Newspaper Page Text
A RECEIPT IN FULL. j
The tins had all been scoured until '
she. could see her face, or grotesque >
caricatures of her fa e, in each and
every one of them; the window-panes *
polished until they sparkled, or had ’
sparkled—for it was now twilight —in ?
the bright June sunshine: the silver
burnished until neither spot nor speck
marred its mild luster; the loaves of .
bread baked until each crispy crust
took on the right shade of tempting
brown; and Molly was scrubbing the
only unscrubbed corner of the kitchen ’
when Mi-s Cameron’s deep, harsh, pre- 1
cise voice came to her from the dining- t
room: “Marv, are vou not through <
yet?”
“Almost, ma'am,” answered Molly.
“I think it is high lime you were 1
quite,” declared the voice. “You must 1
make haste. Wo are going to the lect
ure this evening, Miss (ieorgettc and I;
and as Mr. Malcolm also wishes to go
out, we will be obliged to lock up the
house. Therefore it is necessary that
you should leave as soon as possible.’!
“Yes, ma’am,” said Molly, meekly,
and finished her scrubbing, with her
tears falling fast and thick. Poor little
girl! she had tried so hard to please her
mistresses, or rather her mistress -for
Miss Georgette was but a reflection of
her elder sister—and her efforts had
been met with a grim silence that be
tokened a begrudged satisfaction, until
the last few weeks; that is, in fact,
until Mr. George Malcom came there.
Mr. Malcolm was a sort of step-brother
to the Misses Cameron (his father, a
widower, with two boys, had married
theiWmotlicr, a widow, with two girls),
and they inheriting nothing in the way
of property from their own father, he
generously made them an allowance
from the moderate fortune left him by
his. Generously and forgivingly for
they had not rendered a tithe of the
respect, to say nothing of affection,
which was his due, tothoirkind hearted
and indulgent step-father, choosing to
look upon their mother’s second mar
riage as an insult to the memory of the
parent whose not-at-all-amiable char
acteristics had been his only legacy to
them.
The cottage in which they lived, situ
ated in the prettiest part of Meadowvillc
(the furniture therein being their own,
t he bequestof a maternal grandmother),
belonged to Mr. George; anil here he
had come in search of solitude and quiet,
for the first time in twelve years or
more, to spend a month or two in think
ing out and arranging plans for slatting
a large business in n neighboring city.
And, as 1 have already int imated, things
had changed much for the worse with
Molly, the servant-maid, since his ar
rival. The grims.h nce had given place
to jnost open faultfinding, when Mr.
Malcolm was not within hearing. The
coffee was too strong, the tea too weak,
the chickens underdone, the steaks
burned, the eggs boiled too hard, the ,
rooms badly swept, the shirts poorly
ironed; ami all those complaints, with ;
many more, the elder spinster, con
firmed by the younger, gave her to un
derstand originated with the guest.
“What a hard man to please he must ■
be!” Molly said to herself many times
“ And yet he has one of the handsomest
ami kindest faces 1 ever saw; and he
spoke right pleasantly to jne the first
day he camo, amt even offered me his
hand (how Miss Cameron did frown!):
but I pretended not to see it, for 1 knew
it was not my place to shake hands with
him. 1! is strange he should have be
come so fractions, lie was so good and
merry and kind when 1 was a little girl.
I’ve heard father say often he'd rather
shoe a horse for him than for any one
else in the village.” Ami then she
would fall to thinking how grand he
used to look to her childish eyes when
he came riding up on his bay mare to
the smithy, where she spent half her
time watching her father at the forge.
And he always brought her a gay pict
ure-book, or a pretty ribbon, or a box of
candies, or a bright new silver piece
one Christmas it was a gold one and ;
claimed a kiss (good gracious! how her
cheeks flushed at the remembrance!)
for payment when he rode away again.
