Newspaper Page Text
THE LINCOLNTON NEWS.
VOLUME VII. NUMBER 37.
Silver coinage is going on at the rase
ft $2,000,000 a month.
Europe imports over 1,000,000,000
pounds of rice, but none of it comes from
the United States.
The New York Times declares that the
Investor who has put money in the South
is a man who is happy now.
A political move of great importance is
promised by the intention of the Czar of
Russia to be crowned the King of Poland.
According to the New York Tribune ,
“gross land frauds are alleged to have
been committed in Oklahoma by promi¬
nent officials.”
The efforts made to introduce Euro¬
pean vegetables and fruits in the African
Congo States have been rewarded with
very great success.
Of the four quick-firing guns now used
in war, three—the Gatling, the Hotch¬
kiss and the Maxim—were invented by
Americans. The fourth is the Norden
feldt.
Only Great Britain, Belgium and Por¬
tugal of all European nations do not pro¬
duce enough butter and to spare. To
make up the deficiency—25,000,000
pounds—the United States exports 24,
000 , 000 .
Prohibition has had seven successive
defeats. New Hampshire, Oregon, West
Virginia, Texas, Tennessee and Michigan
in turn voted it down, and Massachusetts
recently gave the majority of 50,000 .
votes against it.
England is now infested by graveyard
insurance companies of a new type, risks
being taken on babies in their cradles.
The number of children accidentally
smothered while sleeping with their
parents has greatly increased.
By the next apportionment for mem
bers of Congress Massachusetts is likely
to lose one member, New York four,
Pennsylvania three, Ohio one; whereas
Illinois and Indiana may escape without
the loss of a man,.according to the Chi¬
cago Inter-Ocean.
The town of Hayattsville, Md., which
elbows historic old Bladenburg, is going
to put Henry George’s single-tax theory
to a practical test. It was made the issue
in the recent local election, and three
Town Commissioners who were chosen
are converts to the idea.
A “cotton chopper” or horse hoe has
just been invented by a South Caro¬
linian, and works so well that it is ex¬
pected to quite supersede the old-time
hand hoe. The inventor claims that by
using his implement the cotton planters
may save themselves just $7,000,000 a
year.
To eat your dinner comfortably in
America and in London within the same
/*' week — this is indeed a remarkable
achievement, in the opinion of the New
York Mail and Express: But it is an
achievement that the passengers on the
Inman flyer, the City of Paris, have just
performed with a good deal of satisfac¬
tion.
There are now 50,000 Sioux in Minne¬
sota, Dakota and Montana and they are
steadily increasing in numbers. They
comprise, states the Detroit Free Press,
one-sixths of the Indi*'* in the United
States. They are tlra* typical North
American Indian, the dominant tribe and
the superiors physically and mentally of
all others.
Europe produces about as much to¬
* bacco as annually—and the l|^ted States—500,000,000 could easily
pounds pro¬
duce all needs, but the American to¬
bacco is desired for two reasons: It is
cheap and desirable for fortifying the
European product, So the the United
States furnishes 242,000,000 pounds of
the annual deficiency of 324,000,000
pounds. _
AVhen King Malietoa gets back from
exile, remarks the Chicago Seics, and be¬
gins once more to draw his $20 a week
in cocoanuts and plug tobacco as Monarch
of Samoa the status quo will be in good
shape, and America will bo satisfied with
affairs in the navy-blue Pacific. It would
be very mean of Malietoa, however, if he
were to refuse to go back to work at his
old job until his wages were raised.
With the visit of the Shall of Persia to
England, reminiscences are being circu¬
lated of his former trip to that country.
On one oocasion he took a large dose of
opium, and slept so late the next day that
the Queen and her attendants, who were
to accompany him on a trip, were kept
waiting an unconscionable time. The
Shah’s attendants were afraid to awake
him lest their lives should be forfeited.
Finally the expedient was hit upon of
stationibga band beneath his window and
having it play some of the noisiest marches.
♦ The experiment was successful, and in a
short time the Shah appeared and all
were happy.
DEVOTED TO THE INTEREST OF LINCOLN COUNTY.
IF I HAD THE TIME.
If I had the time to find a place
And sit me down full face to face
With my better self, that stands no show
In my daily life that rushes so;
It might be then I would see my soul
Was stumbling still toward the shining goal—
I might be nerved by the thought sublime,
If I had the time!
If I had the time to let my heart
Speak out and take in my life a part,
To look about and stretch a hand
To a comrade quartered on no-luck land;
Ah, God! If I might but just sit still
And hear the note of the whip-poor-will
I think that my wish with God would rhyme
If I had the time!
