Newspaper Page Text
v® Wlflls
VOL.XXII
MISS BARTON,
THE CARRIAGE WILL GALL AT HALF-PAST 7 O’CLOCK.
“By Jove, old man, this is luck! 1
haven't sceu you for a long time, though I
meet your ex-Fidus Achates, Jack Olm
sted, often enough. What is the trouble
between yon two, anyway?’
“Do you mean to say that you ve nevei
heard about that little unpleasantness,
sted, often enough. What is the trouble
Dick?’’ asked Bob Ferrers.
“Never. Girl iu the case, I suppose.
Tell me about it, won’t you? That is. if
you may. No—l've nothing to do. flow
could 1 be occupied here? For unparal
leled loneliness commend me to a summer
hotel, where one is a stranger to all the
other people, and the other people are all
intimate.”
“But you know some of the crowd here;
in fact the leading characters 4>f my story,
Eunice Barton and Olmsted.”
“Olmsted is well enough, but. he's with
the Thorpes all the time, and I don’t like
them. As for tlie little Barton girl, ugh!
she'd take first prize in an ugly woman
show.”
“She isn’t good looking, I’ll admit; hut
she's a good little soul, retiring, modest,
and all that. My chief objection to her
is that she is a Barton, and the Bartons
are such uncommonly vulgar upstarts.”
Personal gossip in public places is some
thing worse than folly; it is a crime.
While Dick Van and Ferrers were dis
cussing her affairs. Eunice Barton sat in
a vine-clad summerhouse, within ten feet
of them. Supposing that the men would
walk on. she kept perfectly quiet. Their
words hurt her. The truth is apt to hurt.
It was small comfort to be tallied a “good
little soul." She knew that she was home
ly ami her heart ached at the knowledge.
Pretty women cannot sympathize with
her. They do not know wlmt it is to be
shunned by men. or accorded a word, now
and then, too obviously from pity. They
cannot realize that to the poor “wall flow
er” a ballroom is a place of humiliation
and torture.
Had Eunice Barton plenlsed herself she
would hfive Jive! the life of a recluse; but
her family could not understand h<*r dis
taste for society. She was the only child,
and to ’hem her lack of beauty was not ap
parent. The Bartons lived in a rented
Ji‘»uso, and lined in th? front room of the
basement. They had risen above hors-hair
sofas, but they succumbed to the evil in
fluence of figured cotton-back plush. Their
ideas of decorative art excluded samplers,
but ;t wax vase with wax flowers tern-nth
a bell glass was to them a thing of beauty.
Any and every form of entertainment was
a “partv” to them. They had heard of
“5 o’clock teas.” but disapproved of such
functions. “Tea at 6 o’clock, as we always
have it, is early enough for me,” Mr. Bar
ton was wont to say. Eunice went ’<» the ■
church sociable wish her father or her mt
,W <; Unr ;;?;•!> went with young m.n. |
lYiee 'eyed them enviously. The yom g
mon never invited her.
Even summer the Bartons spent four
W<< <s in the country, and every- summer,
when they were ready to start. I tide Joe
B> rton made the same remark:
•Xow Eunice, keep your eyes open.
Mat catch a beau while you’re away. A\ ho
r 1 i c almost hated her uncle yvhen 1 e
sai ! that. She had heard it ever since
si. b-ft svhe,,’ at sixteen, and now she was
twimtv-five. .
■\i tir-t <he too had had vague ideas of
50i1... one who was to come ami rescue her
from the wax flowers ami the sociables
ami the other things she hated. I hen .o
} „,,e suceeeded billoriiess. Mie saw that
men did nos .-ven dislike her: they were a »-
solntely indifferent. She realize.! that Lie
longing for love, that is the cutse or i. <
blessing of a woman’s heart, was des
tine,] to be unfulfilled, and she hated other
i’.-M*-!- »«t
familv liked the place. It was noisy and
vulsiir. but that they did no know I o
them it. was the abode of all that was
fashion:’! I- and maguifiem’ Their names
wet • e> ..i>-d from the hotel register into
foe:.' papers, find once they bad even been
prin -'1 in a New York daily. Mrs. Barton
boudit numbers of these precious papers
and sent some to friends; others she k<pt
in : trunk, aith love letters trom Mr.
Barton. Eunice’s first shoes, and similar
treasures. , , , ,
Eur’ce sitting in the summer house, had
been thinking over these things. The con
versation she overheard was but a crown
ing torture.
A convenient bench tempted A ane ano
Ferrers. They sat down, lit their cigars,
and continued their criticism of the Bar
tons. It was too late to retreat, so Eunice
was forced to listen. . M
“Those Bartons are worse than stupids,
said r errors; “but. to do them justice,
if they are insufferably aggressive, it s a'd
for Eunice. How they push that girl for
ward! Throw her at a fellow s head, you
know. That’s why Olmsted and 1 am
out.”
