LIGHT AND SHADOW.
No light e’er shines without its shadow easting
A gloom as deep and dark, the other way.
No earthly beam can make its force so lasting,
But that the night may shroud its fading
ray.
No human joy without its shaded sorrow,
To spread as wide and deep its withering
blight;
The fullest p’e.isums tinges often borrow
From coming grief which darkens like tho
night.
No sounds of laughter with thoir echoes wak
ing
The sunlight air in surges of delight,
But there are moans to show that hearts are
breaking,
As if the transient folly to requite.
' The chandelier can never in its glowing
I.ight up the splendor of the halls of pride,
But that the tallow dip is faintly showing
The ghastly squalor where the-poor reside.
At the first dawn of the creation,
The evening and tlie morning made the
da}’.
So thro’ the world in every rank and station,
The light and shadow hold alternate sway.
Here though the shades their sombre palls
are casting,
W e should not droop or falter thro' despair.
Here though the frosts the sweetest buds
are blasting,
Their shadows come not, for no light is
there.
, —Providence Journal.
GRANDMOTHER’S SIGNS
BY T. L. HARBOUR.
Wc were all very glad when Grand
mother Ryder came to live at our house.
She was my mother’s mother, and one of
the best-intentioncd little old women in
the world. When grandfather died, niv
brothers and sisters, as well as myself,
were afraid that grandmother would make
-her home at our I ncle Nat’s or at our
Aunt Mary’s, and there was great re
joicing when the letter came in which
she W'rote:
,: I did think at first that I’d better go
’to Mary's, hut the grounds in my colfee
tcup never pointed favorably to it, and
. last night I had a dream that I've dremp
l three times running, that made it clear to
Lmy mind that I’d uettcr come to you. I
•would start to-morrow if it wasn’t Fri
day, and I sometimes think the Friday
sign runs into Saturday, too; e* I will
not start until Monday, which will bring
-me to your house on the day the moon
fulls, and I take that to be a good sign.”
An amused smile came into father’s
face as read this letter aloud to us chil
dren, and he burst out laughing when I
said:
“I’d just like to know what coffee set
tlings and dreams and the moon have to
do with it?”
“Nothing, my dear; nothing at all,”
0 said mother, laughing softly. “But
grandmother has odd notions that we
need not say anything about, or mind at
all, when she is here. ”
We lived in the country on a splendid
fargi. On the next Wednesday afternoon,
to our gfeat del : ght, we saw r father driv
ing up the long lane leading to our house,
with Grandmother Byder seated on the
spring seat by his side.
She waved her handerchief, and six
tiger children set off on a run to meet
1 er. W 3 had not seen her for three
y rs,and as soon as we were near enough
A near she began saying:
“Why, bless my soul, how you have
giowedl I declare I don’t know tother
from which, but I guess that's Bertie,
and that little girl with the rulllcd apron
is Mamie, and that’s Tommy with the
I red ribbon to his neck. Looks ’zactly
I like the ambrotype of him I’ve got.
■Bless all your little hearts, anyhow!
■l’ll kuow which is which ’fore two
■hours.”
■ When father helped her out of the
■wagon she struck her foot on something,
B'nd would have fallen had he not caught
W ner.
I “Mercy on u#” she said. “I’m glad I
I stubbed my right toe. If it had been
• the left it’d been a sure sign I was going
■where I wasn’t wanted.”
§■ “You know_tb.it you are -wanted here,
■io mntigr what the signs say,” stwd
■pother, ■he took grandma intol-*tf
'■ms .mißvi i' many times. JH||
■|l( sit, J kno v'M*
P 'rm' wL :.M tke^^
dcnly recalled something in the manner
in which she had previously been fore
warned of it. The fact that her signs
and predictions generally failed of fulfil
ment did not disturb her in the least.
One day I overheard mother say:
“Don’t you often notice, grandma, that
your signs do not come true? You said
yesterday when you saw the cat scratch
ing the fence, that it would rain, sure,
boforo night; but there was not a cloud
in the sky all dav, and not a drop of rain
fell.”
“Why, Susan!” cried grandma, in a
tone of great surprise. “The morning
paper says there was a perfect flood yes
terday in Alabama.”
The. proof was incontrovertible, not
withstanding the fact that Alabama was
fiteen hundred miles from our home.
My youngest brother was but three
mouths old when grandma became a
member of our family. She was very
fond of baby Danny, and was gratified
to know that the signs she had had re
garding him were favorable to his future
happiness.
“if he lives to grow up,” she said,
“lie'll be a smart and a rich man. See
that mole on his neck. That’s a splen
did sign. And he’s going to have a
‘cow-lick’ too; that’s another good sign.
I hope to goodness, Susan, that you
haven’t allowed him to look in a look
ing-glass yet.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said
mother.
“Why, Susan,” cried grandma, “lie
must not see himself in the glas< until
his first birthday! YYra’ll never raise him
if he does. I’m glad lie’s already tumbled
out of bed; it’s a sure sign he’ll never be
a fool.”
Grandmother’s signs and omens were a
source of uneasiness to herself only.
