Newspaper Page Text
VOL. V.--NO. 32.
UNFINISHED poem by bry
-4 ANT.
The reader of Mr. Bryant's poems will readi
it remember the many verses addressed to his
wife such as “Oh Fairest of the Rural
Maid's,” written about the time of the ; r mar
rim’’ “The Future Life,” speculating as to
the union of their spirits in the world tocnine;
the “Sick-Bed,” describing an illness; ” The
tile That Is,” rejoicing in recovery: “The
Twenty-seventh of March,” the birthday of
Mrs Bryant: “October, 1866,” descriptive of
her death and burial; and “May Evening,” a
ccntle reference to her loss. But in add tlon
these, ns we learn from Mr. Godwin’s forth
■boming biography of the poet, a fragment was
Wfciind among his papers, which recalls het
• memory in a very tender way. seven years
after her death. The lines were unfinished
and uncorrected; but we cannot refrain from
giving- them as they were written—dated “Ros
lyn, 1876:“ _ „
The morn hath not the glory that it wore,
flor doth the day so beautifully die,
since I can call thee to my side no more.
To gaze upon the sky.
For thy dear hand, with each return of spring.
1 sought in sunny nooks the Howers she
gave;
] seek them still, and sorrowfully bring
The choicest to thy grave.
Here, where I sit alone, is sometimes heard.
From the great world, a whisper of my
name,
Joined, haply, to some kind, commending
word,
By those whose praise is fame.
And then, as if 1 thought thou still wert nigh,
I turn me, half forgetting thou art dead,
To read the gentle gladness in thine eye
That once 1 might have read.
I turn, but see thee not: before my eyes
The image of a hill-side mound appears
Where all of thee that passed not to tne skies
Was laid with bitter tears.
And I, whose thoughts go back to happier
days
That fled with thee, would gladly now resign
All that the world can give of fame and praise
For one sweet look of thine.
Thus, ever, when I read of generous deeds,
Such words as thou didst once delight to
L hear, , i
K fy heart is wrung with anguish as it bleeds
• >To think thou art not near.
And now that I can talk no more with thee
Os ancient friends and days too fair to last,
Ab tterncss blends with the memory
Os all that happy past.
Oh, when I—
—Century Magazine.
THE ENGINEER’S STORY.
Business had brought me to the little
town of D , among the New Hamp-
shire hills, and here, much against my
will, I was detained for several days,
wh le waiting for instructions from my
employers. The nearest periodical
store was twelve miles away, and, with
out books or papers, time hung heavy
, ou my hands.
The only break in my monotonous
life was the arrival of the trains twice a
day, and in the dead calm of my exist
ence this little ripple of excitement be
came as much to me as the opera under
more favorable circumstances. It was
while lounging upon the platform that
I became acquainted with George Sea
forth, engineer on the B. C. & M. Rail
road. He was a man about thirty-live
years of age. Not what would be called
an educated man, but sensible and
clear-headed. His home was in Con
kcord, where he had a wife and two chil
dren. He ran from Concord to I) ,
and for two hours, while waiting for
the “down train,” he was in 1) .
The acquaintance, at first begun to
while away an idle hour, on my part,
at least, grew to a strong liking, and to
day there is no one among my acquaint
ances for whom I feel a greater respect
and esteem than for George Seaforth.
He had been on the cars since he was
sixteen, first as train-boy, then as brake
man, fireman, and for the last ten years
as engineer.
“You must have had some strange
adventures in that time,” I said one
day, as we sat upon the platform of the
little station, waiting for the train.
“Strange adventures!” he repeated,
taking his pipe from his mouth, and
looking meditatively across the g een
fields. “Strange adventures! You may
Well say that, sir. We train men are
always having adventures.”
“Suppomyou tell me some of them,”
1 suggested.
“Well,” looking at his watch, “as
there’s plenty of time. I don’t mind tell
ting you of one queer one I had six years
ago, come fall, though I don’t often
speak of it; for you see when a man’s
been lace to face with death, he can’t
talk of it very well.”