If I had the time to learn from you
How much for comfort my word could do;
And I told you then of my sudden will
To kiss your feet when I did you ill—
If the tears aback of the bravado
Could force their way and let you know—
Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,
If we had the time
—Washington Post.
AUNT ABBIE’S BROOCH.
BY FLORENCE B. HALLOWELL.
“I think you might lend me that old
brooch, Aunt Abbie! It is just what I
need to complete my costume.”
Becky Alger turned from the window
where she had been standing for the last
half hour, and began to walk up and
down the floor. A very discontented
look was on her pretty face.
“Well, I won’t lend it, so you needn’t
ask me again,” said Miss Abbie, who
was carefully and conscientiously darning
a small hole in a pair of old black cotton
gloves. “The young people of the present
day are beyond my comprehension. The
idea of your wanting to flaunt around in
a public place in anything so sacred as
that brooch!”
“I wouldn’t flaunt it. I’d simply pin
my collar with it, and it’s just what I
need. Really, Aunt Abbie, I can’t get
along without it. ”
“Y’ou’ll have to,” rejoined Miss Abbie,
grimly, “for I’ve no intention of lending
it to you, no matter how much you talk.
Why, I don’t wear that brooch myself,
except on rare occasions. If I let you
have it, I shouldn’t know a minute’s
peace all the time you were gone. You'd
be sure to lose it.”
“If you thought I wouldn’t lose it,
would you lend it to me. Aunt Abbie?”
“Perhaps so; but as you are no doubt
aware, Rebecca, you are careless to the
last degree. I’ve always regretted my
folly in letting you take that lace
handker-”
“O Aunt Abbie,” interrupted Becky,
impatiently, ‘that *
‘ was five years ago! I
was only a child then. You ought not
to bring that up now. I promise I won’t
lose the brooch.”
“Y r ou are quite safe in promising; you
won’t have a chance to lose it,” said
Miss Abbie, with a little laugh that
irritated Becky. “I could replace the
handkerchief, but never the brooch.”
Becky gave a long sigh, gathered up
her sewing materials, which were
scattered on every chair and table in the
room, and went out. She was going up¬
stairs, but changed her mind, and went
into the kitchen, where her sister Amy
was making cake.
“There’s an expression on your face
that tells me that you and Aunt Abbie
have been talking brooch again,” said
Amy, as her sister came and stood beside
her. “What is the use of it, Becky?
You know she never changes her mind
about anything.”
“I know it; this was a last attempt,”
answered Becky, disconsolately. “But
how am I to fasten that lace collar in
front?”
“You’ll have to use a common pin. It
wouldn’t do to put on anything modern,”
said Amy, measuring a cup of white
sugar.
“Aunt Abbie has a heart of stone!”
cried Becky. “As if I could lose the old
brooch!”
“Well, Becky, you know you are
rather careless you must admit that.”
said Amy, very gently. “Aunt Abbie
can’t forget that you lost her best lace
handkerchief five years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sick of hearing about my
carelessness and that wretched lace hand¬
kerchief!” and Becky dropped into a
chair. “I wish I had never consented
to go into this concert. It has been all
worry from the very beginning.”
“They couldn’t get along without you,
Becky; you know that. And your cos
tume will be the prettiest there. That
old brocade would stand alone.”
But Becky only sighed again, and her
countenance did not lighten. She felt
that nothing could comfort her now.
She had taken the most intense in¬
terest in the Old Folks’ Concert, and
had been as gay as a lark over the
fashioning of the dress she was to wear,
until, in an unfortunate moment, she had
remembered Aunt Abbie’s brooch, and
had asked to borrow it.
Miss Abbie had refused point blank
even to consider the request; but Becky
was a girl who, when she set her heart on
a thing, could not endure disappoint¬
ment, and she had argued and pleaded
with Miss Abbie until the old lady was
out of patience.
The concert was to take place on Thurs¬
day night, and Becky hoped against con¬
viction that her aunt would relent; but
the old lady was obdurate to the last.
Miss Abbie had intended to go to the
concert, but while Becky was dressing,
she put her head in at the door to say
that she had been sent for to sit up with
Mrs. Mills, a friend who had been ill for
a long time.
“So I shall not be able to hear you
sing,Becky,” she how added, “and I cau’teveu
stay now to see you’ll look in that bro¬
cade dress. You ought to have let rae
see you try it on.”