Mother early took occasion, privately,
to instruct us older children on the sub
ject. She told us dreams had no mean
ing, and that “s : gus” were silly and
meaningless inventions. We were not,
she said, to mind what grandma said, but
were to love and respect her under all
circumstances.
Baby Dan was a winning little fellow,
whom we all loved so dearly that we were
glad grandma's omens did not portend
anything disastrous to him, even though
v/e did not believe in signs. But one
day grandma came clown to breakfast
without her usual morning smile and
cheery greeting. She looked very solemn,
and spoke soberly when she spoke at all.
“Are you not well?” asked father.
“ I hope this whole family may keep
as well for a year to corneas I am now,”
she said, mysteriously.
l’aby Dan sat in his high chair by
grandma’s side, and in the midst of the
morning meal she suddenly dropped her
knife and fork, threw her arms around
the baby, and burst into tears.
“ Why, grandma, what is it? ” cried
mother in real alarm.
“Poor lttt-le dear.” she cried; “lie
ain’t long for this woncl! I’ve dreamed
three nights of white colts. I told you,
Susan, what’d happen if you cut his toe
nails of a Sunday, or let the other
children raise your parasol in the house.
I told you! ”
Grandma’s distress was so evident that
none of us felt like laughing, and mother
said:
“ Don't worry, mother. You know
that all signs fail at times.”
“Mine don’t,” said grandma, in atone
of deep conviction. “ And as I was lay
ing in bed this morning, a little bird (lew
in at the window, and lighted on my
bedpost. I know’ what that means,
Susan. Danny ain’t going to be here very
long; you’ll see that lie isn’t. And the
worst of it is that he’ll be took off sud
den, and in some uncommon way.’’
No reasoning could shake grand
mother’s conviction in the least, and her
continued depression and gloomy predic
tions made us all very uncomfortable.
Indeed, so strong is a superstition that
not-one of us children could help look
ing upon dear little Dan as a doomed
child, in spite of mother’s arguments to
the contrary.
Grandmother had other unfailing signs
iudicatiug Danny's early, demise. A
white kitten came to the door one day,
and grandma shook her head gloomily.
“But I have always heard that was a
sign of good luck to’have a kitten come
to the house,” said father.
“Not a white k tten,” replied Grand
ma. “A black or gray kitten is a good
sign, but a white one is a sign of”—
stooped over, caught Danny up in
mLt arms, and hastily left the room.
oldywhite rooster (hat wt had,
that dav^uj^
were of a positive, never-failing charac
ter. She came clown to breakfast one
beautiful June morning, bowed down
with the dreadful conviction that the
end would come that very day.
Danny’s condition did not warrant an
expectation of death from disease, at all
events. lie seemed to be snapping his
little pink fingers at all kinds of signs as
he lay in his cradle, kicking up his heels
and crowing gleefully, lie was almost
a year old at this time, and grandma
had said that he would never live to see
his first birthday.
During the forenoon we were visited
by several of our relatives who had
driven a distance of ten miles to spend
the day at onr house. Wc were delighted
to see them and gave ourselves up to a
day of enjoyment. Even grandma joined
in our pleasure', seeming to forget her
doleful prophecies of what theday would
bring forth.
After dinner, which was the great
event of the day, the entire family, with
the exception of grandma and baby Dan,
strolled out into (lie orchard with our
visitors. From the orchard we went on
over a narrow’ bit of meadow land in
search of wild strawberries, which were
abundant.
Then w c went up a grassy hillside and
into a little grove of oaks and elms.
There wc all sat down on the grass and
enjoyed what wc called “a real so iable
time,” until father, bethought him to
look at his watch, and said :
“Why, it’s nearly four o'clock. Wc
have been away three hours. Fan-ay.
will have quite worn grandmother out
with the care of him. We must hurry
home.”
When we reached the house we found
grandma fast asleep in her rocking-chair
on the piazza, a lock qf her gray hair
blown over her face by the dune wind,
and her wrinkled hands crossed peace
fully in the sunshine that fell across her
lap. She heard our footsteps and was
awake in an instant.
“Where is Danny?'' asked the mother.
“It isn’t possible that he has slept all
this time.”
“1 guess he has,” said grandma; “I
liaint heard a sound from him.”
Mother stepped hurriedly into the
room in which Danny always took his
uoonday nap. She came out instantly,
quite pale, and saying, in a trembling
voice: “He isn’t there; he’s gone!”
“What—-did —you—say, Susan?’ asked
grandmother rising to her feet and speak
ing with painful deliberation.
“He's gone!” said mother again.
Grandmother gave a low moan, sank
back in her chair, and said solemnly: “I
knew it would be so. Y*ou laughed at
my signs, Susan. You wouldn’t hear
to them. I feel in my bones that Danny
Bertram will never be seen again on this
earth. The signs don’t fail me.”
I semember that I set up a dreadful
howl, in which 1 was joined by my
brothers and sisters. Father and our
friends began an immediate and thor
ough search for Danny, but no trace of
him could be found.
Grandmother encouraged us by saying,
from time to time, between her broken
sobs: “It’s no use to hunt for him. lie’s
gone. He’ll never be seen again on this
earth.”