I settled myself on the rough bench
that did duty as a chair, as comfortably
as I could, took a fresh cigar, and he
be.mn:
“It happened in this way. 1 was run
ning the old Lion from Lee to Fairtown,
if you know anything about New En
gland, you know that September’s a
gre t month for fairs, and this particu
lar September was no exception to the
general rule. We had lots of extra
*°rk to do, but. as we had extra pay,
there was no grumbling. It was toward
the last of the month that the fair at
k “ came off’. Two or three extras
tyere put on, timed so as to run between
the regular trains. Jim Turner fire I for
n e then. Jim was as good a fellow as
ever lived, with but one fault—he
would go off on *a time’ once in a
while. He didn’t do it very often, and
as he’d do more work than any other
plan on the road, the company kept
him. But Jim had been pretty sober
lately. I believe he hadn’t drunk any
thing for as much as s x months; so I
k nd of got out of the habit of watching
h m. and he wen Land came pretty much
as he chose.
’’Well, we got along all right this
’’tne, till a’most night we stopped at
for wood and water. Wnile we
Were waiting, March, the depot-master,
can m along, and says he; ‘Seaforth, I
w ant von to do me a favor.”
What is it?’ ” says I, for March
! Were pretty good friends.
"ell,’ says he, ‘there’s a young
’'man here who wants to go to Fair
town, and she hasn’t a cent of money.
*be came here to get work, and she’s
lost her pocket-book, and hasn’t any
Clljv walton Stums
way to get back home. I don’t feel at
liberty to pass her over the road,
(they’d been making a row about free
passes), and she a n’t the kind that
vou d feel like offering money to. So
I thought may be you’d let her ride on
the engine.’
“Well, I didn’t like to refuse March,
for. as I said before, he and 1 were
good friends, and he had done me
many a good turn; but 1 must say the
idea of having a woman in the cab all
the way to Fairtown wa’n’t very
pleasant, and I said so to March, but
he was bound to have her go, and said
so much that I finally told him to bring
h;r along. She came out upon the
platform, a little, pale faced thing, who
looked at me with great, frigli ened
eyes, as though she thought I was a
bear, and would eat her up as soon as
we left tne station. March introdu ed
her as Miss Lord, and seemed to ex
pect me to say something to make her
feel at home, but I was all out of sorts,
and I only nodded in a surly sort of
way. I saw the tears come into her
eyes, and you better believe I felt kind
of mean, but I didn't say anyth no-,
and March helped her on the engine.”
I saw her put out a little white hand,
not much b'gger’n a child’s, and lay it
on his arm, as she sad:
“ ‘ God bless you. Mr. March.’
“And then I went off to look for Jim,
who was late.
“ 1 found him the other side of the
depot, with a two-gallon can of kerosene
in his hand.
" ‘ You see,’ he said, as I asked rath
er sharply where he’d been. ‘lc’ngit
this a good deal cheaper here than at
Fairtown, an’ my wife thinks it’s a sight
better, too.’
“‘Well, como along,’ I said, ‘for
we’re two minutes behind time now.’
“When we got back to the engine
March had gone, and Miss Lord sat there
alone.
Jim stared, but I said:
“ ‘ This young woman’s going to ride
on the engine to Fairtown. She is a
friend of Mr. March.’ So he put down
his kerosene, and took his place on the
cab
“I heard the conductor's ‘ All aboard, ’
and then we were off.
“I was busy with levers and valves,
for a man who drives a train holds the
lives of hundreds in h's hand, and one
careless motion may send them all into
eternity. So you see I hadn’t much
time to think of anything but my ma
chine, but I noticed that Jim was
pretty talkative. At first I thought
it was because we nau. a woman
aboard, but by and by I began
to suspect it was something worse
than that. His voice grew thick
and his movements uncertain, and at
last I could no longer hide from myself
the fact that he had been drinking.
Still I anticipated no trouble. We
were already more tlian ha f way to
Fairtown, and I thought he would keep
up till we got there.
“At A —■— the station master handed
the conductor a telegram. He read it,
and then handed it to me. It ordered
us to go on to N to meet the special.
1 had expected to stop at the next sta
tion, and N was ten miles beyond,
but orders are orders and mist
Le obeye 1. So I told Jim to pile
on the wood, and I put on all the steam
I dared, and we went spinning over the
road at a rate that must have astonished
the passengers.
“We had gone a little more than half
way, and I was beginning to think we
mirht ma' e the distance without much
trouble, when Jim sat right down on
the floor of the cab, and began to
whimper.
“ • Get up, you fool, and go to work,’
I cried.
“•I can’t,’ he whimpered. ‘lm
tired, an’ mus’ go er sleep.’
“‘Get up, you rascal!’ 1 shouted.