“I’ll put it on for you to-morrow, Aunt
Abbie,” said Beckie, who was engaged in
powdering her dusky head very liberally.
“And—and won’t you let me have that
brooch?”
“Yes, when I’m ready to say good-bye
to it forever,” answered Miss Abbie.
“By that time you’ll have learned to be
LINCOLNTON, GEORGIA, FRIDAY, JULY 19, 1889.
more careful of things,” and she went
away on her neighborly errand.
Becky stamped her foot in vexation.
“I wish I hadn’t asked her again!” she
thought. “I wish I’d never seen the
hateful brooch!”
When she was all dressed, she was
obliged to acknowledge to herself that
'••he looked very well indeed. The old
fashioned gown was very becoming, and
the delicate lace of the wide collar soft¬
ened her complexion. If she only had the
brooch to fasten it!
“I’ll see how it looks on me anyway.
Aunt Abbie couldn’t object to my trying
it on,” she thought. She threw her
cloak and nubia over her arm, and crossed
the hall to her aunt’s room, which was
just opposite her own. her
Miss Abigail never locked bureau
drawers, and in the upper one was the
small faded velvet case containing the
brooch. It was a very handsome piece of
jewelry. Pearls and small diamonds sur¬
rounded the antiquated picture of Becky’s
great-grandfather, and the gold rim was
heavily chased. Becky lost no time in
pinning this ancient heirloom to her col¬
lar, and then gazed at herself in the glass
with much complacency. How the dia¬
monds sparkled! The brooch seemed to
enrich her whole costume.
“I might wear it, anyhow. I shall be
back long before Aunt Abbie, and she
will never know. Oh, it is such a temp¬
tation !” thought poor Becky.
It was not, however, a temptation that
would not, probably, have been yielded
to had not Amy’s voice at that moment
called to her from the foot of the stairs:
“The carriage has come, Becky. They’re
waiting for you.”
Becky hesitated just an instant. Then—
“I will wear it!” she muttered, and
thrusting the case back into the drawer,
she turned out the gas, caught up her
cloak and rushed downstairs.
“Let me see how you look,” said Amy.
But Becky, flushing hotly with the con¬
sciousness of the borrowed piece of jewelry
at her throat, said she couldn’t stop, and
hurried out to the carriage waiting at the
gate.
The concert was to be given in the
Town Hall, A dressing-room had been
fitted up at one end, and into this Becky,
with half a dozen other girls was ushered
on her arrival. A temporary dressing
table had been made of a large table, over
which hung a mirror, and about this the
girls crowded as soon as they removed
their wraps.
“YVe have no time to waste. It is
almost eight o’clock,” said Carol Cresson,
as she gave a finishing pat to her hair,
and away she hurried, followed by all
except Becky, who had taken off the
brooch in order to put the lace collar a
little lower down, and had been waiting
a chance to get before the glass.
“O Becky,” cried some one behind
her, “I’mso late! Do help me! Just
tie this horrid bow! I can’t do a thing
with it, my fingers are so cold!”
She turned and saw Florrie Goddard,
who had just come in, and was throwing
off her cloak and nubia. Becky lent her
aid at once, and was pulling out the
loops of the bow when Mr. Starr, the stage
manager, put his head in at the door.
“Young ladies, we are waiting foryou,”
he said. “Come; the curtain is about to
rise.”
Both girls followed him immediately,
all in a flutter of excitement, and Becky
did not think of the brooeh again until,
in the middle of the second song,- she
happened to put her hand to her throat.
The shock of discovering that the brooch
was not there made her brain reel. Every
particle of color left her cheeks, and the
song died on her lips.
She went through her part mechanically
after that, not conscious what she was
doing. People in the audience said they
had never heard her sing so badly, and
wondered what made her so white. How
thankful she was when at last she was able
to leave the stage! She wings, seized upon a
small boy in one of the and with
the promise of a reward of fifty cents, sent
him iu search of the missing brooch.
With what agonizing impatience she
waited his return—only to be told that
the article could not be found.
‘ ‘It must be there, ” she said, frantically.
“I’ll go myself and look.”
But her looking was in vain. The
brooch had disappeared.
Poor Becky! what she suffered can be
easily imagined. She looked like the
ghost of her bright, happy self when, at
eleven o’clock, she reached home, and
hurried upstairs to her sister’s room. Amy
had retired, but sprang up, lighted the
gas, and unlocked the door when she
heard Becky’s imperious knock.
“YYliy, what’s the matter, Becky?” she
cried. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“I feel worse than I look,” said poor
Becky. “Amy, something dreadful has
happened; “I’ve lost Aunt Abbie’s
brooch.”
