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■WITH A NANTUCKET SHELL
I send thee a shell from the ocean beach;
But listen thou well, for it hath speech.
Hold to thine ear
And plain thou’lt hear
Tales of ships
That were lost in tlierip3,
Or that sunk on shoals
Where the bell-buoy to'ls,
And ever and ever its iron tongue rolls
In a ceaseless lament for the poor lost souls.
Am) a song of the sea
Has my shell for thee;
The melody in it
Was hummed at Wauwinet,
And caught at Coatue
By the gull that flew
“Outside to the ship with its perishing crew.
But the white wings wave
Where none may save,
-And there’s never a stone to mark a grave.
See, its sad heart bleeds
For the sailors’needs;
But it bleeds again
For more mortal pain,
More sorrow and woe
Than is theirs who go
With shuddering eyes and whitening lips
' Down in the sea on their shattered ships.
Thou fearest the sea?
Ah, a tyrant is he—
•A tyrant as cruel as tyrant may be:
But though winds fierce blow,
And the rocks lie low,
And the coast be lee,
This I say to thee:
Of Christia i souls more have been wrecked
on shore
Then ever were lost at sea!
—Charles H. Webb, in Bazar.
A SPELL IN THE MUSIC.
BY GEORGE D. SHARKS.
It had been threatening rain all day,
and ni the afternoon drew to a close it
fulfilled its promise and began to
sprinkle. that It was a cold, dreary after¬
noon, made one long to be within
doors. The wind was rising, and clouds
of dust rolled up the principal avenues.
It was in the city of New York, and the
month was March. Winter had really
never taken his cold hands ofE the
weather, and it was stiil bleak and
raw.
A young man was walking rapidly
direction through a side street that lay in the
of Broadway. Although it
had begun to rain he had not put up his
umbrella. His eyes were gazing blankly
before him, aud the muscles of his
mouth had a hard, drawn look. He
was slightly under the medium height,
but well made and graceful. He wore
no hair on his face, and lus eyes were
dark brown. lie had on a soft felt hat
that rested lightiy on a mass of black
curls. He was what he looked to be—
a musician. His name was Paul Bianchy,
and he was recognized already by the
few as one of the rising artists. He had
only been a year in the metropolis; but
more than once his art had been ex¬
hibited in the prominent music halls.
“Yes,” said his critics, “his future is
assured if he goes on as he has begun.”
What then was the cause of that look of
despair on his face? Ah, it was the old
story. The idol whom he had been
■worshiping was broken, aud he was left
with the scattered pieces. His dream
had ended. He had loved with all that
intensity which only those with keen
sensibilities can, and he had found out
that friendship only could bo given him
in exchange history for the love he proffered.
His was not an uncommon
one. He was, as his name implies, of
fore’gn descent. His father was a teacher
-of French and Italian, and his early life
had been spent in oho of tho cities of
central New York. While in Rochester
—that was his birthplace—he had met
Mabel Normington. A boy and girl
friendship nothing had resulted. with him With it her the it
was more; was
beginning him completely. of a passion that was to domi¬
nate the Normingtons By a change of
fortune moved to New
York. Bianchy followed them. Miss
Mable became a great favorite with
society, and soon plunged into its mad
whirl. Indeed it would have been
strange if she had not. To a graceful
figure, a pretty face and a graciousness
«f manner that charmed every one, she
added a voice of singular sweetness. As
for Bianchy he toiled on at his art, and
slowly but surely began to climb the
base of Parnassus. His success had been
above the average; but only lately had
be felt himself in a position honorably
to propose marriage.
He walked on in gloomy silence. Cross-
ing Broadway he entered Washington
Park. Pausing before an old -fashioned
house far: ng the square he ascended the
steps and let himself in by a private latch¬
key. The house had been once the
fashionable part of the city, but now it
had changed its inmates, and its rooms
were let out to artists, musicians and
literary men, some of them successful,
but the ma ority very weli able to stand
more of fortune’s favors.
Entering his room on the third story,
Bianchy 11 tmg himself into a chair that
faced the fire; but he did not slay long
in that position. Getting up he went to
the window and looked out. He saw the
lamplighter going his usual round. The
faint g.ow from the street fell on his
face, and it seemed to have grown old
and gray.
“And so it is all ended! What a fool
I was not to have guessed it. Why
should she, the pet of society, look on
me—a and struggling musician? her And yet—
yet—I can’t give up—I can’t
bear it!” And he began to traverse the
room with strides.
“Why give her up?” he seemed to hear
a voice whisper in his ear. “You have
as much right to wed Mabel Normiugton
as has the man to whom she is engaged.”
“Aye, lie laughed aloud at the last thought:
a thousand times more right, if
love weighed in the balance.”
pulled Throwing some coal on the fire he
forward an easy chair and sank
wearily into it. Lighting a cigar he
gazed Night into slowly the glowing sett’ed coals. city. The
on the
shadows grew in Bianehy’s room; blithe
stirred not. Save for the occasional
gleam of the cigar as he inhaled its fra¬
grant smoke, he might have been asleep.