‘Don’tyou know we’ve got to get to
N in ion minutes, or meet the
special tra : n?
“•I can’t help it, let ther ol’ train
come. 1 tell ye I’m tired. Now, look
here, Seaforth,’ nodding his head with
drunken gravity. ‘You’re workin’
too hard. Why, man. you won’t
live out half your days, if you don’t
take some rest. 1 tell ye what’t is you d
better take things easy. I’m goin’ to,
any wav.’
“And he laid down on the floor of the
cab, and shut his eyes, mutter ng:
“Take it easy, easy. Jim ’ll take it easy.
“1 suppose I must have acted like a
wild man, for I knew that before I could
let the conductor know the fix that w:
were in, and get help, it would be too
late to save the train, and I’m afraid I
used some pretty strong words, as a
man is apt to when he gets in a tight
place. Not that the words help him out
of it. I suppose they only let o 1 some
of the extra steam, and make him think
quicker. So I stormed away there, all
the time trying to do my work nd
Jim’s, and knowing ever moment that
we were losing ground. The steam was
going down, and the engine slowing up,
spite of all I could do. .
“1 tell you,” and he passed his hand
o er his forehead, “it mal es the sweat
start on me now, when I think of t hat
run. It seems to me that 1 lived a life
time in those few minutes. It san
awful thing to have so many lives de
pending on you. In the carsbehin Imo
were hundreds of human be ngs, and
the other train had hundreds more, and
only a step between them an l eternity.
All this time, the girl M rch had put on
the engine had been flitting pcr.ectly
still, watching everything that went on,
an 1 now, when everything seemed lost,
she threw off her shawl, and stepped in
to Jim’s place, say ng qu etly:
“ ‘l’ll take that man’s place, Mr.
••You?’ and I looked at the slight,
almost girlish, figure in astonishment.
“‘Yes’ she said. ‘I am stronger
than I look, and I’ve been watching the
man. so I know I can do his wotk-
DALTON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 31. 1883.
“It was a forlorn hope, but our only
one. and. after one brief moment of
hesitation, I said:
“ ‘Very well, you can but try, and if
you fail’
“I did not finish the sentence, for, at
the thought of failure, the terrible pict
ure of mangled, bleeding bodies,
crushed out of all semblance of human
ity, rose before me, and I turned away
with a groan. A slight, shudder passed
over the girl, and she seemed to grow
paler, but, without a word, she took
her place, throwing on the wood as I
directed, and doing so well, that, spite
ol my anxiety, I could not but notice
the dexterity with which she handled
heavy sticks. The strength of a haif-a
dozen men seemed concentrated in her
slender arms, but, spite of her efforts,
we hardly seemed to gain ground.
“ I looked at my watch, and fairly
groaned aloud as I saw that it wanted
ten minutes of six, and at six we were
expected to pass the extra at N .
There was no time to put back, and no
chance to stop till we reached N .
There was nothing for us to do but
to go straight on, though I felt that we
were going to destruction. As the hands
of the watch crept round, telling off the
minutes, I watched them with a sort of
fascination. fceliuM as thouc-h I wora
turning to stone. Well, if you’ll believe
me, that girl, instead of making a row,
as most women would have done, never
sa d a single word, though she seemed
to know just how things were going,
but, after one look at my sac I
suppose I must have looked pretty bad
—almost bv inspiration it seemed to me,
she did one of those things a man would
never have thought of. Right beh nd
her was the oil-can Jim had got at
D . With a steady hand she lifted
the heavy can, and poured half its con
tents on the wood, then she threw the
wood upon the fire, and it blazed up
with a quick, fierce heat, that stat th j
engine flying over the rails at a rate
that fairly made one dizzy. Still she
piled on th oiled wood, and still we w nt
on faster, and faster. The train rocked
from side to side, and the engine
seemed hardly to touch the rails. I
looked nt mv watch, and then an iouslv
in the direction of N . It wanted
three minutes of six. Oh, if there
might be some delay, something to make
the other train e en one minute late.
But no, away in the distance I could see
afa’nt line of smoke comingnearer and
nearer. The girl saw it too, and
reached for the oil-can.
“ ‘lt’s of no use,’ I said. ‘We can’t
get there, and we’ve all the steam we
can safely carry now.’
“‘Are you sure it won’t bear any
more?’ she asked, anxiously.
“I shook my head.