Mother broke down entirely after a
short time, and lay crying on a lounge,
with one of my aunts bathing her tem
ples and talking soothingly to her.
We looked everywhere—in places that
the little feet eould never have strayed
into.
“In the highest and the lowest and the lone
liest spot.
They eagerly sought, but they found him
not.”
“It looks to mo like a case of kidnap
ping,” said one of my visiting uncles to
father.
“So it doc3,” said father; “aud yet it
don’t seem possible that”—
“It ain’t possible, David,” interrupt
ed grandmother. “I’m satisfied that I
hadn't been asleep ten minutes when
you folks came home, and I know that
no one was near the house before you
came. 2s T o, no, David, human hands
never touched our Danny. I didn’t
dream of white colts with four wings
apiece, for nothing.”
* “What on earth would colts of any
kind want with Dannyf” asked one of
my aunts.
An hour and more passed, and* Danny
was not found. We hurried to the near
est neighbors. They had not seen any
suspicious characters in the neighbor
hood, and knew nothing, about Danny’s
They caiuo to our house
jit great of sympathy and
The evening drew’ on. The sun went
down. Mother had said over and over
again that we must find her baby beh ro
night came on. ,She could not endure
the thought of having him away when
the darkness came. Father began to
grow pail ami his voice trembled when
he spoke.
Parties of men and boys were search
ing the ncighbofflig wood’s and planning
to drag the streams. It was nearly dark,
and we were sitting, tearful ami anxious,
in mother’s room, when we heard a loud
commotion outside.
In a moment the door was thrown open
and there stood our big, jolly Vnelo
Darius Bertram, and, high on his shoul
der, laughing and making a desperate
effort to talk, sat—-Dannv !
“Well, such a time and nobody to it!”
said Uncle Darius, as he put IJanny into
mother's outstretched arms.
“O Darius! where did you find hire;”
cried mother.
“I found him lying in his bed about
half-past three this afternoon. My wife
and 1 were driving into town and called
here to see you, but found no one at
home but grandmother and baby. Grand
mother was asleep and baby seemed to
be having a lonely sort of time of it
kicking up his heels in his crad e. So
wife and I thought we’d take him out
for an airing, the day being so fine. I
wrote a little note on a leaf of my pocket
diary*, telling you we Jind hint. Didn’t
\ ou find it ?”
“No,” sail father; “whom did you
put it:”
“Why, l pinned it to baby’s pillow,
didn’t I? 1 know wife said for me to.
But I'm such a forgetful fellow that I
don’t know really where 1 did put that
note. It was written on a -mall leaf like
this.” He drew out h s pocket-diary as
he spoke, opened it and sat dowu look
ing very foolish.
“Well, I swan!” lie said; “ef 1 didn’t
clean forget to tear the note after I'd
written it. Imut be getting loony”’
“We were detained in the village l much
longer than we expected,” said Aunt
Harriet, Uncle Darius’s wife: “and I was
afraid you would worry ah mt baby, but
he has been just as good us ho could he,
and beseemed to enjoy the ride so very
much. 1 couldn't find irs e!oak to put
on him, but 1 had a light shawl with me,
and I found hi; little" ever day sunbon
net out, in the yard. It was good enough
to wear. To think of the anxiety the
little chap’s rid 1 lias cost you!”
Grandmother was down on her knees
crying over Danny, and of course not
one of us said a word to her about those
unfulfilled omens. It was months be
fore the wonls “signs” and •'omens”
passed her lips. Then she spoke of them
as though they were things beneath her
notice.
'They certainly had no power over
Danny, for I have often heard him tell
ing this story to his own children* —
Youtldif C'oiu 4 (lu o ■*.
Scared Gr zztes.
J. 11. Inman, a former fur contracting
agent of the Hudson’s Bay Company,
said to a New York Sun reporter:
“While I believe that a grizzly bear
will in a majority of ca es wait for a
fight with a man and take pains to get
in the way of one, there are times when
it will seem to think better of it and
back out,. A remarkable instance of this
kind I heard of once, where a famous
Manitoba guide courageously advanced
upon three grizzlies, an old she one and
txvo half-grown young bears, and by a
scries of ridiculous monkey-shines and
acrobatic maneuvers on t lie ground with
in a rod or two of the bears filled them
with such astonishment and apparent
fear shat the three retreated into the
woods with all rapidity. The guide’s
gun had snapped in both barrels, he hav
ing drawn on the old bear before the
young ones appeared. He afterward said
that it was in a lit of desperation that lie
tried the turning of a handspring and
jumping up and down, flopping his
hands, and resorting to other unhuntcr
like measures. He had been told oucc
that a hunter had frightened a mountain
lion away by similar absurd movements,
and he found that it worked to perfection
in the case of the bears, although he did
not encourage anyone to go hunting
grizzlies armed with nothing more than
a capacity to turn somersaults,”
England has thirty-four Judges who
arc each in receipt of a salary ranging
from $25,0(H) to $50,000, and together
draw -SOIO,OOO a year from the TtumsuryJ
The eighty Judges in tho
United States arc paid fromjVMg
$ 10, 500 ajyear, an oggregat^M
