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LOVE'S PARTING;
Ha stood before her, and his eyes
* As summer stars shone bright and fair;
The twilight deepened in the skiee
P And leaflet stir was in the air.
Within his own her pretty hand
v ' Lay, soft and sweet as summer rose;
Her pensive brow, by zephyrs fanned,
Flushed crimson as the evening’s close.
He stooped like some gay cavalier
And kissed the lips of blushing red;
He saw within her eyes the tear
That told of merry hours now dead.
“My love, you may not weep for me,
Though darkness lingers where I stray—
Be brave and true; my love for thee
Will fling a lightness o’er thy way.”
They stood till darkness, creeping down
Veiled all the land in somber gloom;
His hand caressed her tresses brown,
His lips upon her soft cheek’s bloom.
Then, as the moon danced o’er the hill,
And starlight flickered on the stream,
And one lone chirp awoke the still
The holy calm of their young dream.
He stole another parting kiss
And sadly passed, nor dared look back;
He knew that partings oft like this
Left tears and sorrow in their track.
The leaflet rustled at his feet,
And one sweet voice came singing low—
“0 heaven, be kind; until we meet,
Guard my true love, where’er he go.”
—T. F. Rowland.
HOW I SAID “YES.”
BY AMELIA E. BABB.
My godfathers and my godmothers in
my baptism called me “Olive,” and they
lived to be heartily ashamed of themselves
for it, for never was their a child with a
more mistaken name. A belligerent state
was my normal condition. I do not re¬
member my nurses, but I have grace
enough to pity them. The mildest of my
teaohers considered me “unruly,” and
you can ask Geoffrey what he thought of
me a year ago. Now it is different. I
have found my master, and I believe I
rather like it. This is how it came
about
Geoffrey had asked me three times to
marry him, and three times I had said
“No," in the most decided manner.
But that never made the least difference
to him. He only laughed and said I
would know my own mind better next
time.
“I suppose,” quarter?” I said, “you mean to ask
me once a
•‘Is that enough?”
“Too often, a great deal, sir!”
“Well, then, we will say once in six
months, Miss Olive.”
And then he walked smilingly away,
and began some nonsensical talk with
father about Doctor Koch and his be¬
wildering theories.
This last asking was just at the begin¬
ning cf warm weather, and father, who
thought Geoffrey’s opinion infallible,
:isked him where he would advise us to
go for the summer.
I had made up my mind to go to Long
Branch and I said so, very distinctly; but
Geoffrey proposed some out-of-the-way
place in the Virginia mountains. Then
he painted it in such glowing colors that
nothing would satisfy father but a per¬
sonal investigation. It was all Geoffrey’s
doing, and I told him so at the railway
station. *
“It is your doing, sir,” I said, “and
I shall remember you for it.”
“Thanks, Olive,” be replied; “there
is nothing I fear but forgetfulness.”
* I wanted to speak unmistakably to him,
but the train moved, and I felt that it
would be only waste material.
At the end of the second day we got to
our destination. It was a pretty place: I
must acknowledge that. Nature had
done all she could for it, but art and
civilization had passed it by. Tho men
were simply “frights,” and the women
were—well, none too good for the men.
The houses were log-cabins, through
which daylight peeped and the wind blew
as it listed. But there was, of course, a
big white hotel—there always is. I have
no doubt if we had gone to Stanley Falls
or Guthrie we should have found a hotel
and proprietor—the institution is ubi-
quitary. We procured rooms, and my
trunks were, w^th some difficulty, got up
the hill and the flight of wooden steps
into the hall.
“I suppose,” 1 said, with a resigned
look at father, “there is no use in taking
them upstairs. I can have no use for my
dresses here?”
“As you like, Olive,” he replied, in
one of his meek and mild ways; “as you
like, dear; that gray thiug you have on
looks pretty well, and it does not show
the dirt.”