How happy, how very hapuv.ehc had
been then, with that dear father and
dear old Aunt Nanny! so happy that
she had scarcely ever felt the loss
of the mother who had died in giving
her birth. But when Molly was tiiteen,
the blacksmith, so strong and ruddy
that it seemed impossible pain or sick
ness could ever come near him, fell
sick, and after lingering, sorely crippled,
for nearly two years, died, leaving no
thing to itis darling but hard work. Yes.
there was one alternative: to become
Mrs. Jake Willow, an I mistress of the
forge again; but Jake was a rough. \ ul
gar fellow, ami Molly, inheriting the
delicate taste- and gentle ways of her
mother (who ha< been a shy, pretty
young governess before she married the
handsome blacksmith), shrank from the
loud voice and rude laughter of her
would-be husband. And so, in prefer
ence to accepting Jake's offer, she be
came and 1 leaven know s this was a hard
enough thing to do maid-of-all-work
in the cottage of the Misses Cameron.
Poor little Molly! prettier than many a
princess, with lovely, black-fringed gray
eyes, and hair of the very darkest
brown—hair that would curl in spite of
her, to Miss Cameron’s great displeas
ure. “If 1 had such untidy hair," that
lady would often declare, glancing ap
provingly into the mirror at the flat
dyed bands that made a triangle of her
high narrow forehead, “I'd shave my
head;” and.“ We’d certainly shave our
heads.” would echo Miss Georgette.
The kitchen floor finished, the rugs
shaken and returned to their places, the
bread put away in the big stone jar in
the cupboard. Molly sought her own
room (which, truth to tell, was no room
at all, but a corner of the garret rudely
partitioned off, with only a small sky
light to admit light anil air—there were
rooms, empty, unused rooms, in the
attic, but “they were much too good
for a servant.” Miss Cameron said; and
“ very much too good for a servant,"
agreed her sister)—to make ready for
her Hitting. Molly looked around it as
she tied her straw’ hat over her rebel
lious tresses, ami again the tea' s tilled
her cj es. It had not been a happy place
»of o_.it to her, but it had been a place of
rest, and a shelter, and she had been
glad to bare it, fearing to leave it lest
worse luck lay beyond.
And she would not have been com- j
pelled to leave it had it hot been for that
unfortunate mirror, and the unceasing 1
complaints of the old bachelor. Oi« 1
bachelor! Why, he couldn't be so very 1
old. after all, for he was only one-ami- j
twenty (she was then between five and
six) when he gave her the ribbons and J
books and silver pieces, and she gave (
him the kisses.
But the sound of closing shutters
broke in on her reverie, and reminded (
her that her departure was waited for,
and taking her bundle in her haml, she
ran quickly and lightly' down the stain
to the parlor, where the maiden ladies
sat erect ami stern, their bonnets already
on in readiness for the lecture.
“I'm going now,” said Molly, stand
ing in the doorway, her sweet, pathetic
face, with its pleading gray eyes and
quivering lips, in no way touching what
her mistresses were pleased to call their
hearts. “Good-by, ma'am. Good-by,
Miss <leorgettc.”
But the only reply she got was: “Bear
in mind that you are still indebted to us
cight-and-twenty dollars. If, however,
you should prefer to purchase a mirror
yourself in place of the one broken by
you, we will consent to receive it, pro
vided it is in every way as good as that
left us by our grandmother. Ami in
that case we will agree to refund the
eight dollars, your last month's wages,
which we have retained as the first in
stallment of your debt; which is really
much more than could have keen ex
pected <>f us.”
“()h yes, indeed, very much more
than could have been expected of us,”
murmured Miss Georgette.
“ For such gross carelessness—” Mi»«
Cameron went on.
“ Indeed, ma'am,” interrupted Mol
ly, her cheeks (laming and her eyes
sparkling, “as I have told you 1 never
touched it, 1 wasn’t even near it. I
w as sweeping the othernidc of the parlor
when it fell, and the cord it hung by was
all moth eaten, and had parted just in
the middle, as I showed you at the time.”
