” Madge—
“My dear, it’s becoming perfectly told ab
surd. Ouly think! The gardener hoped the
the cook yesterday that he
captain would stay for another fortnight,
for positively there was no necessity to
roll the gravel walks while they kept per¬
petually promenading up and down.”—
Ijondon Funny Folks.
Wipe your pen after using, and it will
last the longer, Remember, a pen is
saved, a pen is earned.— Boston I ran
script.
The certain way to be cheated, is
to fancy one’s self more cunning than
others.
THE MIDNIGHT SUN.
On© ot the Spectacles* Alibi dec!
by Nature.
[From the London News.]
Nature is, indeed, very often skillful
iu her arrangement of shows. She has
a fine sense of contrast and knows how
to set off one thing by another. So at
North Cape the splendor of sea and sky
is heightened by a dull and unintorest
ing laud. The spectator stands upon a
bare and gloomy moor, and his vision
ranges along a broken but monotonous
coast, attractive only when its highest
portions catch and throw back the rosy
light that falls upon them from the
glorious heavens. Nothing, therefore,
draws the mind away from contempla
tion of the expanse of water and sky
over which the sun lords its strength,
Many a traveler has sought to paint in
words the weird splendor of the scene
when, at the midnight hour, the orb
hangs above the 'horizon diffusing over
all a rich yet mysterious light. We glow may
say mysterious, for this uncanny.
has about it a sort of night effect hide
scribable in words. The light is that of
dav, but it is not day, and all nature
seems to sleep as though shfouded in
darkness. True, Lord Dnfferiu’s cole
brated “rooster” did not perceive “high fhe
fact. Au uureflective stranger iu
latitudes,” the unhappy bird was de
ceiveii into an idea of perpetual sunrise,
and, having proclaimed ihe victim morn im- for
thirty-six hours, died a to
pulse, combined with ignorance of pbysi
cal geography.
Chanticleer’s experience notwithstand
ing, there i» over the whole scene and in
the mind of the observer a conscious
ness of night, which makes ihe more
wonderful a simultaneous vision of the
orb of the day. The impression cannot
bo communicated, but the mere picture
has been again and again limned for us
by skillful pens, and by none more sue
cessfully than that of Bayard Taylor,
who speaks of the "eddies of returning
birds, gleaming drifts' golden beech in leaves the nocturnal the
sun. like of in
October air,” and continues : “Far to
the north the sun lay in a bed of saffron
light over the clear horizon of the Arctic
ocean. A few bars of dazzling oraugo
cloud floated above him, and, stili higher
in the sky, where the saffron molted
through delicate rose color into blue,
hung like wreaths of vapor, touched
with pearly, opaline flushes of pink and
golden gray.” He describes the sea as
“a web of pale slate color, shot through
with threads of orange and saffron,” and
the air as “filled with a soft mysterious
glow,” while “between the headlands
stood the midnight sun shining on us
with subdued fires, and with the gorge
ous coloring of an hour for which we
have no name, since it is neither sunrise
nor sunset, but the blended loveliness of
both—but shining at the same moment
in the heat and splendor of noonday on
the Pacific isles.” Even on paper the
magnificent picture excites admiration
and awe. We are all sun worshipers
more or less. We go up uncomfortable
mountains to watch the luminary rise;
and his setting on is sea or land,
on height or in valley, often a spec
tacle grand enough to justify Jean Paul
Richter’s outburst. “I see the sun stand
ing amid roses in the western sKy, into
which he has thrown the ray brush
wherewith he had all day been painting
the earth. ” These spectacles, are viewed
for the most part, however, under ordi
nary conditions, and lack the wonder of
that upon which Herr Stoll had recently
been crazing.
Far deeper than any made by physical
beauty must be the impression duo the
thought of the dark and sleeping world
out of which the traveler has come to
“look through golden viatfis into
heaven.” This is the idea upon which
Carlyle reized when making his Teufels
druckh stand at the fartherest northern
limit, of the continent. “Silence as of
death, for midnight even in the Arctic
latitude has its character; nothing but
the granite cliffs ruddy tinged, the
peaceful gurgle of the slow, heaving
Polar ocean, over which, in the utter¬
most north, the great sun hangs low
and lazy, as if he, too, were slumbering.