After this remark,of course,I had every
trunk, bonnet-box and satchel taken up¬
stairs; and the noise and confusion, and
even the occasional bad word their size
and weight called forth, were quite grate¬
ful to me.
“It is not my fault,” I explained. “If
people will build stairs like corkscrews, 1
am not responsible.”
In this amiable mood we took posses¬
sion, and I think, if Geoffrey had known
what I was thinking about it, as I did up
my hair and put on my white evening
dress, he would have lost a trifle of his
self-complacendy—that is, if men ever
do make a loss of that kind. The firet
thing that pleased me was the supper.
It really was good, particularly the ber¬
ries and cream, which are a specialty
with me.
“But, sir,” Iinquired, “are there auy
Christians here besides ourselves?”
“It is to be hoped so, Olive. I saw a
little church in the vallev.”
“Pshaw, father! I did not mean
church Christians; I mean society Chris¬
tians.”
“Ah, they are different, are they?
Well, what do you think of Augusta
Pennington for a Christian?”
“Augusta Pennington! Is she here?”
I asked, amazed.
“No, she is not, but her brother lives
within two miles, and he has a daugh¬
ter about the same age as yourself. Mrs.
Pennington here wrote them we should be
to-day; they will doubtless call in
the morning.”
Well, I did not care if they did. The
dresses in my trunks were sufficient to
inspire any woman with comfortable as¬
surance. The next morning I made a
beautiful toilet, but neither Mr. nor Miss
Lacelles called. Just after supper I
heard a little stir and bustle on the stairs,
a rippling laugh, the rustle of silken
robes, and, leaning on her father’s arm,
Miss Lacelles entered. She was beauti¬
ful; I saw that at a glance; tall and
pale and lady-like, reminding you of a
fair white lily. We soon struck up a
friendship—a girl’s friendship I mean.
Some one has said that there is no
friendship between the sexes, and some
one is mistaken, I think, for the world
holds no safer friend for a woman than
an honorable man. A woman’s friend¬
ship is very likely to be the result of
convenience, contiguity, or of being, as
my father rather saeeringly remarked,
“the only Christian within hail of each
other.” Mary showed me all her dresses
and told me her secrets, and I returned
the compliment, mindful of Burns’s ad¬
vice to still “keep something to mysel’
I wadna tell to ony.”
Life settled down into an unexciting
but endurable routine. Mary and I vis¬
ited each other and arranged our next
winter’s campaign, for I had invited her
to pass the cold weather with me in New
York. One day, in the middle of one of
these pleasant chats, a servant came in
and handed me a card. The name on it
roused at once all the antagonism in my
nature. It was, “Geoffrey Gardiner.”
Now it so happened that the existence
of this gentleman was the one thing I
had kept back in my confidences with
Mary. So I had now to explain who into and
what he was. I wanted her to come
the parlor with me; but no, she would
go home first and dress; but she prom¬
ised to be back to tea.
I disliked Geoffrey, yet I was glad to
see him. My mental faculties were rust¬
ing for want of attrition. Father would
not quarrel with me, could and Mary throw, was her my
only face card. I not
away. Besides, I rather liked to see his
great, handsome figure in the room. He
was so full of life that he seemed to
vitalize even the chairs and stools; they
tumbled about and got out of the way in
the strangest manner. I told him about
Mary Lacelles, and warned him that he
would lose his heart. lie gravely told
me he had none to lose.
Imagine six feet two inches of man¬
hood without a heart 1
We waited tea for Mary, but she did
not come till quite dark, and we had our
tea. She said she had been detained by
company, but I knew better than that.
She was dressed with reference to candle
light effect, and would not lose its in¬
fluence on her first appearance. I never
saw her look so lovely; her rosc-colored
dress, with its broad shimmering bands
of white silk, wonderfully enhanced her
charms. Geoffrey looked delighted, and
she gave him the full benefit of both her
upward and downward glances.
When tea was over, I left the room a
few minutes, and when I came back,
found Geoffrey and Mary sitting opposite
each other, with the chess-board be¬
tween them as an excuse for flirtation.