“Great Scott! You don’t mean to, say
you quarrelled about Eunice Barton
Vane laughed as he spoke, and to Eunice
the laugh seemed infinitely worse than
words, it was so scornful and contemp
tuous.
“Yes, it was about Eunice, indirectly.
You i e nilier May Seymour s wedding?
You kiH>w that eVery one in our church
knew k was I■> take place Tuesday. the
pith of February, long before the cards
were out. Well, early in January Mrs.
Barton wrote to Olmsted saying that she
wished to see him about something partic
ular. Os course lie went, and what do you
suppose the something wits? She wanted
him to ese-rt Eunice to May's wedding.
She toll him she would engage a carriage
which would call for him on the evening
in question. How was that for an ambi
tious mamma? .lack is quite the bright,
particular star of () q>- church and he’s pretty
well financially. All the others run
after him, but no one had ever been quite so
open about it ns Mrs. Barton- Jack was
taken tv surprise and could think of no
excuse: and, anyway, lie’s an awfully good
chap, he said he I! be delight ed to oblige
her. Then he went out awl kicked himself.
“The fay Miss Seymour’s invitations came
out Jack received a second note from Mrs.
Barton reminding him of his engagement
! accent -any Eunice. Poor boy, he wasn’t
fly to forget it! She added a pest crip t
say that a carriage had been ordered
1 that it would call for him at, 7:30
lock. -Tack wrote and thanked her.
The Saturday preceding the 9th of Feb
tl-y Jack met Mr. Barton downtown. You
)W old Barton, pompous and. condescend
to evi-ry one, including his superiors,
shock hands with Jack. ‘By the way.’
d he. ‘niy wife told me to tell you if I
v you ’hat a carriage has been ordered
take yen and Eunice to Miss Seymour’s
Affing. It "ill call f" l ' :, t 7:“t»
lock Bi- punctual, my boy. be punctual."
Sunday morning, on his way to church
nice stepped him. Sin* seemed embar
:sed. Finally she blurted out that Jack
s very kind to act as her escort, but if
did not wish to he m-ed not. Siu- said
■ felt mortified that her mother should
re asked him. Jack is a gentleman, so
he told a, lie. Ho said that, even if Mrs.
Barton had not suggested it. he had in
tending asking her to go with him. The
ugly duckling turned the color of boiled
lobster and thanked him so gratefully that
he. in turn, thanked heaven he had fibbed.
Then Eunice wetn on:
“Mamina told me to tell you that she'd
send a carriage for you and then you’re to
come for me. The carriage will cal] at
half past, 7 o’clock. Jack kept his face
straight bill fled as soon as possible. Aftil’
church he saw Eunice’s uncle bearing down
on him. Perhaps you've met her uncle?
No? Well, he’s a genial, jovial old person,
illiterate and vulgar. He slapped Olm
sted on the back and chuckled. He’s par
ticularly awful when he chuckles.
“’Well, mv boy. going to lake the little
gal out, eh? sly dog! Young folks will be
young folks. Te-hc-he! Mith one of his
maddening chuckles he poked .lack in the
ribs. There's a kerridge been ordered.’
‘mind you behave now, yon and the little
gal in' tb.e kerridge. Te-he-he! No non
sense, oh? The kerridge 'll call at half past
7.’ Another poke in the ribs, another
chuckle, and lie waddled away.
“Poor Jack waited for the other Bartons
to gel away before he left the church.
Mrs. Barton saw him, but wins 100 far
to speak. So she motioned with her
lips, and Jack knew what she was saying:
‘Don't forget; the carriage will call at half
When she had disappeared Jack turned
to go, but he saw the sexton coming toward
him. Ever see our sexton? He shuffles
and talks in a whisper, and he’d make you
think of funerals even if he didn’t combine
an undertaking establishme it with the .iv
ei-y stable he runs. He seemed to have
some weighty matter on 5 is mind as ho ap
proached. He was more mysterious ti-an
usual. He looked around susmciously to
see if any one was watching or listening.
Then he put one finger on his lips and wink
ed at Jack.
“ ‘P'raps you know why I wish to bfe
you. sir?’ said he.
“ 'No, I don’t,’ said Jack.
“ ‘Well, it’s just this way, sir. A certain
lady, to speak plainly, it's Mrs. Barton,
sir. lias engaged a carriage of me fdr next
'l'uesday evening. She's going to send it
for you at half past 7. She feared she
might not see you herself, so asked me to
tell you. Tin- carriage will call at half
past 7. Goodday. sir.’