“ ‘l’m afraid not,’ I said.
“ ‘But it is possible that it may?’ she
asked again.
“ ‘Yes, possible, but not probable,’ I
answered.
“She asked the questions in a calm,
even voice, and I think I answered in
much the same tone, for, now that the
danger I had feared was really upon us,
1 seemed to have lost all fear, and I
watched the line of smoke nearing us
so fast with a sort of vague wonder as
to what the engineer of the other train
would do when he saw us coming, too
late to save his train. I was roused
from this sort of stupor into which I
seemed in danger of falling, by seeing
the g'rl again reach for the oil-can. I
shook my head.
‘“lt won’t do,’ I said. ‘lt may be
death.’
“ ‘But,’ she said, ‘it is death if I
don’t.’
“I nodded, and, without a
word, she poured the remainder
of the oil upon the wood, and threw
it into the fire. We were
close to the station now. and I could see
people running across the p’atform, and
hear the women scream as they saw our
danger; for right in front of ns was the
extra, so near that it seemed as if noth
ing but a miracle could save us. I
looked at Miss Lord. With that last ef
fort her strength seemed to leave her.
and she sank upon the seat, covering
her face with her hands, waiting for the
death that seemed so near.
“There was a moment of awful sus
pense, and then we were safe upon the
side track, just as the e tra train went
thundering by, so near that starcely an
inch separated the engine from the
hindmost car. The brakes were put
on, and the long line of cars came to a
stand still just beyond the station, and
then slowly ran hack to where the
crowd of alarmed and curious men
stood watching us. At the shrill sound
of the escaping steam, Miss Lord raised
her head, and looked anxiously around,
then, seeming to rea ize that we wi re
safe, she tried to say something, but
the words died away in a murmnr, and
the next moment -he fell on the 1 oor
of the cab like a dead woman. But be
fore I cou d call any one to help her, for
1 was pretty well shaken myse’f. one
of the directors, who was on the tra n.
came along in a fearful passion. He
wanted to r now what 1 meant by run
ning the risk that 1 had done.
“ • Haven’t you any brains? and don t
you care any more for human lite than
a donkey?’ he blusterol.
“I handed him the telegram I had
received at A , and which, fortu-
nately for myseir, i had put into my
pocket, and then I pointed to the t o r
ot the cab, where Jim lay in a drunken
sleep, and Miss Lord in a dead fan’,
and I told the story as well as I cqu.d.
I tell you there was pretty lively times
there for a few minutes. The passen
gers found out that something was the
matter, and they came pouring out of
the cars, and crowded round the en
gine, and 1 had to tell my story’ over
and over to them. Well, some of the
men carried Jim off to the station, and
dumped him down on the floor, and
M S 8 Lord was taken into one o! t.ue
drawing-room cars, and fussed over as
though she was one of the greatest
ladies in the land: and, before she came
to herself enough to sit up, thi re was a
purse made up for her, of more dollars
th n she’ ever had in her life, and that
wa’n’t all, for Mr. Rituals—the director
that was aboard the train—found that
she knew son ething of telegraph and
put her in the office at C for awhile,
and in a few months gave her a steady
job. So you see it wa’n’t a bad ride for
her, a ter all.”
•• But what became of her?” I asked.
“Is slu still in the oilice?”
“Oh, bless you, no, sir. Sliewlid what
most all the women do, sooner dr later
—get married.”
“Well,” said I, “such a woman de
served a good husband; I hope she got
one.”
•‘Well, I don’t know; pretty middling,
I guess,” and then he nodded, with a
laugh: “She seems to be satisfied, so I
suppose there’s no occasion for any one
else to find fault.”
. u-t then there was a whistle, and
the down train came into view, and,
putt ng his pipe in his pocket, the en
gineer male ready for his homeward
trip, saying, with a sly smile, as he
sprang on the engine and said good-by:
“If ever you come to Concord I shall
be glad to see you, and you can ask my
wi e what she thinks of the husband
Miss Ford got.”— Ballou's Monthlu.
Watches a Hundred Years Too Slow.