The move had been so rapid that I was
astonished, and a little angry, too; and
father did not improve matters by
whispering, as I passed his chair;
“Checkmated, Olive 1”
It was not a pleasant evening for me,
and it was the beginning of many un¬
pleasant ones.
“How it came let doctors tell,” but I
began to like Geoffrey just as soou as he
began to like Mary. I called up pride
to the rescue, but it did not help me
much, and I suffered a good deal in
watching Geoffrey's attentions to Mary,
and listening to her prattle about him.
I thought her supremely silly, and I told
her so. She was astonished at my
petulance, but I don’t think she sus¬
pected the truth. Only father did that,
and he looked so: “Serve you right,
miss,” that I longed for him to be a
woman for au hour or so, that I might
talk hack to him.
One day, after Geoffrey had been a
month with us, a riding party was pro¬
posed to the top of the mountain.
Father and I, Geoffrey and Mary—that
would be the order, of course; and I was
prepared fof that; but there is a last
straw in every burden, and my last straw
was this incident*: They were mounted
and waiting for me, when Mary dropped
her glove. From my window I saw
Geoffrey pick it up, put it on the hand
laid so confidingly in his, and then kiss
it. After that I was not going to ride
for King nor Kaiser. I sent a positive
refusal to all entreaties, and as soon as
they were out of sight indulged in a
refreshing cry. I cried myself to
sleep, and woke about dusk with a new¬
born purpose in my heart which com¬
forted me wonderfully, the key-note of
which was: “She stoops to conquei.”
Yet I did take not dress again. I knew they
were to tea at Mr Lacelles’s; so
I threw my dressing-gown around me,
and taking a novel in my hand, I ordered
a cup of strong tea and went into the
sitting-room. As I walked in at one
door, Geoffrey walked in the other. i
at
“I came to take you to Mr. Lacelles’s,
Olive,” he said.
“How do you propose doing it, sir!
For unless you bind me hand and foot,
and get a couple of men to tote me there.
I really don’t think you will succeed.”
“I could carry you myself.”
“Could you? I don’t think you would
enjoy the journey.”
“Will you dare me to do it?”
“Not to-night. I should like to insun
my life first.”
“Olive, you have been crying.”
“I have not, sir,” indignantly. “Aik
if I have, what is that to you?” reproach¬
fully.
“A greal deal. Oh, Olive, you teas
ing, provoking, bewitching little mortal 1
How often must I tell you I love you!
How often must I ask you to marry
me?”
“It is not six months since the las!
time, Geoffrey.”
“I don’t care; it seems like six years.
And, oh, Olive, you kuow that you love
me.”
“I do not.”
“You have loved me ever since you
were eight years old.”
“I b»ve not.”
“Now you must take me forever oi
leave me forever to-night. I have asked
you three times before.”
“Four times, sir.”
“Well, four times, then. Odd num¬
bers are lucky; here is the fifth time.
You know what I want, Olive—your
promise to be mine. Is it to be? Now
or never!”
I suppose every one has a good angel.
Mine must have been at his post just
then, for a strange feeling of humility
and gentleness came over me. I glanced
up at the handsome face all aglow with
love’s divine light; at the eyes full of
gracious entreaty; at the arms half-
stretched out to embrace me. Yet pride
struggled hard with love. I stood up
silent and trembling, quite unable to
acknowledge myself vanquished, until I
saw him turn away grieved and sorrow¬
ful. Then I said:
“Geoffrey, come back; it is now.”
That is the way I said “yes,” aud I
have never been sorry for it. If I live to
the age of Methuselah, I shall never be a
meek woman; but still I suit Geoffrey,
and I take more kindly to his authority
than ever I did to paternal rule. Father
laughs with sly triumph at Geoffrey's
victory, and he sent me as a wedding
present a handsome copy of “Tho Tam¬
ing of the Shrew.” —The ledger.
Mighty Small But Mighty Expensive.