“Jack fel; like cursing the carriage, but
he didn’t. A lot of us fellows were in his
room that, evening, and he was so annoyed
at. the Barton tactics that he told us the
whole story. He didn't realize that he was
doing a foolish thing then, but he did the
next 'Tuesday morning, for when he entered
his office over a hundred postal cards lav
on his desk. <>n every card he read the
h >ted word<- ‘The carriage will call at half
past Then there wore pictures of a
couple, prosuupibly Eunice and himself, get
ting into a carriage or gettng out. One curd
was labelled ‘The Result.’ and there was
Eunice again with her hand in Jack’s, and
her Uncle Joe. as a fat cherub, hovering
over them saying: ‘Bless you, my chil
dren.’
“There’s nothing more to tell, except that
ho took Eunice to the wedding, and was as
kind and attentive as possible to her. But
he lias avoided the Bartons ever since,
and he’ll kill the man that says to him:
‘The carriage will call at half past 7.’ ”
“But Bob, in spite of the length of your
story, you liave.i’t explained why you and
Olmsted quarrelled," said Vane.
“Oh, it was a mere trifle. 1 seat the
postals and he found it out.”
“Is that all? The end is commonplace.
You led me to expect a tragic denouement.
Hullo! It’s almost dinner time. We may
as well go back to the hotel.”
The two men strolled away, quite un
conscious that in the summer house, homely
little Eunice Barton was crying as though
her heart would break. So. that was the
way men spoke of her! AVhat hurt her
most was to know that Olms'ed had lied
to her. It had always been a comfort to
think that once that some one had actually
wanted to take her out. Without realizing
it, she had made a hero of the only man
that had ever shown her any attention.
She felt that she could never again face
him or any of the men that knew the story.
She had received the most crushing blow
ever dealt her in her life that had been
made up of slights and humilation. The
intensity of shame overpowered her. She
could not reason calmly. AVhat was the use
of living, anyway, when there was nothing
to live for? She wasn't merely homely,
she was stupid, she bad no talents, nothing
to atone her lack of lieauty. People ridi
culed her. Ridicule is harder to bear than
anything els--. The world was harsh and
cruel. She hated everyone, and most of
al! herself.
“I wonder if homely people go to heaven?”
site murmured.
That night Dick Vane came up to Fer
rers, in the office of the X- hotel.
“Say, old man. where’s Olmsted?” said
he-: ”1 want to chaff him about that story
you told me.”
“For heaven’s sake, hush your infernal
tongue! Haven’t you heard? Miss Barton
was in the summer house this afternoon.
She heard every word wo said, and——”
“And wlmt?" asked Vtine, thoroughly
shoeked at the nows.
“And some one saw her leave the sum
mer house and—and walk towards the lake.
And they have only just recovered her dead
boily.”
Ferrers's voice rose as he spoke; his face
was ghastly in its pallor. lie paused a
moment, then cried., fiercely: “Damn you,
is the denouement tragic enough, now?”
/on heh.
The beautiful day is dead, ruy love,
The glory and gladness flown;
The flowers are shut and the birds are hushed
And I stand iu the dark alone.
The beautiful day of my life is dead
And buried with you, my own.
A beautiful day it lias been, my love,
AVith showers of sunbeams sown;
The world so broad and my joy so wide.
The rose of my life full-blown—
A lovelier day with an earthly dawn
Could never have been, my own.
The night is dark as the night can be—
The grave of the day that’s flown,
It closes around my waiting soul,
So somber and sad and lone—
The longest night that 1 ever knew,
For you are not here, niy own.
And wlmt, my love, will the morrow be,
The dawn that is yet unknown?
A dreamed-of meeting? A prayer fullilled?
The dark into glory grown?
But come what come may, till we meet,
Aly soul seeks thine, my own!
VIVIEN CASTANB.
Bducuting the Negro.
From The Philadelphia Press.
fl’here are schools, public and private, in
the south, and since the black man was
emancipated it is estimated that $37,000,000
i have been spent iu giving colored children
ATLANTA. GA.. TUESDAY. MARCH 21, 1893.
an education. Missions and churches have
been established for evangelizing the blacks
ami the good work they are domg to male
and female is witnessed on every hand. AVith
all the vices of slavery to overcome the black
man has made a progress which would be
astonishing if he did not have to compare
himself with the white man, who had centu
ries the start of him. Beginning in 1865 with
.$12,000 worth of taxable property in the
whole United States the negroes pay today
taxes on $263,000,000 worth of property.
There are hundreds of black college-bred min
isters, physicians ami lawyers and 150 news
papers are edited and owned by black men.
FINISHING THEM OFF.
How General Grant Rebuffed the Disgruntled
Sai I ora.
From The Yankee Blade.