“ —Should be punished,” continued
Miss Cameron, not paying the slightest
at ten! ion to the girl. “Ami one word
more. Please to remember that wo
have your signal lire to an acknowledg
ment that you consider yourself responsi
ble for the breakage.”
“You frightened me so that 1 scarce
ly knew what 1 was signing,” said
Molly. “ But as I have promised, I
will pay you, for it shall nevi r be said
that my father’s daughter broke her
word. I’d give you the few dollars I
have saved, if 1 had not to keep them
for my own support until I get another
place. Poor Aunt Nanny can only give
me shelter, for, as you know, she has de
pended almost entirely on me for tood
and clothes ever since my father died.”
“Yes, and a very ridiculous thing for
both of you,” snapped Miss Cameron,
with a cold snap. “She might much
better sell the hut she lives in for
kindling-wood, and go to the poor-house,
and you might much belter save your
wages to pay lor tin' things you break.
For break you will to the end of your
days. 1 never saw a person with such
I fly-away hair as yours that was not vain,
careless ami frivolous. Yon may go.”
“ Yes, indeed, you may go,” added
Miss Georgette.
And the poor child went out into the
road, homeless and almost friendless,
with a shadow on her fair voting face
and a pain in her young heart. But
she had only turned into the long lane
that led to old Nanny’s collage, when
some one came quickly to her side, and
said, in a kindly voice: “Molly! poor
little Molly!” ami there was Mr. Mal
colm. Ami Molly, in her grief, think
ing only of him as the friend of her
childhood, who had known her as the
darling of the kindest of fathers, flung
her bundle down, and burst into a pas
sionate flood of tears.
“They were hard on me, your sisters.
Mr. Malcolm,” she sobbed “very hard
on me. I did my best for them. I
worked and I am not very strong,
though I am a blacksmith’s daughter
from morning till night, ami yet 1
could not please them. And it was not
my fault about the mirror. It was not
—it was not it was not. Though Miss
Cameron insists that 1 stopped sweep
ing to look at my curly hair—l can’t
netp its curling; t <mt everything to
make it straight; 1 tied it back so tight,
over and over again, that my head
ached awful and knocked it with the
broom. She was a little better before
you came; but after you came, and
complained so much about the tea. and
the coffee, and your shirts, and—and ev
ery thing - ”
“ I complain!” exclaimed her listener,
breaking in upon her rather confused
narration of her wrongs. Why, I
never cmplained of anything. How
could l!‘ there was nothing to be com
plained of.”
“She said you did. But I beg par
don, sir”- suddenly remembering the
difference between the eandy-and-kisses
time and the present. “ She is your
sister, and and my troubles are noth
ing to you.”
“She is my sister an extremely long
step off.” he replied, gravely, “ and
your troubles are a great deal to me;
and furthermore, I think 1 see away
a pleasant way—out of them. Let
me walk with you to your Aunt Nanny 's,
and there, with her to advise us, we’ll
talk matters over.”
“Oh. it’s such a poor place, Mr. Mal
colm! Miss Cameron called it a hut,
•nd said it was only tit for kindling
wood.” *
“I’ve been in much poorer places,
Molly,' said he. and picking up her
bundle, he walked by her side to the old
woman's cottage.
Two weeks passed by. A poor drudge
from the work-house, whose chief (in
fact whose sole) recommendation was
“no wages,” had taken Molly's place in
the Misses Cameron's kitchen. Mr.
Malcolm had gone away on business
directly after hercoming, and on the even
ing appointed for his return, the two
sisters, attired in dresses of dull gray,
unrelieved by a single touch of color,
sat (everything in the house being in
healt-chilli ng, dreadful stony or<ler),
one at each parlor window, awaitimr his
arrival. °
“He must be coming: I think I hear
wheels, ’ said the elder, in her usual
precise tones. ,
“Wheels," repeated the sister.