“Lost Aunt Abbie’s brooch!” repeated
Amy, sinking into the nearest chair.
“Becky, you surely never—”
“Y’es, I did. I borrowed it without
her leave. It was awful, I know, but I
wanted it so much. O Amy, don’t look
like that. I feel bad enough as it is.”
And then Becky, heedless of her
dainty silk dress, threw herself on the
bed, and wept until she was almost hys¬
terical. Amy tried to soothe her, of
course, but could say nothing comfort¬
ing. Indeed, comfort of any kind was
out of the question, for the terrible fact
remained that the brooch was lost, and
would, in all probability, never be seen
again. And the thought that Aunt Abbie
must be told weighed on both the girls
like a nightmare.
“But you needn’t tell her to-night,”
said Amy, “for she has been in bed two
hours, at least. She didn’t have to sit
up with Mrs. Mills, after all.”
Becky was so pale, so nervous and so
depressed during the next few days that
Amy wondered Aunt Abbie did not re
mark upon it. Every morning when
Becky rose she said to herself, “I'll tell
her to-day,” but when night came, the
terrible confession had not been made.
The longer she deferred it the greater
grew her dread of making it.
“I can’t tell her,” the poor girl would
say when Amy urged her not to put off
the evil hour any longer. You know how
she’ll look*, she’lL wither me with one
Becky stopped crying, and stared at
her, amazed.
“Aunt Abbie, you can’t have heard
what I’ve been telling you!” she said.
“Oh, how can you be so calm? If you
only knew what I’ve suffered these last
few days!”
“I do know,” said Miss Abbie,quickly.
“I’ve seen you suffering.”
“But you didn’t know why I—”
“Yes, I did,” interrupted Miss Abbie.
“I knew all about it.”
“Knew I’d lost your brooch? Then
why didn’t you speak to me about it?
How could you help speaking?”
“There was no need of it. I thought
it better to let you speak to me. And I
wasn’t much disturbed, for,”—here Miss
Abbie rose and went to her bureau— 1 ‘here
is the brooch,” and she took out the faded
velvet case with a little flourish and dis¬
played the ancient heirloom on its satin
bed.
“Oh, is it really, really?” cried Becky,
hysterically. “Where did you find it,
Aunt Abbie?”
“On the table in that dressing-room
at the Town Hall,’’answered Miss Abbie,
slowly and distinctly. “I found, on go¬
ing to Mrs. Mills's, that her sister had ar¬
rived unexpectedly, and that therefore I
wasn’t needed. So 1 concluded to earn¬
out ray original intention and go to the
concert. On reaching the hall I went
into the dressing-room to put my bonnet
straight—a man having run into me and
knocked it to one side—and the first
thing I saw on the table was my brooch,”
with severe emphasis. “I was so upset I
had to go home, and didn’t stop for the
concert at all. Of course I knew you
must have taken the brooch, and with
your usual carelessness—”
“O Aunt Abbie, I’ll never, never be
careless again!” cried Becky, laughing and
crying together as she rushed to her auut
and threw her arms nfout her. “This
has been a lesson to me.”
“It ought to be, goodness knows,’’said
Miss Abbie. “And, Becky, I’ll tell you
what I’ll do.”
“What?” asked Becky, eagerly, wiping
away her tears.
“If this should really prove to be a
lesson to you, if you never are careless
again, I’ll leave you this brooch in my
will. Y’ou don't deserve it, but—I’ll do
it. ”— Youth's Compan ion .
A Metropolitan Translation Bureau.
One of the peculiar institutions of oui
big cosmopolitan city is a “Translation
Bureau;” not such a concern as deals
merely with the modern polite languages,
but a bureau which is capable of grap¬
pling with some 150 tongues. This
strange, polyglot affair is conducted by
an ex-journalist, Louis Neumann, for¬
merly on the staff of the Stoats Zeitung
and himself a master of several languages.
He has a staff which is certainly unique,
being composed of dwellers in tenements
and in the most obscure places, as well as
men of distinction, Thus, one will sec
some Russian cobbler, a Chinese tea¬
seller, an Arab peddler, a Moor, a Finn
or a Lapp, all drawn from their retreats
in tenements, it may be, or in ware¬
houses or fashionable dwellings, to de¬
cipher and translate for the benefit of the
merchants or scholars who need the ser¬
vices of the bureau. Professor Neumann
is kept busy, thus proving the real need
of such an establishment— Sew York
Graphic.
glance. I shall never have another happy
hour after she knows about that brooch.”