“I remember an incident,” says an American
official correspondent, “that clearly illustrates
General Grant’s character. AVlieu I was sec
retary of the navy some hundreds of the sail
ors of the better class came to me and asked
to have some rank given them. They did not.
care about an increase of pay, they said, but
they wanted relative rank. I could not do
anything for them. they came several
times and were rather importunate, and 1
finally led a delegation of them over to the
white house and let them present their peti
tion to President Grant in person.
“They told him what they wanted, and ar
gued for a redress of their grievances plainly
but forcibly. At last an old boatswain came
to the front, and hitching up his trousers and
turning his quid, said:
“ ‘Mr. President, I can put this 'ere matter
so's you can see it plain. Now, here I be a
parent—iu fact, a father. My' son is a mid
shipman. lie outranks me, don’t you ob
serve That ain’t right, don’t you see?’
“ ‘lndeed!’ said Gram ’Who appointed him?’
“ ‘Tlie secretary- hero,’ the bo’sim said, ami
encouraged by the question, he went on: It
ain’t right, don’t you see, (hat I should be
beneath ’im. AVy, of 1 was to go on to his
ship tlie boy I brought up to obedience would
boss his own father. Jest think of that! An’
he has better quarters ’n me an’ better grub
nice furn’ture an' all that —sleeps in a nice,
soft bed an' all that. See!’
“ ’Yes, the president said, ‘yes, the world
Is full of inequalities. I know of a case quite
similar to yours.’
“The old bo’suu looked down at the carpet
lower gear.
“ ‘I know of an old follow,’ said General
Grant, ’who is a postmaster of a little town
in Kentucky. He lives in a plain way. in a
small house. He is a nice old man, but he
isn't much in rank. His son outranks him
more than vour sou does yon. iiis son lives
in Washington, in the biggest house there,
and he is surrounded by tlie nicest of furni
ture' and eats and drinks anything he takes
a notion to. He could remove h’s father from
office in a minute it he wanted to; but lie
doesn’t want to. And the old man-tliat’s
Jesse Grant, you know—doesn't seem to care
about the inequality tn rank. I suppose he is
glad to see his boy got along in tlie world.’
“The old lie’sun looked down at the carpet
and tried to Imre a hole in it with his toe,
and his comrades all laughed at him joyously
and slapped him on the back, and filed <>ut in
gr. at glee. It was the last I ever heard of »'.<
petition or the petitioners.’’
OLD < I BABKUME.
The Man Who Once Whipped Grover Cleve-
Innd.
Fayettevill<\N. Y., Letter in Once a Week.
Then we moved on over the hill to other
duties, seeking the habitation of the estima
ble Mr. Ci Biu’ktmie, who, toothless and
stricken to the last degree, bade us welcome
to Ills cabin. - , ,
“I once had n fight with Grover, said the
aged Ci, straightening up and becoming very
earnest, “It. was many- years ago. We bcm
went to Mr. King’s school. Grover stuck a
pin in tlie seat of the bench winch 1 occupied
at tne time, and 1 was anxious to have re
vem-e. i kept shaking my list at him. behind
mv book ail day in senooi. i waited for mm
IrnhimLan elm tie.., still standing on the lawn
near tlie schoolhouse. I had with mo Shell
Bratt and Jewett. lumbar. Grover camo out
bold as brass and tried to look unconcerned.
I went up to him and said:
“ ‘Grover, you daren’t knock this hickory
chi]> off my shoulder.’
“AVith that 1 picked up a piece of shell
bark hickory and placed it on niy- left shoul
der, at tlie same time getting ready to send
him a rouser with my rignt fist.
“Shell Bratt and Jewett Dunbar danced
around and told Grover he didn't darst to
take the dare. Well, with that suddenly
Grover knocked the chip oil my shoulder, amt
] let out with my right, landing under his
left eve. He gave a yell of pain, threw’his
books on the grass, spat ou ills iumds and
squared off for defense.'’
The old gentleman here grew quite out of
breath. After resting a moment he resumed
calnilv enough, but with a tinge of pride:
“At 01l it was one of those old-fashioned,
rou.-U-aml-tumble fights, in which each fellow
puils hair, scratches, kicks and cuffs to his
heart’s content. I was a muctf more power
ful lad than Grover. .Soon I had him down.
1 kept veiling out to him: "You will stick pins
in mv'seat, will you!’ ’You will, will you!