“What do you suppose is the most ex¬
pensive part of those incandescent elec¬
tric lamps which we see burning in that
shop window?” asked an electrician.
• “You would naturally suppose il
would be the glass bulb, or perhaps the
brass fittings for screwing it into the
socket, but you would be wrong. Those
two little pieces of platinum wire,so fine
that you can hardly perceive them,which
pass through the glass stem up in the
base of the lamp, to which the line car¬
bon filament is attached, enter more
greatly into the cost than any other part
of these now almost indispensable elec¬
tric lamps.”
“Why don’t they use some other metal
than platinum for this wire?”
“Because platinum and is the only metal in
which the expansion contraction are
the same as in glass, and a great fortune
awaits the man who can produce a cheap
metal or alloy :n which this valuable
property of platinum can be preserved.
“The cost of platinum at the present
market price in London is $20 per ounce,
or about the same as gold, and the
amount used for this purpose alone has
grown to be enormous. This demand,
together with the increased cost of
production, has caused the price to ad¬
vance about 160 per cent, in eighteen
months. In each sixteen candle-power
lamp there are from four to eight grains
of platinum. If six grains are taken as
an average, one ounce will be used in
eighty lamps. Based on the increased
use of incandescent lights within the
last two years, it is safe to state that the
demand for sixteen-candle power lamps,
or their equivalent, in the year 1891 will
be 10,000,000. This means a demand
for 125,000 ounces.of platinum, which,
at the present price, will amount to con¬
siderably over $2,000,000 for this item
alone.”— Washington Post.
His Impudence Cost a Watch.
General Bligh and his wife happened
to arrive at a Yorkshire inn when there
was only just so much in the larder as
was sufficient for them, and, of course,
they bespoke it. Some sporting gentle-
men presently arrived, and on hearing
what had happened, asked who was the
guest. “An Irish officer,” said the
landlord; whereupon one said: “Oh, if
he’s Irish, a potato will do him. Here,
take my watch up to him” (a very hand-
some gold one) “and ask him what’s
o'clock.” The inquiry had, doubtless,
some impertinent significance in those
days, which it has now lost; at all events
it brought down the General with the
watch in his hand and a pistol under each
arm. “I am come,” he said “to tell
you what o’clock it is. Whose watch is
this?” Everybody hastened to deny any
knowledge of it whatever. “Then I
have made a mistake,” said the General,
“in the company. “I received an im¬
pudent message, which I came down to
resent, but I find I have come to the
wrong room.” The watch, which would
have paid the dinner bill fifty times over,
“he kept to his death, and left it by
to his brother, the Dean of Elpbin.”
Argonaut.
A FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEF.
ROMANTIC CAREER OF MONTE-
ZTJMA, THE AZTEC EMPEROR.
His Brave anti Skilful Generalship
Results in the Independence of
Mexico—Conquered by Cortez.
Mexico, the land of romantic history,
writes General O. O. Howard in the
Louisville Courier-Journal, has, perhaps,
no greater name among her native heroes
than that of Montezuma, who was styled,
according to the poetic custom of the
country, “Archer of Heaven” and “Great
Heart,” from his skill and bravery.
Montezuma was not born to the throne,
but he was a Prince of high rank under
the fourth King of the country, who
reigned in the Fourteenth century, and
the event which led to his election to the
throne occurred while he was yet a very
young man.
The reigning sovereign head of Mexico
sent young Montezuma with a large fol¬
lowing to Texcuco as an ambassador. He
accomplished his mission, and was re¬
turning when an ambuscade was sprung
upon him. He and his attendants were
made prisoners and hustled off to Chal¬
eo. The Governor of that city, being a
bitter enemy of the Mexicans, sent them
to a miserable prison,and began the pro¬ the
cess of starving his victims. But
keeper himself dealt kindly with the
prisoners. His name, Quateotzin, should
be remembered. The Governor, bent on
speedier mischief than slow starvation,
took a pious turn, and sent them to a
neighboring city to be sacrificed on the
altars of the God of War. The people
of this city, though they killed and of¬
fered their own captives, were somehow
incensed at the brutal Governor and im¬
mediately sent back the embassy, declar¬
ing that “our people will not disgrace
themselves by a deed so infamous.”