“You’re not having many happy hour*
now, I think,” rejoined Amy. “And she
must be told some time, Becky.”
Becky groaned. losing
“Just the fact of the brooch is
enough to make me wretched all my
life,” she said. “But to have to tell Aunt
Abbie—that is awful 1 Amy, I was
weighed yesterday, and I’ve lost three
pounds. Now don’t tell me I haven't
suffered. It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t
turned white.”
Five days after the concert Aunt Abbie
announced at breakfast that she had ac¬
cepted an invitation to visit a friend in an
adjoining town, and would leave home
the following morning.
“I’ll get my things ready at once,” she
said. 1 ‘Becky you can lend me your large
satchel. I’ll be gone so short a time it
isn’t worth while to take a trunk.”
Becky went upstairs after breakfast to
get the satchel, and Amy, who was dust¬
ing the balusters, followed her into her
room, and carefully closed the door.
“Becky, you’llhave to tell her now,”
she said. “There’s no help for it, for
she always takes that brooch when she
goes visiting.” it,” said
“Yes, I know Becky, in a
voice of hopeless despair. “I thought
of that the moment she spoke about go¬
ing.”
“Perhaps she won’t be as severe as you
think,” said Amy, trying to say some¬
thing comforting.
To this Becky made no answer save by
a look. She took the satchel out of the
closet, stood for a moment gazing at it
vacantly, and then went straight into her
aunt's room.
Miss Abigail was sitting by a window,
sorting out from a box full of handker¬
chiefs those she desired to take with her.
She looked up and smiled pleasantly
as Becky entered.
“Oh, you’ve brought the satchel,” she
said. “I’m much obliged.”
“You needn’t be obliged to me for
anything, Aunt Abbie. Y’ou’ll just hate
me when I tell you something. Oh, I
can’t bear to tell—it seems so awful—and
I know just how you’ll feel. But—but—
I took your brooch that night of the con¬
cert, Aunt Abbie. I did want it so much,
and I was sure I wouldn’t lose it, and—
and I did lose it. I put it down on the
dressing-table for a moment while I tied
a bow for Florrie Goddard, and Mr. Starr
came to hurry us; and so I went off and
forget it. I know you’ll never, never
forgive me, Aunt Abbie. Your precious
brooch! There’s nothing I can ever do
to make up for it. Oh, I am so wretched
over it. I’ve nearly died. ”
She paused, choked with sobs, and
with the tears streaming down her face.
She expected a torrent of angry words, a
terrible blast of bitter reproach; but noth¬
ing of the kind came. Miss Abbie did
not even look up. She went on quietly
handkerchiefs.
HER APPLICATION OF THE MAXIM.
“Y’es, Clara,” continued Mr. Breezie
to his eldest daughter, “to succeed in this
life one should husband his opportuni¬
ties.”
“Y’es, pa,” replied Clara, with a far¬
away look in her eyes, “especially when
one’s opportunities are a family of grown¬
up girls.”— Boston Transcript.
WORSHIPPING THE GOLDON CALF.
Daughter—“Mamma, Mr. Strongbox
has offered me his heart and hand.”
Mamma—“Do you love him, dear?”
Daughter—“Oh, yes, mamma; very
much. He is worth a million.”
Mamma—“Of course you do, dear.
How silly of me to ask such a question.”
— Washington Critic.
IT NATURALLY FOLLOWED.
Bobby—“Oh, mamma, you know the
two nickels you gave me when I started
down town—one for the poor blind boy
at the corner and one to buy a ball with.
Well, I lost one of them.”
Mamma—“Which one did you lose?”
Bobby—“The blind boy’s nickel, cf
course .”—Omaha World.
HE SCORED A VICTORY.
A teacher, questioning little hoys about
the graduation iu the scale of being,
asked: “What comes next to man?”
Whereupon a little shaver, who was
evidently smarting under a sense of
previous defeat, immediately distanced
all competitors by promptly shouting:
“His flannel shirt, ma’am ?"—Tid Bits.
IT TURNED-UP TOO SOON.
“What's the matter, Bromley?”
“I’ve recovered my valise.”
“I don’t see why you should swear in
that way about it.”
“Oh, you don’t, eb? The plagued
thing isn't worth $3, and it has turned
up just when the company was about to
allow me $50 for it. It’s just my luck.”
Epoch.
THE STUPID DRUMMER.