And “wheel-" they were, but not the i
wheels cf a carriage, but those of a ;
truck, and this truck, on which lava <
I
But the end was not yet. M henev er
Mr. Adams met Miss Lawrence, Daisy s
words would come into his mind, and
the idea of Miss Lawrence “falling into
his arms” did not seem at ail distaste
ful, in fact each time they met he was
more impressed that she would make a
very desirable armhill, and at last, in .
spite of Miss Lawrence’s blushes and
evident avoidance of his attentions, he
proposed and was accepted. And Daisy j
Green, aside from father and mother, j
has no more devoted friends than Mr.
and Mrs. Adams. They date all their
happiness from the day on which Daisy
went out making parish calls. — Mrs.
Susie A. Bisbee, in Golden Bule.
long wooden box, stopped before the .
cottage door.
“A mirror for Miss Cameron,” the
driver called out as he jumped down.
“A mirror!” repeated the spinster,
unable to restrain a gesture of surprise.
And “A mirror!’’ said Miss Georgette,
with another gesture of surprise.
“Yes, ma’am; from Willard’s, New
York. Where is it to betaken?”
“First unpack it out here,” com- |
inanded the ladv, recovering her self- |
possession. “I can’t have the house
littered up with splipters and shav
ings!”
“No, indeed,” chimed in Miss Geor
gette, also recovering her self-pos
session. “Splinters and shavings!”
So the box was unpacked at the road
side, and the mirror taken from it
proved to be better and handsomer in
every respect than that it had been sent
to replace.
“I’ve brought wire to hang it with,”
said the man, as he carried it into the
bouse; “so there’ll be no danger from
moths this time.”
“Moths!” Miss Cameron, glar
ing at him. And “Moths!” echoed her
sister, also glaring. Ami they both con
tinued to glare, as though called upon
to superintend a piece of work highly
repugnant to their feelings, until the
mirror was hung, and the driver again
in his place on the truck.
“Os course George sent it,” said Miss
Cameron, when the man had driven
away. “ But Mary Brown must pay for
the other all the same. Our having this
makes no difference in regard to the
agreement with her.”
“No difference in regard to the agree
ment with her,” assented Miss Geor
gette when who should walk in, in a
gray silk walking dress, a bunch of
crimson (lowers at her throat, and an
other in her belt, and the most coquet
tish gray hat, adorned with more crim
son (lowers, but Molly herself?
“Good-evening,” she said, smilingly.
“1 have called for a receipt in full.”
“ A receipt in full! And for what,
pray? Have you brought the money?”
asked her whilom mistress. And, “Have
you brought the money?” echoed her
other whilom mistress.
“No, 1 have not brought the money,”
answered Molly; “ but I have sent you
a mirror that more than answers ail
your requirements.”
“You!” from both sisters at once.
And again, for the second time in one
short hour, they were guilty of being
surprised, and letting their surprise be
seen.
“Yes, I. 1 have the bill with me. A
receipt in full, if you please.”
Miss Cameron arose, walked in a
stately manner —Molly following her—
to her desk in the dining-room, seated
herself, took pen, ink and paper, and
began: “Received from Mary B
when—
“ Stop a moment,” said Molly; “my
name is no longer Mary Brown.”
“And what may it be?” inquired Miss
Cameron, regarding her with lofty con
tempt.
“ f //answerthat question,” answered
Mr. Malcolm, suddenly appearing, and
passing his arm round the slender gray
silk waist, thereby crushing the bunch
of roses in the natty belt—“ Mrs. George
Malcolm.”
The pen fell from Miss Cameron’s
hand, and for the first time in her lift
that estimable woman went into hyster
ics, whither her equally estimable sister
immediately followed her.
And Molly, taking her leave at that
moment, never received any receipt, in
full or Otherwise, after -M.—Margaret
Eu tinge. in Harper's Weekly.
Frauds in Brandies.