Neither literally nor figuratively can
the watches of the world be persuaded
to keep the same time. The watches of
France, in a good many instances just
now, fail to go with perfect simultane
ousness. and even in the case of the
grand National Fetes there is some
slight divergence in the pulsation of
public opinion. For example, it is stat
ed in the Paris Figaro that the Countess
Fernand de la Ferronnays, on receiving
from the Mayor of her arrondissement a
printed invitation to hang out flags from
her outward walls by day and illuminate
them by night—addressed to the muni
cipal functionary a haughty, icy reply,
in which she declines in any way to co
operate in the “ so-called National Fete”
of what she sarcastically reminds the
Mayor is “the Third Republic.” The
Countess refuses to participate in a
manifestation which “pretends to do
honor to all the crimes of that revolu
tion which broke out in 1789, and the
duration of which is not yet terminat
ed. The names of our murdered
parents would rise before us to curse
us,” concludes the enthusiastic dame.
The Figaro styles this lovely protest
against Republican institutions a "belle,
response.” With more propriety it
might bo headed, “Curious case of a
lady’s watch being ninety-one years
slow.” The Americans have a stout
gentleman who, on the morning of a
certain Fourth of July a few years since,
happened to be an inmate of a hotel in
the beautiful Catskill mountains. When
breakfast was over the landlord politely
asked him, as being apparently the
senior among the company, to address
a few appropriate words to the assem
bled guests “on the present auspicious
occasion.” “ What occasion?” asked
the stout gentleman, with a stare of as
tonishment. “Why,” explained the
landlord, “this august anniversary.”
“What anniversary?” asked the stent
gentleman. “Blame my cats!” cried
the landlord, “ain’t this Independence
day ?” The face of the stout gentleman
grew dark, and, in a voice trembling
with passion, he vociferated : “Do you
mean’ sir, the unnatural rebellion
against njy late and reverend sovereign,
King George 111., of blessed memory ?”
The stout gentleman turned out to be
an Englishman whom the landlord had
mistaken for an American, ard it was
only a case of a watch that had been go
ing slower and slower ever since the
year 1776. — London I'eU graph.
Reserved Seats.
In traveling, one meets with many
selfish people ; among them countless
women who insist on monopolizing two
seats in a railway car under the pre
tense that one of them is engaged by an
attendant gentleman, supposedly in the
smoking-car for a brief interval. Wo
saw two women of this sort rightly
served during a summer trip. For fifty
miles they succeeded in warding off
travelers who sought the shady side of
the car, and the seat in front of them
was the convenient receptacle of their
baggage. Finally, however, an uncouth
looking individual quickly removed the
baggage and turned the seat. The
astonished ladies paused in their con
versation to each other and raised their
hands as if in remonstrance, but it was
too late; the thing was quietly and
quickly accomplished, and the two for
eigners who were seated there seemed
to understand no words or gestures.
Public opinion, in that car, at least,
sided with them. On another occasion,
when our party entered a car, not a scat
was available. One person was guard
ing four, others one and two; the aisle
was uncomfortably crowded. “ Tins
way,” said the conductor, “room in the
patace car for those who are standing.
The engaged seats were at a discount
(plenty of room now), but the conductor
insisted that they should be retained by
their occupants, and all were made com
fortable. "Do as you would be dene
by,” is a good rule when traveling as
elsewhere.
—The ice crop of the Hudson River
this year will be nearly three million
tons,which is one of the largest harvests,
if not the largest, ever taken from that
river. The ice gathered ranges in thick
ness from eight to twenty inches, and,
owing to the low condition of the river ;
when it froze over, is as clear as crystal. '
The housing this year cost from four to i
seven cents less per ton than last year.
—N. Y. Times.
Raising Ponlfry for the Market.
I Raising poultry for the market can be
made quite a profitable business if prop
' erly managed. By faulty management
1 the profit can be made very small or be
made to disappear entirely. In raising
• chickens for market it makes a great
! difference whether they attain a good
' size and are sent in early in the season
I when poultry is scarce and high, or are
' marketed late when there is plenty of
| poultry offered at low prices. The
; prices of chickens in August and Sep
tember arc usually fifty to one hundred
per cent, higher than they are in Octo
ber and November. By having the
chickens hatched early is the spring
they may easily be made ready for the
market early and then secure the high
: prices which prevail during the latter
part of summer and first part of autumn.