■i"<i e-ieh time 7 hit him another bat in the
v 5 - ‘lm neck. Well, Shell Bratt and Jew
ett Dunbar finally pulled me off, made us
shako hands and declared the light over with
victory for me. it was the proudest day of
““Have you seen Cleveland since, Mr. Bar
k’".Yes i’cEahilv. I met him when he was
t,0.-o fmir years ago. I asked him if he re
! alb d t!m boy who had licked him. Z 1 '’J 11 ';
and t te’-lK'd about it- Be said il 1 exit 1 a
Jo Washington he would
lhe w’nte lunise. 1 ' ! 1)all n ve and
now too old io D.nii m.i i)le ..
die in my native pla< e, 1 ■
A Screw Loose Somewise* o-
From The Detroit Free l ies-. f i ow n
He seemed b> be all right when ho sat down
at the table and the waiter
tine him in shape for his dinner, while he
studied Jhe bill of fare. He was rather un
sieadv possible, but. as lie had not eaten any
thing' for eighteen hours that was not sur
’"“AV.dl, sir, what will you have?” asked the
" “Tm k murtle soup and colled bodfish,” he
replied, holding up the bill.
The waiter was disturbed.
“Wlmt. sir? ' lie asked.
"flock murtle soup and coiled ’loditsli, he
repeated, and the waller snickered and went
<,U p'o came back in a few minutes with the
order and tlie guest took up the bill again.
1 . me ’’ lie said slowly, “some meg of
■ .A’,!. \”iih saner came, some bibs of reef,
nr.d hoiled bain, pushed motatoes, pried fars
n s premh leas, bima earns, ami, waiter,
-,vmd her up with some pince mm. piigo sud
d\ m ruts and nalsins and a eof of euppie.”
U l-his time the waiter was almost tluoun off
his feet, and he stared at his customer iu
al Tlr> L! L-uest returned the stare in hazy con
seionstmss and shook his head sk.wly.
“Don't seem to sound iii-iit, does it. hi
..sl ed "I’m sure something's wrong with it,
, it it' looks Unit way on the bill and I’ve got
♦o cut it or starve,” aud the waiter turned
,-uvny hesitatingly and moved off to the
kitchen.
We Should Smile.
From Tho New York Commercial Advertiser.
Perhaps Clark Howell docs not care who
represents Georgia in the cabinet so long as
he makes the newspaper for the state.
A MAN WITHOUT A FRIEND.
Ono morning in tho beginning of Lent,
a fashionably dressed woman approached
the large state's prison. She hesitated
for a moment at the entrance, as if not
knowing just which way to proceed, and
then, seeing the entrance to the office,
crossed the threshold of that room and
looked around her with, some curiosity
and a good deal of dread. The convict
who acted as head bookkeeper, a white
haired man and the most trusted prisoner
in the great stone building, glanced up
from his work. His eyes rested admiring
ly on the face of the visitor, for she was
exceedingly attractive. Possibly thirty
live years of age, she seemed much
younger; she was dressed with taste, and
tier natural exjiressiou was one of
sprightliness. Her hair was dark aud
waving, and her eyes of a soft brown.
“Is the warden in?” she asked in the
most pleasantly modulated voice imagin
able. »
“I will see, madam.”
Tlie bookkeeper touched a bell, and a
few moments later the warden entered.
“You wish to see me, madam i he said,
approacliluir_the visitor.
“If you have a few mcTients to spare.”
“Will you step this way?” and the
warden led the way to his private office.
The visitor sank into a large chair, and
tiie warden glanced at her m an imimring
manner.
“I wish to ask you a question,” began
the visitor.
“Yes, madam.”
“Have you iu the prison a man without
a friend?”
“Without a friend?” repeated tho war
den in surprise, for the question was
unusual.
“Yes; a man who is absolutely alone in
the world; who receives no letters; who
never has any one inquire about him; who
seems to retain no memories of his child
hood, and who, in short, is probably the
most isolate;!, silent, lonesome, miserable
being on earth?”
The warden was silent for a few
moments.
“Surely you must have such a person
behind ‘these walls.” she continued.
“There must be a man here who is dead
to all human sympathy, and who, while
living, does not belong at all to the
world.”
The warden looked up. “I think Gen
tleman George would alx:ut answer that
description.” lie answered.
■ ’G on tieman G eorge ?’ ’
"So he is called. What bls ren! name
no one knows. Y es; ho is the man
you want. But I will asl< Davis. He
knows more nbout these matters thnn
I. A wonderful man is Davis. He is the
bookkeeper who called me. You would
never think ho was a convict.”
“That white haired gentleman a con
vict?" she asked in surprise.
“Ho has Iteen here twenty-five years.
Bttl 1 will call him and see what he says.”
So saying, the warden went to the door.
“Davis!”
The old gentleman stopped writing and
approached respectfully.
“Davis, who is the most friendless man
i in the prison?”
The old gentleman answered Avithout
hesitation: "In my opinion, Gentleman
George, sir.”
“That will do. Davis.”