They are chiefly practiced with in
ferior spirits in order to make them pass
for cognac. It is many years now since
the smaller growers began to add to
their wines before distilling a certain
quantity of inferior cognac or other
spirit, such as Montpelier brandy, or
bailey, beetroot, molasses, rice, or po
tato spirit. Such is the richness in
aroma of the pure and true cognac that
it has enough and to spare for these ad
ditions of insipid alcohols. This fraud
—and many maintain that it is no fraud
—is undiscovered except by a very ex
perienced taster indeed, gifted with a
most sensitive palate; detection is
easier when the foreign spirit is add
ed after instead of before distilla
tion. Then the biting harshness of
new brandy is taken offwith two drops of
liquid ammonia to the bottle; the alkali
neutralizing a portion of the essential
oils which are chiefly given out bv the
grape-skins. Cream of tartar and
candied sugar are also used for this pur
pose. The color of age is got expedi- j
tiously without molasses, either natural I
or burned; and this last is employed to ,
produce the brown brandy of the Eng- i
lish. But more elastic consciences,
helped on by the scientific chemists,
have descended by little and little to
making cognac out of beetroot, maize,
potato spirit, or any other alcohol that
turns up in the market. For this a '
whole laboratory is required, embracing •
•uch matters as grape-sirup, burnt
sugar, infusion of bitter-almond shells, j
yanille, tea. the root of the Florence !
iris (which we corruptly call orris-root),
angelica seed, lemon-rind, walnut
husks, liquorice, camomile, mini
catechu, and Tolu balsam.—B7. James'
Gazette.
, r, ’cently born near Brown's ■
Mills, N. without hind legs has be- I
(■•'mi exlraordinarilv expert in the uso
of its tore legs. When in no particular
: u tv ii draws itself along on its hind
quaiters hut when it is a question of
ling 'o the trough at feeding time I
' “ ii.tr balances itself upon
ii- one fee and trots along with the ‘ ]
< ;>T't < o.ubination of grarx* and effi- ,
eienc',. j f
™ 'i
- - -> - ■
r .-: .-• II v<• rv 1. ■ 1(• ' :i:
i out >15.000 'for it. and .ret ?
putting in machinery and
-haft, which was already down
hundred feet or more. He worked j
away on the mine, people laughing at
him a good deal, but he never once lost
. heart. Tt-x mine had not shown up a
I single thing in thp way of mineral, and
the"shaft had been "sunk by that time
icveral hundred feet. Dexter did not
know what to do. He had now spent
nearly all the money he had and noth
ing was coming in. One day in the
early part of the year 1879 a party came
to him and asked him what he would
take ror his mine. Dexter told him,
! and a bargain was made between them,
i The price paid was, I think, 830,000,
some 85,000 more than Dexter had
spent on it altogether. He was mighty
glad to get the $30,000, and thought
himself well out of a bad bargain.
He rushed out onto Carbonate Hill and
ordered the miners to drop their tools
and quit work. This was about three
o’clock in the afternoon. He said:
‘Boys, I have sold this hole, and 1 don’t
want you to work another minute in it
for me. I will pay you oft right now, and
you can quit.’ Well,the miners had just
finished a drill and were going to
place a blast and uncover some rock,
and they asked to be allowed to finish
it before they quit work. ‘ No, 1 said
Dexter, ‘come out; I don t want you to
work any more; there’s nothing in the |
old hole.’ The men reluctantly quit !
and reported. Dexter got his money
and was happy. Well, the mine had
been bought by a stock company, and in
a short time they began work on it.
Now, young man, what ( am going to
tell you is the solemn truth,” said the
miner. “Those fellows went up there
to that mine and laid a fuse to the blast
left by Dexter’s men and touched it off.
After the smoke cleared away they went
in to sei' how much rock had been loos
ened, when what do you think? There
before their eyes they saw the richest
body of silver ore which has ever been
seen since the world began. At that
time hundreds of thousands of dollars
met the gaze of the delighted owners of
the richest kind of ore. Well, young
fellow,” continued Mr. Knowles, “that
mine was the celebrated Robert E. Lbe,
which has made everybody rich who has
had anything to do with it since Jimmy
Dexter sold it. Millions of dollars have
been turned out of it, and it is the great
est silver mine in the world.” The re
porter asked the miner how Dexter took
the misfortune. “Well,” he replied,
‘ ‘ they say Dexter would cry for a long
time after whenever he heard the name
of the mine mentioned, but I don’t
know how that is. He got hold of other
mining property with the money re
ceived, and is now a rich man, living in
Denver in line style. He has the repu
tation of having the most elegantly fur
nished house in Denver, and it surely is
a beautiful place.”