Member of Firm—“How do you like
the looks of the new drummer I have en¬
gaged?” the truth, he looks
Partner—“To tell
awful stupid.” point. He liassuch
“That’s his strong
a stupid look that the customers will give
him orders out of pure sympathy."—
Siftings.
A TIRED SKELETON. '
Living Skeleton (only in America, at
dime museum)—“These fools make me
tired.”
Sympathetic Visitor—“Iu what way?”
“Here I am earning $500 a week as
the greatest living skeleton, yet hour
after hour, day in an’ day out, one old
woman after another stops an’ chins and
chins at me about the things I ought to
eat and get fat .”—Sew York Weekly.
AX AMBIGUOUS COMPLIMENT.
Wife—“Mrs. Dawson says that I am a
perfect fright, even in the handsomest
dress.”
BUDGET OF FUN.
HUMOROUS SKETCHES FROM
VARIOUS SOURCES.
His Second Thought—Concealing the
Truth—Biting Sarcasm—Before
Taking—Midnight Bell in
the Distance, Etc.
Upon And a rustic bench this and they also sat.
talked of that,
When, in a burst of rapture, he
Exclaimed: “I could not happier be
As King upon a throne.”
Then came a dreary crash, alas!
And both sank swiftly on the grass.
Bruised, out of temper from his fall.
“I think,” ne growled, “that after all,
•'I’d rather take the throne.”
CONCEALING THE TRUTH.
Miss Houler—“And pray tell me truly,
professor, what do you think of my
voice?”
Professor—“Excusez, moi, mademoi¬
selle, I positively could no be so incourte
ous.”— Time.
BITING SARCASM.
Miss Buddington—“Jennie said she
met you out walking this afternoon and
you looked better than ever.”
Miss Y'ellowleafe—“What a sweet girl
she is, to be sure.”
Miss Buddington—“She said you were
wearing a veil.”
BEFORE TAKING.
Customer—“See here! you say this
medicine will cure consumption. Y’ou
don’t look as if it would.”
Consumptive Drug Clerk—“I—I
haven't begun taking it yet .”—Sew York
Weekly.
MIDNIGHT BELL IN THE DISTANCE.
He—“Why that menacing motion with
the fan, Miss Sweetlips? Y’ou made me
start.” f
She—“That is just what I wanted to
Jo .’’—Burlington Free Press.
A CHICAGO DIFLOMA.
Dullard—“I see old man Kiilmer has
taken to doctoring. Is he haring a suc¬
cess?”
Brightly—“Success? Why, he cured
twenty-eight hams last winter .”—Lowell
Citizen.
TO BE PITIED.
First Belle—‘ ‘I hear your father has
failed, or at least lost heavily in Wall
street.”
Second Belle—“Y’es, poor dear, he can
no longer light his cigars with crisp five
dollar bills, but has to use one-dcliar tills.
It is awful!”— Epoch. .
hardened with age.
Boarder—“Mrs, Smith, I am obliged
to sav that I am afraid your pies will I
break'inv teeth.” ' i
Mrs. Smith—“Sir! I made pies before !
you were born.”
Boarder—“That is just what I sus
pected. ’—Burlington Free Press.
CAUGHT AT LAST.
Father (shouting down stairs in an
angry voice)—“Mary!”
Mary (who is with her beau, who has
been waiting on her for about three years)
—“Y’es, sir.” | i
F.—“Is Mr. Slowcoach there?”
M.—“Y’es, sir.” :
F.—“Is he proposing to you that he is
" '
staying so late?”
M. (to Mr. Slowcoach in a frightened
whisper)—“Oh! what shall I save” j
Mr. S. (trembling in his boots)—“Say
'
ves.”
M. (to her father)—“Yes. papa.”
F.—“All right, all right; excuse me.
Tell him he have Bless 1
can vou. vou
both, my children. He' needn’t hurry ! ’
away .”—Boston Courier.
OFFENDED.
Insulted Montanaian (to tenderfoot i
newspaper correspondent) — “Lookee j
here, young man, you want to be a little |
more keerful how vou write things that •
ain’t so to them newspapers back East.
This is a high-toned town, by Jinks, and
'
the boys won’t stand it!”
Terrified Tenderfoot—“Why, I—I—
what have I written?” !
“Why, you writ to a Chicago paper
that we lynched fourteen men here last
month and it’s a lie.”
“I—I—thought it was true, or I—
I—”
“Well, ,, it wasn’t. ,, We didn ... ,, t lynch , ,
but twelve and we only rid the other
one on a rail and peppered him a little
with buckshot. Stick to facts, young
man, that’s all we ask of you.”-— Time.