The roar in the streets grew less, and
presently a distant clock tower chimed
12. The noise seemed to startle Bianchy
out of his reverie. He was stiff and cold,
hut his brain was on fire with a new
thought. “Within
a week she will be his. Ha!
ha! we shall see?” and his laugh sounded
wierdly.
Jumping to his feet, he searched nerv¬
ously lighted for a match. Finding one, he
two candles, and hurrying with
them to the other end of the room where
stood a piano, he placed them on it, one
on each end. Ilis face was agitated with
the spirit, that raged within him. At
first his fingers ran trembling over the
keys, hut gradually they obeyed their
master’s will. There was no particular
tune in the wild mus e. But a most im¬
perceptibly, if one had not carefully
listened, there would come again and
again a peculiar air—now leaving the
melody as if shy to be found there, and
then coming boldly forward and danciug
through Through the all night its throbbing) played, variations. and
he when
the first flush of morning appeared he
started from his seat,
“I have found it. She will not marry
him. I will prevent it!” And he seized
an empty music score and dashed down
some he notes. into Then the putting chill morning on his coat
went out a.r
and t<3ok an early morning breakfast.
What had Bianchy found in his
prolonged playing? whom Aye, a played charm, a
spell, that she to he she it
would forget for a t me where
was and would remember only her old
playmate. The present would be blotted
out, and the past would take its place.
BianGhy, alter having partaken of his
breakfast, made his way to the East
Side and took the elevated railway to
Forty-seventh street. Walking viest
ward, he came to a row of three-story the
houses. Stopping at one. he rang
bell and inquired for a Mr. Jones. He
was ushered into a cosy parlor, and
presently a cheery voice exclaimed:
“Ay, Bianchy, old in follow, time for how break¬ are
you? fast!” You are his just friend forward
And came
with outstretched hand.
“Thanks, but I had mine.”
“What, already?” I’m thorough-go¬
“Well, you know a
ing Bohemian, and I eat when I can.”
“Why, Bianchy, what is the matter
with you?” and his friend came close to
him. “You don’t look well. What is
it?”
“I did not have a good he night, that is
all. Jones, I came,” continued,
“to ask you a favor. You are going to
play the organ at the marriage of Miss
Normington, are you not?”
“Yes, I have been asked.”
“I want you to let me take your place.”
“Why, do you know them?”
“I know the bride very well,” re¬
turned Binnchy.
“Certainly, 1 have no objection. And
to tell the volunteered truth, I am very take glad some
one has to my place,
because I have an engagement on that
day and would have to break it. I will
let the Normingtons know you will
occupy my place.” did Just let
“I would rather you not.
things go on as they are. I will simply,”
continued Bianchy, “take your place,
that is all.”
“Very well, and if I can help you out
the same way any time, don’t hesitate to
call Shortly on me,” afterward replied Jones. Bianchv withdrew.
The day of the wedding opened bright
and beautiful. There was a breath of
spring in the air that made one wish to
be out of doors. The wedding was fixed that
for four o'clock, but long before
hour the church was comfortably filled.
No woman—especially if she be young—
can would resist the fascination of a wedding.
It be hopeless to describe who was
there—tho many sorts and conditions of
women, the upper ten, and those who
thought they ought to be included in
that number. There they all were, eager,
expectant, and, shall we say it—critical.
No one noticed a slight figure steal up
to the organ loft; but shortly the music
burst and the buzz of conversation
stopped. peculiar There was, the music, however, and some¬
thing about turned toward the more loft.
than one eye was
Presently the great moment came. The
groom and his best man were seen to
come out and stand to the right of the
altar. The main doors were swung open
and a bevy of bridesmaids appeared, fol¬
lowed by the bride leaning on the arm of
her father. The g’ad weddiog march
sounded. The procession moved up the
aisle. But what had come over the
music? And what was the matter with
the beautiful bride? her father, Withdrawing glanced her
arm from that of she
for a moment at the organ loft and then,
putting one hand to her forehead, she
staggered and would have fallen, h id not
her father caught her. “My darling,
what is it?” he exclaimed. “Look up 1”
But she looked as if she was in a sound
sleep.
They carried her into the vestry where
after a time she seemed to awake as if
from slumber. She wished to have the
service continued but the doctor forbade
it and she was taken home. The mar¬
riage was indefinitely postponed, and
the crowd of curiosity-seekers dispersed
with their tongues had wagging witnessed. about the
sights they just the look of demoniac
No one saw
triumph on Bianehy’s face hurried as he hastily
closed the organ and down the
winding stair aud out into the street.
“Ha, ha! So my charm did work,”
he cried when ho found himself alone
in a deserted side street. “I have found
a means to stop that accursed marriage.
Ha, ha, no one will ever think I was the
means of stopping that tired sacrifice.” and out
Hurrying home, himself worn the
with the strain, he threw on
bed and soundly.
In the meantime a thousand one
inquiries were pouring in at the house of
the bride to know how she was. Strange
to say. she said she was perfectly well
and that there was absolutely nothing
the matter with her. Her physicians
■were puz. led and knew not what to say.