The old gentleman disappeared. “A
wonderful man is Davis," reiterated the
warden. “What he says ho knows. And
now, madam, that I have answered your
question, perhaps you will explain why
you desire this information?”
“My name is Mrs. Altwood. Perhaps
you know of me?” The warden bowed.
He had, Indeed, hoard of the wealthy
widow whose charities were so well
known.
“I hardly understand myself why I
have come to you in this manner, she
continued, “but something has urged me
and 1 have done so. I should like very
| much in some way to alleviate the lot of
! tho most friendless man here, if that is
: possible. 1 do not know what I can do
' to kindle some spark of feeling in his
I heart; 1 do not know that I can succeed
■ in any way in making existence more
i tolerable to the unfortunate creature,
‘ but, with your permission, and observing,
i of course, till the proprieties of the prison,
, 1 should like to try to do something.”
She gazed expectantly at the warden
: as she spoke. “Os course, you have my
' permission, madam,” was the reply.
! “Tell me, what is this man here for?”
| “He was a high-toned speculator. The
| gratification of this passion was not
! limited to legitimate means. His last
I transaction was connected with a big
mining swindle, the details ot which i
will not weary you with. He is an Eng
lishman, and came to this country, we
believe, under an assumed name.”
“How long lias he been here?”
“Ten years.”
“And Aviieit Avill he be released?”
“He will never be released.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that now he is in the hospital.
He has consumption, and will not live
long.”
“Poor fellow,” she remarked. Then
' she arose. “1 thank you,” she added,
1 simply.
“It is to you we are indebted, madam.
I am no rapid advocate of prison reform,
but I believe we would be immensely as
sisted in our work of making good citizens
out of our f’ri’minals if the public showed
that the prisoners behind the bars xvere
not altogether forgotten and shut out
from the ivorld. Good day, madam,” and
the warden followed Iter to the door.
He watched her for a moment and then
turned away.
. “A line, woman, Davis,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” replied the bookkeeper, with
-1 out looking up.
I The next day a. bird and a birdcage ar
i rived at the prison labeled: “For Gentle
-1 man George.” The warden gazed at it
with amazement. “A little mite of a
canary,” he said. “How like a woman.
"Well, thank goodness she didn't send
tracts.”
i Armed with tho bird cage, he made hie
xvtiy to the hospital and approached the
couch where Gentleman George lay. lie
was sleeping, aud for a few moments the
warden surveyed tlie prostrate figure in
| tently, Tho face was haixl and worn, and
was marked by a disagreeable expression
of cynicism; here was a person whose
nature was absolutely perverted; to whom
sympathy was a stranger, and who wish
ed for no friend or ministering hand to
be laid upon his brow, even at the final
moment. That stubborn indifference to
everything human had been deeply en
graven on his nature by years of falso
living. There would be no weakening at
the last, aud lie would pass away wiUi
hatred for the Avorld and the people in it.
The warden hung the cage at the foot of
the lied and then took his departure.
For a few moments the bird hopped
. around as though frightened by its new
■ surroundings’, gradually it became
reassured and tipped its betid in a pert in
quiring manner, cogitating upon what
; it. saw. A number of figures were extend
ed on the couches, some moving restlessly
in pain. Then the bird apparently be
came tired of the prolonged silence, and
uttered a dismal sort of a chirp, after
which, encouraged by the sound of its
own voice, it gave utterance to a musical
cadenza, and then began to trill and
I carol. After a time, the man awoke and
I opened his eyes. A flood of delicious
| melody greeted his senses. He stared
| stupidly at the cage, and then closed his
; eyes again, it was like spring time in
i the woods, with the bright sunshine
; shifting through the foliage.
“AVhere’d that come from?” he finally
; asked the doctor.
■ “A friend sent it,” was the reply.
I “Bah. 1 have no friends!”
; "When tlie bird was removed—its per
: sistent vocal demonstration proving an
noying to the other patients —he seemed
to be unusually thoughtful. After a
week, he had recovered sufficiently to be
discharged from the hospital, and he re
sumed his work ivith the same indiffer
ence. The bird was now hung up in his
cell. Gradually he seemed to take a
slight interest In the little creature.
When lie awoke in the morning, it greeted
him with a pleasing serenade. It was
always cheerful and happy. It, also,
was a prisoner; the bars of its cage were
not so large as those of his cell, but they
answered the same purpose. Without
realizing what lie was doing, tho man
studied the bird with deep interest. Its
mood was always the same; it was as
happy as the day was long; prison walls
could not rob it of its spirit; it seemed
to swell with pleasure as it improvised
some sweet melody. Moreover, he fan
i cied that it knew him and was pleased
when he returned from labor to his coll.