A Lively Subject.
There used to be a story current of a
perplexing incident in the life of John
Hunter, the celebrated surgeon, which
has a certain grim drollery about it.
One night, on receiving from Jack Ketch
a “subject” who had been hanged that
morning at Newgate— such hangings
and such subjects were very common in
those days—he perceived somehow or
other the vital spark was not quite ex
tinct. His professional zeal was in
stantly aroused ; he applied all his skill
to the task, and, in short, succeeded, to
his scientific satisfaction, in restoring
the law’s victim to his entire faculties
again. But his satisfaction was some
what short-lived, for the resuscitated
felon insisted upon looking to his bene
factor for his future subsistence. He
argued that, as be had striven to bring
him, as it were, a second time into the
world, he must be regarded in loco
parentis. Hunter, always a nervous
man, and by no means convinced that
he had not offended grievously against
the laws in his little experiment, had no
alternative but to comply to the demands
of his ungrateful patient, who was by
no means modest in his visits. After a
time, however, they ceased; but even
that brought no comfort to poor Hun
ter, who lived in perpetual terror of his
tormentor unexpectedly popping upon
him. At last he reappeared before him
again. One tine evening another New
gate importation was brought to the
private door of the dissecting-room, and,
to his intense satisfaction, he once more
recognized the well-remembered feat
ures. Hunter used to say, with a grim
smile, that he took speedy care mot to
give him a second chance.
The Telegraph.
The first telegraph line in operation
was between Paddington and Drayton,
in England, in 1835, thirteen miles in
length. Professor Morse, on March 3,
1842, was voted an appropriation of
$30,000 by Congress, for the purpose of
I establishing an experimental line. Th*
! appropriation was made on the last night
, of the session. The line was erected
I between Washington and Baltimore, and
the first message sent May 27, 1844
By the reports of October 18, 1881, the
following will show the number of miles
of telegraph in the United States at that
time:
j Miles of Miles of
Company. line. wires.
• Western Union 110.340 327,171
Mutual Union 1.800 50.000
Baltimore and
American Rapid Tel. C 0.... 500 t’soo
International, Ocean 502 '574
The aggregate mileage of telegraph
lines in the United States open for public
business exceeds 120,C00 miles, besides
railway, Government, private, and tele
phonic lines, length not ascertainable.
Correct speech is such an indisputa
ble mark of a lady or gentleman that it
cannot be too often repeated that the
true standard of pronunciation is one in
which all marks of a particular place of
birth and residence are lost, and in
which nothing appears to indicate any
habits of intercourse other than with the
well-bred and well-informed wherever i
thev may be found. <
-
mar"us and'always excited WMHSI
incredulity. At length a fellow-dimt ;
said to him: . , '
“Lemonoski, I have often heard you <
fight over your old battles, now let me j
give you my sad military experience. I ,
was a soldier in the Black Hark war In ]
the very first engagement I saw three ,
stalwart Indians coming m full speed .
after my scalp. I was armed with an ,
old-fashioned double-barreied shot-gun.
I let her loose upon the two that were m
the lead, and killed them as dead as Jul
ius Ciesar. The third came rushing
upon me with his bloody tomahawk
raised above his head, and what do you
suppose happened then?
“ You killed him, of course.
“Not exactly,” quietly replied
Black Hawk warrior; “he killed me.
A rear of laughter was raised among
t’ne bystanders and poor Lemonoski s
yarns were knocked clear out of him.