The Governor of Chaleo, a regular Nejo
in cruelty, planned another outrage
which he thought would serve two pur¬
poses, i.e., revenge him on his adversaries
and pacify and please a hostile neighbor.
This neighbor, the King of the Tepane-
cans, had been previously angered at the
cruel Governor’s treachery to himself.
The Chaleo Governor now begau negoti¬
ating to send Montezuma and his party
to this King. He was already at war
with the Mexican people. While the
Governor’s messengers were making their
journey and carrying the offer, the poor
prisoners were put into a more irksome
confinement. The keeper, Quateotzin,
already strongly attached to Montezuma,
did, during this delay, a wonderful
thing. He went directly to his great
prisoner friend and warned him of the
new danger, and then told that at the
almost sure sacrifice of his own life, “he
proposed to unlock the doors and let
him and his companions go free.” He
begged Montezuma, if he himself should
parish, to care for his family. The
Mexican s/acccpted this most generous
offer, lef ft the prison, and succeeded in
reaching their own land.
The enraged Governor, as was antici¬
pated, soon put the keeper and part of
his family to death. A son and daugh¬
ter, however, got away, the latter reach¬
ing Mexico. Here she received the re¬
spect and honor due the child of such a
father. Montezuma’s return to the City
of Mexico produced a great surprise and
much rejoicing.
But forthwith trouble was in store for
the Mexican kingdom. The King of the
fierce Tepanecans raised a large army and
set out for the Mexican borders. The
Mexicans were then kept tributary to the
hostile King and had in some way in¬
curred his terrible anger and hatred. The
Mexican sovereign and his advisers felt
themselves too weak to cope with their
fearful adversaries, and the .timid people
besieged the gates of the palace and en¬
treated that their sovereign sue tor peaco.
The tumult increased and the sovereign
wns threatened with violence if he did
not send out the priests to beg on their
knees of the angry* enemy for terms of
surrender.
Here was Montezuma’s opportunity.
He confronted the clamorous and unruly
populace with his strong frame and stern
countenance and said “Oh, ye Mexi¬
cans, what would ye do? Have ye lost
both reason and courage? How has such
cowardice stolen into your hearts? Have
ye forgotten that ye are Mexicans, the
descendants of those heroes who founded
this noble city, and who defended it
valiantly against all its enemies? Aban¬
don your pusillanimous demands or re¬
nounce forever the glory yo inherit from
your ancestor!"
To his sovereign turning, he quickly
said: “How sir, can you permit such ig¬
nominy to stain the charactei of your
people? Speak to them again and tell
them to strike one blow, at least, before
they crouch beneath their’enemies!”
The sovereign plucked up new courage
under Montezuma’s inspiration; he
harangued the turbulent people effective¬
ly, so that they cried that they would
become his vassels forever, provided they
should conquer in that struggle.
.
The Tepanecans came on in fine order,
with plumage and shoutings. Monte¬
zuma led the opposing Mexicans. entire It and was
a desperate fight for an day,
though almost a drawn battle, the Mexi¬
cans began at last to show signs of weak¬
ness. Then followed a panic, and there
was little hope against utter discomfiture.
Montezuma sprang before the scattering
masses and?cried with great strength of
voice to the officers. ‘‘Let us fight till
death! If we die with arms in our hands
defending our liberties we die doing our
duty. If we live after defeat we live in
eternal dishonor!” In Quick obedience
to this brave soul the leaders formed ai
small, solid column, and rushed upon
their enemies, broke their lines anil
threw them in turn into an increasing
panio, Montezuma himself about the
same time encountered their General and
instantly slew him. This hast«*ed the
enemy’s rout, and gave the Mexicans a
great victory.