At any rate, c.n sue i occao.ons, it al,'ttys
greeted him with a chirp and then began
a gay allegro movement of a bird’s
sonata. One day upon coming from sup
per to his cell, he took from his pocket
a, lump of sugar and placed it between
the Avires of lhe cage. The bird had a
feast, and, when it had devoured the
sugar, began to sing as though to pay
for tills delicate attention. This was the
first indication that tho man had any feel
ing. About a week later, this was again
demonstrated. He opt tied the door of
the cage and permitted the bird to fly
out “You may have your liberty,” he
said. He expected that it would fly
through the open window, but instead,
it fluttered around the hall for a few
moments and then returned to the cage.
After that, he released the bird every
day, and it always came back. It be
came quite tame, and would perch upon
his shoulder when he entered the cell
with tlie lump of sugar. For hours, when
not working, he amused himself with it
and taught it many tricks.
One Sunday he heard a woman’s voice
in the chapel. Her tones were soft and
sweet, and. moreover, she was singing a
simple religious ’selection, Which was
associated with tho past. How many
times had he heard it in tlie little village
church in England. It was a favorite
hymn of his, and well he remembered tlie
pretty- village maiden, Carrie Walters,
whose cheeks were red as roses, and who
was tlie delight of all the lads when she
lifted her voice in the little chapel. Then
lhe pleasant Avalks home! Hoav the boys
lingered round the chapel door to see
her to the gate of the cottage where she
lived, the charming house overrun with
ivy, around whose xvindows clambered
tlie roses! And he, too, had been oxie
of those who waited at tho gate and
walked with the young girl. And it had
chanced that one moonlight night as. they
strolled down the lane, with the stars
overhead, and the fragrance of the flow
ers in the air, that he had whispered
his tale of passion in her willing ear.
But. she was young and thoughtless, and.
after they had exchanged vows, played
fast and loose with him. Os course they
quarreled, and then the pretty maid be
came engaged to a. wealthy American,
a distant relative who had made a great
fortune in the new country and iioav de
sired a beautiful wife to grace his house
hold. No one was fairer than Carrie.
Truly, her dowry were teeth like pearls
and eyes that gleamed like diamonds.
The simple song she used to sing, ac
companying herself on lhe organ when
he called at, the cottage, lingered iu his
memory, and seemed to describe her to
him through all time: "She walks in
beauty like the night.” Then from the
neighboring chapel he heard the same
voice begin tliat song, and he started in
amazement.
Soon his disease asserted itself again,
and he went, into the hospital once more.
“Who was it sent me the bird?" he asked
the <lector one day.
“The lady- w ho assists the chaplain at
service,” was lhe reply.
“The lady w-ho plays and sings?”
“Yes.”
His face had become more human, and
one day ho asked for tlie chaplain. "You
are a good man,” he said to him, “and
I want to tell you my story. I do not be
lieve in your religion, but I believe your
religion lias made you pity- the lives of
those Avhose evil passions have misled
them.”
Tho pastor drew' near and listened to
a strange story- of crime and vice; it Avas
an extremely sad title, showing how the
nature of man may become warped and
moral traits sunk as a. consequence of
careless living. It sounded like a ro
mance. After she had married the rich
American, her rejected suitor had plung-
PRICE 5 GENTS. (
ed in the wildest life of dissipation. Ills
strength of character was gone, and a
pitiable weakness was apparent. He
tried to forget, and rvith aim, as with
many others, that was his undoing. In
stead of manfully- standing up t.nder tho
blow, and doing his best to fulfill his
destiny- and lead at least a useful life,
Im bent like a reed and swept, along in
the tide that bears the multitude of
erring souls to the groat sea of dishonor
aud crime. He was a gentlemanly swin
dler of the most adroit type. His success
in floating slock companies
was grea t. As Ihe had'personal fascina
tion, so he forpd easy victims of both
sexes. '
“How is the patient?” said a voice. It
was the woman who had sent the bird.
The man on the couch looked at her and
then gave a cry.
“Carrie!”
Beneath that maturity of charms he
looked and saw the young girl who had
sung in the chapel; with xvhoin he had
walked so often dorvn the lane, and who
had once told him that she loved him.
The man fell back and the woman
dropped upon her knees at the bedside.
The doctor hastened forward. He lifted
the man’s hand and then dropped it, for
the latter no longer required his attention.
Then he turned. “He is dead,” he said.
—N. Y. Press.
CHARLEY ROSS DEAD.
Evidencos That His Body Was Thrown
Overboard.
From The St. Paul Globe.
Columns have been written in the paper#
on the subject of tho abduction of Cherley
Ross, of Philadelphia, in the year 1874,
and the public is still wondering whether
lhe boy is now living or not. _ G. 11. Ives,
traveling manager for Thiel’s detective
service, who was stopping at the Ryan
yesterday, is the man who handled the
case from the start, and he is sure that
the missing boy is dead, and has been
dead since a few weeks after his abduc
tion.