Yet is his cloud cloth wrought of crim¬
son and cloth of gold; yet does his light
stream over the mirrors of water, like a
tremendous fire-pillar hides shooting itself down¬ under
ward to the abyss, and
my feet. In such moments, solitude
also is invaluable; for who would speak
or be looked upon when behind him lien
all Europe and Africa, fast asleep, ex¬
cept the watchman, and before him the
silent immensity and Palace of the
Eternal, whereof our sun is but a porch
lamp?” We know not whether Herr
Stoll had thoughts like these, our in¬
formation being limited to the statement
that he found two spots on the sun’s
face; but in such spirit, which soars far
above science, should worshipers pene¬
trate to the holy places of nature.
a case of bigamy.
“How does yer new wife take to city
life?” inquired Aunt Sukey of Gabe
Sloshing. married
The latter had quiet recently
a negro girl out in the country and
brought her to the city.
“I tells yer, Aunt Sukey, dat it am all
a piece ob foolishness, a delusion an’ a
snare, dis brunging country female nig¬
gers inter a big mertropolis like Austin.
It’s slioah ter done spile ’em. Dere’s
too many frivilties an' follies, an’ frip
pries fer dem to stan’ it. De.y becomes
jist " 1 *--- too —'---’ vain an peacocky peacoeay for ior any any use, use,
an’ sling on mo’ style stvle den den a a mule mule kin kil
draw. My two wives will be de ruina
shun ob dis niggah.” What does
“Your two wives, Gabe !
yar mean ? Yer ain’t got no two wives,
has yer ?”
“Dat’s a fac’. I ’spects ter be in
dieted fer bigamy ef I doesn’t keep my
eye peeled.” make out dat yer’s got
“How does yer
two wives ?”
“Ebery night I goes home, I sees
’em.”
“Sees ’em!”
“Yaas, one in de lookin’ glass, an’ one
in front ob hit.”— Texas Siftings.
“Can your wife drive?” one Somer¬
ville man asked another. “Drive what ?”
“Drive a horse, of course.” “Drive a
horse? why, man, she cannot drive a
nail.”
king of the canyon,
HIM HOAR MAKES EVEN THE ROCKS
TitEnnti.fi.
An rnterestijur Description of tl»© Canyon
Itself— You Shudder nt the Awful Still¬
ness Around.
Driving square into the great moun
tains, as if human engineers had planned
it and human hands blasted and dug it.
is tne great, dark ravine called a canyon,
Its floor is of rock and bowlder, with,
per Its naps, sides a tiny stream trickling down,
and gravel. are soil, and bush, and rock
Its roof is the heavens,
Stand hern in the mouth and look up.
It is midday, and yet it is twilight
around yon, and above you can see the
stars twinkle. One falling from the
cliffs above would pass through a, thou
sand feet of space before striking the
rocky bottom. You shudder at the
thought, brings and the awful stillness around
you a chill.
The canyon is grim. It may echo
your chirp footsteps, but there is no squirrel
nor of bird. If living things tread
this rocky path they leave no trace be
hind. It would furnish quarters for a
thousand Indians waiting to pounce
down upon the emigrant or prospector,
but the savage stands here and feels the
chains of awe clogging his footsteps. The
grimness awes him; this silence makes
him tremble.
Push forward a few steps. The dark
ness deepens. Overhead the stars shine
brighter, and you can hear the drip of
water down the rugged and moss-grown
rocks. The dark cell of the prison lias
its terrors, but the occupant feels that
he can almost reach out and touch the
sunny, bustling world around him.
There is nothing to bring awe or fear,
In this canyon it is ever night. It is
over terrible in its silence. 11 is ever
chilly iu its grimness. The intruder
feels his heart jump and throb ns he
wonders what dangers may be concealed
by the further darkness,
The miner never comes here. The
prospector looks in and hurries away.