In order to succeed in raising poultry
extensively, plenty of room must be pro
vided for it. There must be suitable
shelter, and plenty of yard room. The
yard should be large enough so that a
large part of the ground can be kept in
grass, to afford the poultry a supply of
green food. They need a daily supply
of green vegetables. Cabbage and let
tuce are best, but young and tender
grass is good. Shade is needful in the
yard to afford the birds a chance to re
treat from the hot rays of the sun in
summer. Fruit trees may advanta
geously be placed in the yard. They
will afford the needed shade, and the
presence of the fowls will help to pro
tect the trees from insects and insure
their thriftiness and fruitfulness. Poultry
yards are generally too small. If the
yard is large enough the fowls will keep
healthy. A New York hotel-keeper a
few years ago had a poultry yard which
contained fifteen acres, in which bo kept
large numbers of turkeys, ducks and
fowls. They had the range of the lot
and during the summer obtained a large
part of their food from the yard, and
were free from diseases usually incident
to poultry. The owner was wont to de
clare that he could raise a thousand
pounds of poultry as easily and as
cheaply as he could a thousand pounds
of beef, mutton or pork. Under good
management it is probably true that a
thousand pounds of poultry can be pro
duced as cheaply as a thousand pounds
of beef, mutton or pork. The fact that
poultry usually sells at two or three
times the price of beef, mutton or pork,
sufficiently indicates how much greater
the profit must be in poultry raising
than in raising beef, mutton or pork.
In raising poultry for the market the
importance of having the chickens
hatched early should be insisted upon.
Next in importance is the feeding of
them to insure their rapid and continu
ous growth. The food for the young
chicks should be such as is adapted to
promote growth, and should be abun
dant in quantity. Skimmed milk,either
sweet or sour, is an excellent article to
feed young chicks, along with Indian
meal or oat metjl or bread made of
these articles. The chickens should be
given about all the food they will eat so
as to keep them growing thriftily, all
the time. Many allow their young
chickens to be only about half fed for
the first three or four months and then
by extra feeding endeavor to bring
them into condition for the market. By
feeding well from the first the chickens
are hastened to maturity, kept in good
condition and are ready for the market
at an early age. If poultry can be
brought to maturity early in the season
and sent to market when there is a
scarcity of poultry offered, a high price
will be obtained for it. The quicker
poultry can be grown ready for market, j
the cheaper can it be produced. A cer
tain amount of food daily is required to
supply the waste of the system, main
tain animal heat and so forth, and what
is consumed in excess of that amount j
increases growth and flesh. If a flock
of chickens can be brought to maturity
ready for the market in four months
instead of six, the cost of keeping them
alive or simply maintaining their con
dition for two months will be saved.
The more the chickens can be made to
eat and digest the faster they will grow
and the less will be the cost of maturing
them. Neglect to feed generously is
the cause of many failures in raising
poultry for the market. The greatest
profit is obtained only by feeding all the
birds can eat, while the least profit is
obtained by keeping them about half
starved. Generous feeding and profit
go together and that fact should be suf
ficient ina icement to secure good treat
ment of poultry.— Practical Farmer.
Umbrellas.
Tn the seventeenth century an umbrel
la generally measured about four feet in
height and nearly four yards in circum
ference. It weighed at least four pounds,
and cost a sum varying from £2 to £3,
and even more. It was then made of
leather, oiled silk, or glazed paper, and
constituted an important article of prop
erty handed down as a family heirloom
for generations. It was in 1780 that
the Paris manufacturers began to reduce
its size, and to make it of lighter and
loss-ex pensive materials* Its color liad
then by no means become restricted to
the hues now in fashion, and the good
people of the revolutionary times, as
well as under the Directory, were fiee
to indulge, according to their fancy, in
such colors as yellow, rose, blue, and
»ven apple green.
“Have you got the rent ready at
/mt?” “No, sir; mother’s gone out
washing and forgot to put it out for you.”
“Did she tell you she’d forgotten?”
“Yes, air.”
TERMS: Si.ooA YEAR.
PASSING SMILES. ?»•
The person who does nothing In this
world is Oy.
“Marriage makes the man—the woman
was maid before.
A Western paper informs its readers
that its candidate for Congress slings the
most eloquent lip of man in the State.
A down-town physician reports busi
ness “terribly dull considering the state
of the markets.”— Kingston Freeman.
The fanner sowed the golden grain,
And sewed th* farmer’s daughter;
W ith her a charming episode,
For soon she’d soda water.
It is said that Ohio wives do their
own housework. Now, that is the kind
of an no hire idea we like.— Yonkert
Statesman.
Hancock’s father wanted him to learn
the printer’s trade. Had he done so, in
stead of being a West Pointer he might
have been a setter.
