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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.