“I was engaged by the Charley _ Ross
searching committee, of Philadelphia, to
find the boy if possible,” he said to a re
porter of The Globe. "I have worked on
all the clues which have been discovered,
and it has been my impression from the
start that the boy died shortly after he
was taken away from his home. Mosher
and Douglass, who stole him, wrote to
Mr Ross on the following day, instruct
ing to send his answer to, them through
the personal columns of Tlie New
Herald. In order to prove that '•hey had
the child in their possession, they sent
home portions of the boys dress. 1 think
they sent homo one of his sockmgs on
ono occasion. The fnther did not have
the $40,000 which they demanded as a
ransom, but he tried his best to raise it.
'“They made all kinds of dates with him,
agreeing to produce the boy as soon as tho
money should be paid over. On one oc
casion they were to meet him in the I' it‘a
Avenue hotel, whore he was to register un
der an assumed name and *Zf’.v were ■ . .
him there. They did not come, howevei.
Thon they arranged to meet him on various
walks which he was instructed to take,
but they did not meet him. Then they in
structed him to stand on the back platform
of a car on the New York Central road
and throw off a package containing the
money to a man who would be standing ia
a cornfield with a white flag- We had some
sharpshooters in the baggage car__:irmed with
Winchesters and they were to pick off the
men who would be at the flag-pole, but we
saw nothing of them.
“One day he got a letter from them stat
ing that the boy was sick. It was not gen
erally known that he was suffering from
a kidney trouble, which, if not attended to
promptly would cause his death. The de
scription which they gave of the boy's ill
ness left no doubt that he was suffering
form this trouble. In a few days more
they wrote saying if the boy died his blood
would be on the head of his father. It was
but a few days afterward that Mosher and
Douglass were killed ou Staten island while
they were trying to rob the bouse of Judge
Van Brunt. They tried to effect an en
trance to the house which alarmed the sor
of the judge. He secured a shotgun and
shot both of the men. One of them died,
instantly and the other was too far gone to
give any information. Their boat was
found a. short distance away, and in the
boat was the clothing of the boy. He had
undoubtedly died and his body been cast into
the water.”
LI TER AR Y PERS ONA LIT IE S.
John Milton, according to Professor David
Masson, was editor of a London newspaper
in 1661. He knew- what he was talking about
when he wrote that “Evil news rides post,
while good news baits.”
Mrs. Gordon Cumming writes from Ceylon
to lament that her experience accords with
that of an English archdeacon of Bombay,
that the British government has made a
hundred drunkards where the missionaries
have made one Christian in oriental lands.
Janies AVbiteoinb Riley, the Hoosier poet, was
entertained in a novel manner by Joaquin
Miller recently. The poet of the Sierras dress
ed himself in full Indian costume and gave
the medicine man’s incantation dance calling
for rain. And it did rain, for Miller had pipes
extended to a mountain spring and by pulling
a string tlie water pattered on the roof 'at the
will of the operator.
PEOPLE HERE AND THERE.
A “FAN”—One of the interesting features ot
the suit of the ball player Pickett against
tlu- Baltimore club was the great scientific
and practical knowledge <<f the game dis
played by General John S. Berry. In big
testimony for the defense lie said that he
had been present nt nearly every basebail
game played in Baltimore for ten years
past, and he was decidedly of the opinion
that Pickett, ns second baseman, “did not
cover enough territory,” and “was uncertain
on ground balls.”
JEFFERSON.—Joe Jefferson is coming to n*
recognized as a veritable Admirable Crlcn
ton. He is an actor, playwright, painter,
author, farmer, fisherman, lecturer and now
he has come to the front as prince of after
dinner speaking, rivalling such distinguished
exponents of this art as Mr. Depew and Mr.
Cbaote. By the by, the New York papers
are not. exactly correct in stating tliat -Mr.
Jefferson made his debut in that city as a
lecturer. His first appearance in this rote
was made out at Harvard a year or two
ago. i!
DE LESSEES.—The pitiable mental condition
of Ferdinand de Lessrpa is shown by tno
subterfuge to which his family has had re
course to prevent him from learning tne
news of the Panama revelations. Two weess
ago he began to ask for thp daily papers,
and there was a panic in tho family until
his children hit upon the happy thought of
supplying him with tiie journals of the
same dates last year, in which, of course,
no reference is made to i’anania affairs.
Since then every day the newspapers of the
corresponding date a twelvemonth ago are
brought to litm, and he peruses them with
out noticing the innocent trick that ha»
been played on him. . _