The savage halts, wonders, and passes
on. It seems as if a wolf would draw
back from such a retreat. In the hot
test brightest day of summer sunlight it is chilly here. In
the tlio shadows ever
dance over the jagged rocks and rugged
cliffs. When'earth rent herself apart iu
some awful and struggle, and mountains
were torn seamed as they rocked to
and fro, the canyon was made. It is
one of the scars left behind by which to
read the history further of ages ago.
Fifty steps up. Now the black -
ness of midnight surrounds us. The
trees, a thousand feet above our beads,
shade the chasm until the stars aie lost
sight of. The grimness becomes a bur
den which you can feel, and as a current
of wind sweeps up or down the rocky
defile you can hear groans and sighs and
feel your blood ran cold. The drip of
water has life, but it weighs upon you..
I 11 such stillness that you can count the
heat* of jour own heart, the drip ! dripr
drip ! of the icewater trickling along
the cliffs would drive you insane in an
hour.
Hark ! Thunder ? No ! Beginning
with a low mutter, like the gathering of
a terrible storm, and swelling and grow¬
ing until the canyon seems to quiver and
the pebbles rattle down from above—it
> s the King of the Canyon—the Grizzly !
Our footsteps have reached his ear—lie
sniffs the air with growls which mean
death Two hundred feet beyond ns in
the pitch darkness is the lair of the
King. Nothing that lives and walks can
P asH E* 8 toll-gate. Right down there the
canyon narrows, and there is his home,
Listen! How the rocks tremble under
that roar ! The scream of a whirlwind
sweeping over the prairie cannot stun
y on llkc this. The King rises up and
moves about, and Ins feetiling the bones
°f k ’ 8 many victims against the rocks
and down the dark path. His eyes have
a baleful light, and ho tears at the cliffs
with his long claws. He lias the scent,
but he cannot locate it. If he could—•
if he does— ! Como away ! The King
of the Canyon is at home and hungry.
—M. Quad.
The Jordan ( anal.
Considerable interest has been devel¬
oped in England in the scheme to build
a canal in the Jordan Valley; but owing
to the oposition of Turkey it is not likely
to come to anything. The idea, as pub¬
lished in Iron, is to cut the canal twenty
live miles from Acre to the valley of the
Jordan. The canal would be about
thirty-three feet deep, so that it would
take the largest ship. It would, more¬
over, be about 200 feet wide, which
would bo sufficient to allow vessels to
pass each other. There would tie no
necessity for locks, because, when the
water was let in, the water of the Dead
Sea and the Mediterranean would prac¬
tically flow on the same level to the
Akaba Gulf of the Red Sea. The depth
of water at Acre is sufficient, and the
cutting of the canal seems to present There no
great engineering difficulties.
would lie about 81,000,000 aud yards what of
stone and earth to take out,
was taken out of the canal would go to
form a protection for the harbor, It is
calculated that the cutting would cost
about £2,130,000, and that the expense
of forming the harbor would be £1,150,
000. ‘ Although the distance would be
greater by the new route, that would lie
more than compensated by the great
saving of time. Ships would be able to
go through the canal at full speed—say hour;
at the rate of sixteen miles per
while through the Suez Canal, they can
only travel at the rate of abont four or
five miles. If a ship got through the
Suez Canal in seventy hours, it was
thought a very good passage; lint through
the new canal, although there would tie
117 miles extra to travel, they would be
able to pass in twenty hours, thus effect¬
ing a saving of days, which would prove
an important economy to ship owners. Jordan
The expense of keeping the there is
Canal open would be trifling, as
a natural valley nearly ten miles wide,
and there could be no wash, which is so
mischievous to the Suez Canal. The
project is said to have been received
with favor by shipowners and others,
and practical steps are being taken to
start it.
A lady of this city recently filled her
lamp with gasoline, and since then she
has not benzine.