' Gen. Jackson, about the year 1832,
gave Jimmie Maher the appointment of
public gardener in Washington. Salary
81,500 a year and trimmings. The trim
mings, perhaps, amounted to a much
larger sum. To keep the public grounds
hi proper order were the duties to be
performed. Jimmie, when I made his
acquaintance, knew every body
1 Henry Clay down to Ephraim Frost, the
; colored hack-driver. He was a warm
hearted, liberal Irishman. He never
took a drink, save when he was thirsty,
and thou ho invited all the bystanders
to join him. He prided himself on his
adherence to what he called “dimooratic
principles. Some hungry Whigs in 1841
wanted his place, and Jimmie, for a
while, was very uneasy. One morning
he met Gen. Harrison in the public
grounds, and taking oft his hat, he thus
addressed him:
“ I presume this is Gineral Harrison,
I’rizident of the United States.”
Receiving an affirmative answer, he
continued: ‘‘My name is Maher. lam
uooblic gardner.”
“ Well, Mr. Maher, I like the appear
ance of these grounds; they look in much j
better condition than they did when I
was a Senator. ”
“ Och, its me trade; was fetched up to
it; but, may it plaze your Honor, it’s
rumored about here that I’m to be dis
missed. ” —.
“ Dismissed for what?”
“Because I was a friend to Mr. Van
Buren. ”
“No, Mr. Maher, nobody is author
ized to say that you will be dismissed on
that account.”
“ A thousand thanks to your Excel
lency. You see I was acquainted with
Mr. Van Buren. He always treated me
like a gentleman, and I was for him; but
I have no doubt after we get a little bet
ter acquainted I shall be for you.”
Harrison smiled, and assured him that
lie had no idea of turning him out.
Whereupon Jimmie broke down to the
place wdrere he had some hands at work
and gave them a report of his interview.
He closed it with this grand exclamation:
“By Jove, boys, Prizident Harrison
is a rale Gineral Jackson of a fellow!”
About three weeks after the inaugura
tion of Gen. Harrison a well-dressed
young man of some thirty summers
walked into one of the hotels of this city
with a fiddle on his arm and said:
“Gentlemen (all eyes were at once
turned upon him). I have come here
like thousands of others to s#e what I
could see and get what I could get; but
I have been disappointed in eyerything.
I got no office, got out of Aioney, and
got many miles to retrace; I am too hon
est to steal, too pround to beg, and I
concluded to come in here to-day and
make a little in an honest way.”
Suiting the action to the word, ha be
gan to play the fiddle. This 'comical
scene afforded considerable amusement
to the persons there assembled. They
asked him how much money it would
take to carry him home. He said S4O.
In less than ten minutes that amount wa»
raised for him. Sitting down and count
ing over his money, he found that they
had given him $43.
“ByGeorge!” said he, “here’s a sur
plus of $3. Come in, gentlemen, all of
you, and take something to drink.”
I never saw nor heard of him after
ward. I have regretted that I did not
learn his name and keep the hang of him.
The chances are that he has since filled
some high political position.—Washing
ton Letter.
»
Wants in a Great City.
Among the advertisements in the New
York Sun Is one for “first-class waist
bauds.” This is a fine opportunity for
some young man to embrace. Another
advertisement reads, “Wanted, a boy to
feed and kick at 303 West Twenty-first
street. Wages, $4.” This sounds as if
it might come from “ Shepherd” Cowley,
though he did not feed his boys. “A
baker” is also wanted. This
must call for the man who was hurrying
down street swinging his two hands, and
it was plain to everybody that he had
also got a little behind hand—miWAuff a
i third hand. Still another advertisement
calls for “A stout young man to be gen
erally useful about an ice cream saloon.”
The most generally useful young man
in an ice cream saloon is the one who
brings in the girls there, early and often,
but it is hard to understand why he
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having been ma le re
the Delaware line and
asked, indicating that a dtu\ '/»« ‘
some hostile encounter, wft .i-
plation between these mysterious 'j'-mtry.