“ ’Tis sweet to dye for those we love,”
exclaimed a young man when his best
girl asked him wny he didn’t wear a
black instead of a light mustache.
The animal carries his tail at the op
posite extremity from his head; a man
carries his tale in his mouth. And thus
does many a man make both ends meet.
Tr is learned from the Salt Lake Tier aid
that Galileo discovered Limbergcr cheese
floating through space in 1609, and made
an entry in his diary at the time that he
thought it in a very poor state of pre
servation.
Smith says: “My wife, who has just
read that ‘it takes a Japanese girl thir
teen hours to dress for u party,’ has sent
to Japan to know how she does it. Shs
can’t occupy more than four, for the lit*
of her.”
As they were about to bang an Lush
man in London, one of his friends who
had come to witness the ceremony, cried:
“I always told you you would come to
this!” ‘‘And you have always lied ! I
have notcome—l was brought!”
A gentleman who possessed an imita
tion rat tobacco pouch, thought he would
enjoy the nervous shock of a friend by
placing it where his friend’s eye would see
it suddenly. He was much mortified when
the friend quietly took it up, helped him
self, and then passedit about till the con
tents were gone.
“William, you have again come up
unprepared!” “Yes, sir.” “But from
what cause?” “ Laziness, sir. ” “John
son, give William a good mark for up
rightness.” “Bates, you proceed.” “I
have notprepared, too, sir.” “Butwhy
not?” “From laziness, sir.” “Johnson,
give Bates a bad mark for plagiarism!”
The young Positivists are multiplying.
Passing a group of children the other
evening, we heard a little girl of a dramatic
turn of mind remark to a little boy per
suasively, “Now, you area bad angel,
aren’t you?” “No,” was the dogmatic
rejoinder, “ I ain't a bad angel and I ain’t
a good angel. There’s no such things as
angels, anyway.”
A Ligbt-nouse Keeper’s Escape.
On the highest peak of the hills ot
the Highlands of Navasink, N. J., stand
I the famous twin light-houses. During
the heavy storms of last week Job
Smith, the assistant keeper, was im
prisoned there for four consecutive days
Keeping the lights binning through the
dense fogs that veiled the coast tor that
period. While thus engaged Smith had
a narrow escape from a terrible death.
The lar 1-oil which is used in the great
lanterns of the Fresnel light is easily
chilled, and the night being very cold it
j was necessary to apply heat to the pipe
through which the oil passes to tne
| burners. Smith used the ordinary aleo-
I hoi flambeau provided for that purpose.
| Standing directly underneath the lan
tern he held the flambeau above his
i head. From some unexplained cause
the top of the alcohol-holder became
detached, and the fluid, which ignited,
poured down upon his head. He rushed
down the to wer into the main building
and out of doors, and throwing himself
into a snow-bank he succeeded in ex
tinguishing the flames. His hair and
beard were singed and his clothing was
burned and scorched, while about his
face an I hands he received painful in
'urie;. Returning to the light-house
no succeeded in lighting both the lamps
and nursed his burns while keeping
watch over them during the night. In
the morning he succeeded in signalling
to th<lower Highlands for assistance.
The head keeper was summoned and
Smith was conveyed to his home. Al
though he will be disfigured for life his
condition is not considered critical.— N.
Y. World.
Discovery of a Letter Written by Adam
to Eve.
In Josh Billings’ “Cook Book and
Picktorial Receipts,” the following in
•Jeresting letter is found:
Eponia, December, Year Two.
Dear Eve —I have been on the rampage now
one month, prospecting for our new home, and
and have seen some ranchos that will do prettj
veil, but none of them just the ticket. Th*
old garden is a hard place to beat, but we hav«
lost that, and are turned out now to root hog
or die. We will tight it out now, on this line,
if it takes all summer. Eating that apple wai
a great blunder, but, my dear girl, let bygones
be bygones; there is hope for us yet. Just as
aooii as I strike a good claim I will come back
to you. Watch over Cain closely: ho is a brick.
The weather is raw and cold; I feel that I am
too thinly clad. No more now from youi
loving Adam.
p. 8. —Has Cain cut another tooth yet?
Grandmother : “ You are stupid,
Charley; the dullest boy I ever saw.
Charley : “ You must not expect me to
understand things as quick as you do,
grandmother, because you don t have
the trouble to get ’em through your
hair.”