She said that the last thing she remem¬
bered she was walking up the aisle on her
father’s arm. Then—but she knew no
one would believe her—everybody and
everything seemed to vanish, and instead
she was on a lake in a boat with an old
playmate of hers—Paul Bianchy. He
was telling—hut then it did not matter
what he said, and then she awoke.
It occasioned a nine days’ wonder in
society, which received a fresh impetus
when the wedding for the second time day
was announced to take place that
two weeks
Meauwhile Bianchy was a prey to the
violent passions of revenge and love. He
sought to drown his his despair Bohemian in a friends round
ofgayeties; with
he tried to drink the cup of pleasure to
the lees, but it was no use; the iron had
entered too deeply into his soul.
It was a stormy night two days before
the wedding. Driving rain wind was delug¬
ing the streets. The screamed
around the house, banging to any shut¬
ters that had not been securely fastened.
It was the last struggle of old winter.
In his room, with haggard and blood¬
shot eyes, Bianchy sat staring think¬ at an
empty grate. He was thinking,
ing of all that had happened in the last
few weeks. And then came the thought
—just a 3 the idea of a spell in the music
had come to him—confused nnd indis¬
tinct at first, but gradually gaining defi
nateness:
“If you love Mabel Normington, have
you shown it by keeping her from the
man she wishes to marry?” question
He tried to force the away, to
twist it so that it would agree with his
bitter feelings; but it always came back,
and, in desperation, he was compelled
to answer it, and answer it he did before
sleeping that night.
The next day he called on Mabel
Normington. She lived It in was spacious late in the house after¬
noon. a on
Madison avenue. Bianchy was shown
into a small re-eption room, Normington and almost
immediately afterward Miss and
appeared. She was a trifle pale there
was a certain restraint in her manner.
After a few commonplaces Bianchy got
up and shut the door. Then he said in
a voice that shook with emotion;
“ Miss Normington—Mabel—I am go¬
ing to tell you something.”
“ What is it ?” and her face grew as
white as his.
“I—I played the been organ—on married. the dis¬ day
you were to have 1
covered a secret in the music by which 1
have a power over you which you are not
aware of—I caused you—”
“Paul!”
“ Aye, spurn me as I deserve. I played
the coward. I used that For¬
give you,” me, and but his I—oh, ended my God—I in dry loved sob
voice a
that went to her heart quicker than any
words.
“Paul,” she said, and laid one hand
on his shoulder. “I am so very sorry for
you. Can I help you ?” forgive me.”
“No- but—say you
“ Why, of course I do, and Paul, won’t
you play my wedding march to-morrow ?”
Her womanly instinct had touched the
right chord. She still trusted him. His
face quivered with emotion as he stam¬
mered : i
“ You in are too good. life. I wish yon it every
success your new May be as
happy—as love can make it. Good-by."
And he was gone.
To-morrow soon came, and, as before,
the church was crowded. r J he news
of the former attempt was still on the
lips of every one. There was an under¬
current allayed of deep excitement that was only into
when the organ burst forth
a merry peal. “They must have got a
new organist,” it said one lady who to her
friend. “Why, is Bianchy is
playing. Did not you know it?”
At length the main doors were opened
and the bridal procession began its
march up the aisle. Then did the organ
seem to go mad with joy, and the air to
pulse fc'ociety with life. the next day spoke of
wedding papers the
the as oue of greatest suc¬
cesses of the year, and after enumerating
the notabilities who were there, closed
their remarks by a special tribute to the
marvellous playing of Bianchy on tho
organ. And the world Soon for¬
so went on.
getting all about the incident of the
postponed marriage, it became engrossed
with new schemes and plans.— The
Epoch.
Mourning of Many Countries.
The National Educator gives the fol¬
lowing list of colors used for mourning in
different parts of the world:
Black —The color of mourning in
Euro; e and ancient Borne.
B ack and White Striped —Expressive
of sorrow and hope combined; worn by
the South-Sea Islanders.
Ora iih Brown —The color of the earth;
worn in Ethiopia. of withered
Pale Brown —The color
leaves; worn in Persia.
Ski/-Hue —Expressive of hope Cappadocia for the
deceased; worn in Syria,
and Armenia.
Beep-blue —The mourning of Bokhara
in Central Asia.
Purple and Violet— Denotes royalty;
worn for cardinals, etc., of France. Vio¬
let is the mourning of Turkey. Until
White —Mourning of China.
1488 it was the mourning of Spain. and
Yellrn —Mourning worn regarded in Egypt
Burmah. Yellow may be as a
token of exaltation.
Where the Moccasins Como From
“Moccasins, the genuine found article Eastern made
by Indians, are not in
trade to any extent,” said a traveling
salesman for a New York firm to a Sun
ieporter. “They can only be found in
the West; but even there the supply is
limited and quickly exhausted.”
“Don't the red men make moccasins
for sale to customers direct?”
“No, not as a general thing. The
Indians have a peculiar process of tan¬
ning the leather, which makes it very
pliable and soft. It is quite different
from the stock found in factories, and i*
much tougher and finer in quality.” for their
“What do the Indians get
moccasins?”
“They have no regular prices. They
often exchange them for food mi
clothing.’’