-'-
Horses in Street Car Traffic.
It . estimated .. , . that , the . number , of ,
is
horses and mules employed for street car
service m this country and Canada is, m
round numbers, 115,000: 1 being the
smallest number owned by any one com
pany; 76S3 the largest, and 165 the
average. The general average of feed
per animal is 26f pounds and the average
for Kentucky is forty-five pounds. The
daily consumption of food is approxi¬
mately 1600 tons, or 584,000 tons per ;
annum; and the cost of feed per animal
varies from 17 to 50 cents per day, ac
cording to locality and season of the year,
— Commercial Advertiser.
One of the objects of the recent com
bine of rolling mills at Chicago is stated j |
to be the development of the manufacture
of tin plate ’
In London and St. Petersburg tbave is
one suicide to every 21,000 people.
Husband—“Does she!”
Wife— 1 ‘She does. Now do I look like
a fright to you, John?”
Husband—“Look like a fright to me?
No, I guess not. I tell you, May, it
takes a good deal to frighten me.”—
Boston Courier.
THE DIFFERENCE.
Young Man—“Sir, I want to marry
your daughter.”
Old Man—“Oh. you do, do you? Well,
are you to be my son-in-law or am I to
be your father-in-law?”
Young Man (dazed)—“Why—why,sir,
it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
Old Man—“Not at all; not at all, sir.
If you are to be my son-in-law you can’t
have her. I’ve got two or three sons-in
law already to support .”—Washington
Critic.
A MODERN WOOING.
Bertie—“Who made the match?”
Ethel—“Mamma.”
Bertie—“Who broke it off?”
Ethel—“Papa.”
Bertie—“Well, what did you and the
young gentleman have to do with it, any¬
way?”
Ethel—“Oh, we sympathized with
each other when it was made, and con¬
gratulated each other when it was broken
off.”— Life.
THE WANDERER'6 REASON.
First Tramp r -“Goin’ in that house
over there, pard?”
Second Tramp—‘ ‘I tried that house last
week. I ain’t goin’there any more.” !
First Tramp—“Fraid on account o’
the dog? ’
Second Tramp—“Me pants are.”
First Tramp—“Pants are what?”
Second Tramp—“Frayed on account o’
the dog .”—Detroit Free Press.
His mark.
Stranger—“Can you tell me who that
gentleman with the long hair and heavy
moustache is sitting over there in the
corner? I'd bet a dollar he's made his
mark in this world. ”
Citizen—“That fellow? Y’es, you’d
win. He's made it a good many times,
I saw it on a mortgage once. It’s straight, :
about a quarter of an inch long. He al- ; j
ways gets some one to write oyer the top
of it; ‘Bill Jones—his mark.’ ’— Detroit
Free Press.
CHANGING THE ORDER OF THINGS.
Cook (on the day following her arrival)
—••Iam sometimes liable to get spunky
and sass back, mum, but you must not
mind it, as I get over it in a few
moments.
Six-foot Mistress (with raised brows)—
“Oh, pray don't worry on my account.
You see. when one of my servants gets
her back up, and goes to smashing things,
I just grab hereby the back hair and
break some of the cheap furniture with
her body.”
Cook—“Y-e-s. m-u-m.”— Peel’s Sun. •
_
dangerous kindergarten ground. lesson, j j
They were gettinga
The teacher took them as very simple
subjects. She touched a table.
“What is this?”
“Wood.”
“What is this?” she asked, as she
touched the fender.
“Iron.
‘•What is this! and , she toon , up an
acnl bottle. j
••Glass. i
“What is this! and she touched hei
watch chain.
“Brass,” said one small boy, and she
changed the subject .—San Francisco
Chronicle. j
Subscription: $1.25 In Advance.
LOVE SHALL WIN THE DAY.
Dh, love, if life should end to-night,
How short onr life wonid seem!
One little flash of summer light,
One brief and passionate dream;
One glimpse of roses on the wall
Or bluebells in the lane;
Then, love, the end—the end of all— __
Aye, buds might swell and leaves might fall, J
But not for us again! 7 .
rhe streams we used to watch and love /
Would ever onward flow;
Prom the dark pines the gray wood dove
Would call—we should not know.
Ah! not for ns the pines would wave,
For us no stream would run;
We should be silent in the grave,
Unable even to hoard and save
One little glimpse of sun!
Yet is not this a sombre view
Of life and all it brings?
Thank Heaven, the bright waves still are blue
And still the throstle sings!