Late in the night, or rather early in
the morning, they left the town, driv
ing directly east. They were followed
by some citizens of the village, whoso
curiosity had induced them to watch
their movements, but were not overtaken,
and no one, it seems, resident in Elkton
was an eye-witness to the duel, which
occurred at an early hour on the morn
ing of the twenty-sixth, on Grey’s Hill,
about one mile east of the town. As it
afterward proved, the principles in the
affair had taken assumed names, one of
them being addressed as Moore; the
other as GokL mth. In reality, how
ever, they were Mr. August Belmont, of
New York, the American agent of the
Rothschilds, and who has since figured
very prominently as a New York Demo
cratic politician, and Mr. William Hay
ward, of South Carolina. They had
been together residents of the American
Hotel, in New York, and the quarrel
seems to have originated in a “love af
fair.” Hayward’s brother stated at the
time that' Belmont’s intimacy with a
lady had been resented by Hayward,
and the former having spoken of the
latter in terms not particularly compli
mentary, Hayward had struck Belmont,
whereupon the latter had challenged
him to mortal combat. Intent upon
blood, they had arranged a duel, to be
fought upon the classic soil of Dela
ware, and for that purpose had taken
carriages at Wilmington and driven to
Elkton, intending to meet upon the
field of honor by sunrise, just over the
Delaware line.
As it turned out, however, they did
1 not drive far enough east, and the soil
of Grey’s Hill, in Cecil County, was
reddened with the blood of the Hebrew
banker, and which in later years, the
execution of Swift, the murderer of
Kilhour, rendered more notorious. A
gentleman named Lake acted as second
to Belmont, and Mr. Purdy served Hay
ward in a similar capacity. Arriving
upon the ground, the principals were
placed by their seconds, and upon the
first round Mr. Belmont was shot in the
hip. One fire, it seems, was sufficent
to appease the wounded feelings of these
chivalrous gentlemen* and Mr. Belmont
was borne bleeding to his carriage. At
the time it was supposed that he was
mortally wounded.
Taking to their carriages, the sanguin
ary Southerner and the Hebrew were
driven to Wilmington, Elkton, not then,
nor since, so far as wc know, having
been honored by the presence of either
of these barbaric gentlemen.
High Heels and Deformed Feet.
A prominent surgeon remarked the
other day, after performing a painnil
operation on an interesting little girl
whose feet had been ruined by wearing
wrongly constructed shoes, “this is the
beginning of a large harvest of such
eases,” and what else can be expected?
Mothers walk the streets with heels on
their boots from two to three and a half
inches high and not more than an inch
in diameter, and their daughters follow
the same bad and barbarous prac
tice. In many cases severe sprains of
the ankles are suffered. But these are
not the worst points of the high-heel
torture. The toes are forced against
the fore part of the foot, and soon begin
to assume unnatural positions. In
many cases they are actually dislocated.
In others the great toe passes under the
foot, and the tendons harden in that po
sition, and lameness is the result, for
which there is no cure but the knife.
When the injury does not take this
form it assumes other aspects quite as
grave, and perhaps more distressing.
There are thousands of young girls
tripping along the streets to-day who in
a few years will be cripples if their
parents do not interfere and remove the
cause. We shall have a race of women
almost as helpless, as far as the feet arc
concerned, as those of China.
We condemn the practice of confin
ing the feet of childrenin wooden shoes,
and yet that practice is no more inju
rious to the feet than forcing them into
a small shoe with an Alpine heel. This
is a matter of grave and serious import,
and hence we press it upon the moth
ers and fathers of the land. If they
would not feed the surgical hospitals
and have groups of maimed daughters
■ in their homes they must commence a
I crusade upon the high heels. No father
i should have high-heeled boots, in his
house any more than he would have a
vicious dog in his parlor. When prom
inent surgeons from the operating room
raise their voices against high-heeled
boots it is time for old and young peo
ple to pause and listen. At this period
they can choose between high heels and
the knife. In a short time it
may bcjMflflttMlL-nernuuMafediijti||
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