How much Montezuma was like some
of our revolutionary sires, who staked
their lives upon the issue of the contest
and preferred death to ignominious sub¬
mission.
The Tepanecan King, greatly enraged
at the defeat of his army, speedily
brought another into the field; but the
Mexicans, now under superb leadership,
and intensely excited by their unexpeetd
victory, more easily than before beat
back their assailants and gained another
great advantage. The hostile King, who
hid in a bath-house, was sought for, dis¬
covered, clubbed and stoned to death,
and his body treated to the indignities
usual to the American savages, for in
war the Aztecs were as yet no better.
The result of this terrible struggle was
the independence of Mexico, in the year
of our Lord 1425. The Tepanecans,
being subjugated in this contest, be-
came in their turn vassals 1o Merieo.
Montezuma was given large posse*-
sions in the conquered territory, and
was a general favorite among all classes
of people. On the death of the reign¬
ing sovereign they at once chose him
to be their King. This was during
the eleventh year of their national inde¬
pendence. this chieftain
We will not follow great
through his subsequent remarkable
career. He prosecuted several wars of
conquest to successful conclusion; ha
built the great nine-mile dike that pro¬
tected the city and subsequently figured
so much in Cortez’s expedition and re¬
treat; he, by judicious adjustment and
wholesome rules, saved multitudes in
time of a famine from death; he terribly
punished the treacherous men who had
caused his noble brother’s death and had
slain his Mexican friends at Chaleo, but
he tempered mercy with his severity,
when ho gave relief to the women, chil¬
dren and aged, and brought back to
their homes in safety all the wanderers,
frightened and dispersed by the war.
Montezuma served his country nobly
for twenty-eight years. Had his grand¬
son, Montezuma U., who suffered such
terrible disasters and finally came to a
deplorable death, resulting from the acts
of the Spanish invaders, possessed a scin¬
tilla of the heroism of his great ancestor,
the history of Mexico would read differ¬
ently from that of Prescott’s romantic
pages. But still, even Montezuma, tha
Great Heart, with all his genius and
courage and intellect, was not strong
enough to abolish the rites of a perpetual
human sacrifice. They burned on their
altars the prisoners of war; they mads
great shows like those in the arena at
ancient Rome, and allowed noble cap¬
tives to purchase their lives by public
fights. The sun god was worshiped, and
somehow the sun seemed to the Mexican
superstition to demand human torture as
atonement for sin.
WISE WOBDS.
Stand behind the truth.
No man lives any higher that he looks.
Whenever you find a cross, die on it to
self.
Contentment is a full brother to hap¬
piness.
Be a worker! A loafer is never happy
anywhere.
The surest way to a man’s pocket is
through his heart.
The dayB are always too short for the
man who loves his work.
To have a big head and a small heart
is a very great misfortune. /
Pray that you may not think evil, and
then you will not speak it.
One of the saddest conditions in life ia
to have nothing good to live for.
The man who looks at everything
through money can not see very far.
It is a great misfortune to be born so
that all the laugh has to stay inside of
you.
There are not many poor men who
would do a rich man’s work for the pay
he gets.
The time to be pleasant and make it
count, is when everybody else is un¬
pleasant.
One way to drive the boys to the bad
is to shut up the parlor and live in the
kitchen.
AU that is needed to make a man hate
himself is for him to get a good square
look at himself.
One of the commonest of mistakes is
to look at people through the wrong end
of the telescope.
The greatest wrongs people commit
against each other are those of which
they are not eonscious.
Every time the soldier handles hi*
musket in drill it has something to do
with the way he will handle it in battle.
There are people who would a good
deal rather be the whistle or the bell on
a steam engine than to be one of tho
driving wheels.
When an engineer wants to stop an en¬
gine he doesn’t put a break on the bal¬
ance wheel, but shuts off the power that
makes it run. When you want to quit
your meanness the work must begin oa
the inside .—Indianapolis (/ai.) Ram's
Horn.