And oh! before love's conquering song
Death's voice sinks quite away;
For life is short, but love is long,
And death is fierce, but love is strong.
And love shall win the day!
" G. Barton.
—
PITH AND POINT.
Ten to one—12:50 o'clock.
A dark secret—A kiss in a tunnel.
Single stickers—One-cent stamps,
Quite a swell affair—A society belle's
mumps,
“Mary,” asked Charles, “what animal
dropped'from the clouds?” “The rain,
dear,” was the whispered reply.
Last winter's coat, with the lining
tom out, is fashionable for office wear.
It should be decorated with red ink and
mucilage.
Everything has its use in this world.
_ Even the , fly that persistently . , refuses to
be caught teaches the baldheaded man
patience .—SomeniUe Journal.
A man engaged in selling “Elixir of
of Life” in Boston was arrested for wife
beating recently. She says’Elixer with
in an inch of her life.— Siftings.
“Wood you,” said the coal dealer cutely,
“I wouldn’t,” she answered quite grim;
^^ve^cSl sCldef Washington to&m. Critic.
—
Now that the picnic days are here, the
young men will wear pawn tickets for
charms at the pocket end of their watch
chains .—Sew Tori Sews.
Russian Fashion Note.—The CzaT has
returned to St. Petersburg and changed
his winter suit of boiler iron for a light
spring suit of cast steel .—Washington
p 0 p
Tubbs _uj flatter n that honesty
15 printed . , on my face. . Gi &
—er—yes, perhaps—with some allow
f ECe ^ 01 ' typographica errors. ur mg
ton Free Press.
Rogers—“Aren’t you afraid you wil!
get fired if you come down to the office
so late in the morning? Rogers—“No,
fireproof; I own stock in the con
!ern ’ Mercury.
-
SUMMER’S AT HAND.
The mercury is mounting higher,
The seaside Boniface now smiles;
For when the atmosphere's like fire,
His shekels he will hea ,p in piles.
—Sew York Journal.
A Lancashire gentleman, on being in
trodueed to a newly married man who
had found his wife in that country, con
gratulated him warmly, saying: “These
Lancashire girls make excellent wives,
Uv e had four of ’em .”—London Tid-Bits.
Traveler—“Don't you see that my
hands are full, and I can’t get at my
pocketbook.” Solicitor—“I didn't in
tend to discommode you, sir, when 1
spoke to you. If you will tell me where
rou keep vour money I can find it my
self.”— Life.
Stings for the Stingy.
A very neat essay is one entitled
“Stings for the Stingy,” which relates to
the miserly habits of illustrious men and
the little arrows shot at them by lavish
md therefore impecunious literary arch¬
ers. This is one on Marlborough, a
couplet, about a bridge over a small
stream at Blenheim:
“ The lofty arch his high ambition shows,
The stream an emblem of his bounty
flows. ’
Once a rat was found dead in Lord El
den’s house, and an anonymous epigram
was composed for the occasion:
‘Found dead, a rat—no case could sure be
harder.
Verdict—confined a week in Elden’s lar¬
der.”
Hook was once invited to dine at the
Star and Garter by a skinflint peer. For
a party of four there was a small chop
apiece, a few potatoes, and a pint of
sherry. After the meagre dinner, Hook
rang the national anthem with the re
(rain:
“ Happy and glorious,
A pint between four of us.
God save the King.”
Lord Alvanley was the guest of a host
Whose residence was elaborately adorned,
but wbere the dinners were scant . A1 _
_ anW . ’
'
, eye^not feast where the stomach
is
Pray, less of carving.” your gilding and more of
your
The smartest thing is not in verse, but
p] a ; n p rose> and Hook said it. Invited
to dine b a ladv a plate wa3 uncovered
and a brace 0 f scant cutlets exposed,
“Mr. Hook,” said the hostess, “you see
y0 ur dinner.” “Thank you,” observed
’ V—Argonaut.
Hook; “but where’s yours
An Ingenious Postmaster.
Erick E. Solseth, Postmaster at $6000 Nash,
Minn., has beaten Uncle Sam out of
in rather a unique manner. He has made
a P ractl ce of „ us “ g ? ostage stara P® as , le £ al ,
tender in . neighboring towns, disposing
? f some a * a discount, but reporting all,
however, to the department as canceled
b y. h ,\ m - increasing his salary h. ma- ash
Serially. He has been Postmaster at
seven years, and an investigation shows
that he has practiced his peculiar style of
robbery during all that time. He was
arrested and taken to St. Paul.— St. Louis
Republic.