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DAN'L AND I.
"Which do you want ?” said Dan to me,
An’ I looked across the hearth at him,
‘‘For,, since it’s got we can’t agree,
Wt< may as well get things in trim.
You shall hare whichever farm you will,
An’ a one-half interest in the mill.”
Of late there had bin a hitch somehow,
An’ to save our lives we couldn’t agree.
An’ so we had concluded now
That it was better to part, youseet.
He takin’ one farm and I the other,
Seemed better than try In’ to live together.
"An’ then there is the stock, you know—
The cattle an’ sheep, horses an’ such;
You shall have your share o’ them also,
Or, if a little more, I don't care much.
An’ I hope you’ll find, as you think you will,
You’ll be better off without me, Lill.
"But I’m thinkin’,” said he, coughin’ like,
An’ lookin’ just like he did that day
‘They took an’ buried our little Ike,
“That may be, Lill, you’d hetter stay
In the old place here, just as it is,
You keepin’ the trinkets an’ things o’ his.
"For I’m sure,” he said, coughin’ again,
“If he’d ha’ known afore he died
That this was goin’ to happen, then
You’d a got all his in the divide,
Which bein’ the case I’m not the one
2o rob you o’ them whatever is done.”
I didn’t dare for to look at him,
Though I knew he wasn’t lookin' at me;
My heart was full, my eyes were dim
With the mists an’ haze of memory,
An’ I saw our lives as they had been
Ere a cross, harsh word had come between.
When our home was always filled with cheer,
And both our hearts were full of joy,
As Dan sat there an’ I sit here
Watchin’ the pranks of our little boy,
Now a kissin’ Dan or a makin’ me
Sit with him on his papa’s knee.
An’ how he’d clap his hands witb glee,
When Dan would pull me out for a romp,
As he often did, just for to
Our little darlin’ laugh and stomp.
-An’ then sometime, when his romp was o’er,
He’d fall asleep at our feet on the floor.
Then Dan would come an’ set by me,
An’take my hand in the tenderest way,
-An’ talk of our joys an’ the love that we
Found a growin’ sweeter day by day.
An’ now, I thought with a sinkin’heart,
Dan an’ I are a goin’ to part.
An’ my heart kep’ swellin’ more an’ more,
As one after another memory came,
An’ I got up and walked the floor,
•
Tryin’ to think which was mos’ to blame.
But his faults were hid in the lapse of years,
Or but dimly seen through the mist of tears.
For somehow, try an’think as I would,
I couldn't mind where the strife began;
Just I ’
• now could only think of the good
An’ not the evil side of my man,
'Till in my heart I owned with shame
That I it was, not Dan, to blame.
An’ when X looked to’ard Dan again
He was cornin’ across the floor to me.
An, to save my life, I can’t explain
How it all happened; I know that he
Caught me in his arms and kissed my cheek,
An’ when at last I was able to speak,
• Said I to Dan’l: “Say what you will,
I don’t want this nor the other farm,
Nor a one-half interest in the mill;
I just wan’t your protective arm
' To shield me as long as we both shall live,
- An’all the love you’re able togive.”
—Omen Emmett, in Cincinnati Enquirer.
“HOLLO!”
BT MRS. BERNARD WHITMAN.
Miss Jane Graham was not a very at¬
tractive looking woman, nor was she
considered a very amiable one. She
lived quite alone by herself in a tiny
cottage She had on the outskirts of the town.
lived there some ten years, not
■caring to make acquaintances. 'She went
regularly to church in pleasant weather,
and once a year the good old minister
called upon her. He always spoke of
her as “Miss Graham.” The few neigh¬
bors called her “Miss Jane” in a distant
sort of manner, but the .‘aucy boys and
girls in the neighborhood used to call
her “Old Miss Jane.”
Now Miss Jane was by no means old.
'To be sure, her hair wa3 beginning to
show a little gray, but then Miss Jane
had had the blackest of black hair in her
girlhood, thirty. and that often turns before the
Rge of Some front teeth, too,
were missing—whether from accident from lack of
care or an no one knew
or cared to ask. Her face expressed irri¬
tability, She looked as if things went
wrong, and I rather think her appear¬
ance expressed the truth.
But with all her sour looks, Miss Jane
had two soft spots in her heart. The
first spot was the bigger, and was filled
by Dolly, the cow. Dolly was, on the
Whole, rather less attractive than her
nrstress
Her expression was “not kindly, and
she had a broken horn; but Dolly’s
looks belied her. She was really a very
amiable cow, in spite of one eye being in
a black setting, and the other in a white;
but no one but Miss Jane knew her
gentleness, for no one but Miss Jane
ever went near her. Miss Jane milked
her and cared for her; put her in the
pasture in the morning, and took her
out shed, at night, and led her into Ihe little
where she was milked and fed
with care. If anybody had listened, he
could have heard Miss Jane repeating
softly to her sometimes a couplet from
Mother Goose which she remembered
from her childhood:
“Cushie-cow, milk, bounie, come lot down your
And I will give you a gown of silk.”
And “cushie cow bonnie” would let
down the most surprising quantity of
milk for Miss Jane, and turn her
head and look at her out of those great
eyes in a most loving manner.
Yes, Miss Jane did have a very soft
spot in her heart for Dolly, but nobody
knew it but Dolly, and Miss Jane hardly
knew it herself.
The other soft place! Mo one guessed
that either. It was really a very funny
thing. And this time neither Miss Jane
nor the object of her affections knew it.
This time it was a boy!
He was a sturdy, freckled-faced little
fellow, perhaps eleven years old. In
warm weather he went barefoot, which
Miss Jane hated, for she said it was “a
most dirty way of doing things.” In
colder weather he was fully dressed. He
had no mittens, to be sure; no earlaps,
no muffler; but a warm jacket, rather
faded, a well-palclied pair of trousers,
and stockings that now were darned,
and now had a big hole in flic knee.
It was some time before Miss Jane saw
all this; but she did see it as time crept
on. At first she saw only the sturdy
little bare feet go by her cottage every
day. At last, to her surprise, one morn¬
ing, a rough, boyish voice called out,
“Hollo!”
It was no quiet, polished, or concilia¬
tory voice. It was a loud call in a
merry, careless, happy-go-lucky voice.
Miss Jane was astonished. She looked
at the boy sharply. He didn’t seem to
mind, but trudged on.
The next day he called out “Hollo!”
again day. when he saw her, and again the
next Still the same cheery, hearty
voice, as if he were saluting another boy
as sturdy as himself. Her surprise be¬
gan to give way to a quiet interest in
the little fellow, and one morning, to her
own it astonishment, for she had no thought
of the second before, she answered
back, “Hollo!”
It wasn’t very loud, nor very enthusias¬
tic, but the boy heard it, and gave a half
nod, as if to say: “That’s all right!” and
trudged on the same as before.
From that time it was a settled thing.
She always said “Hollo!” in answer to
his “Hollo!” Hers grew little more
hearty, and he always gave her that en
couraging “If nod which meant, evidently:
there.” you keep on trying, you’ll get
If you had asked Miss Jane about the
boy, she would never have betrayed the
interest she began to feel in him. But it
was just about that time that the weather
sharp began frost to grow cold, and some times a
and a good cold night made
Miss Jane think about winter.
“That boy’s hands do look awful
cold,” she said to herself one day. “He
can’t seem to keep ’em warm. He’s a
blowing time.” And and chipping of ’em all the
Miss Jane's little soft place
grew a little bigger and a little softer,
till she remembered a pair of socks up in
a chest that, years ago, she had knitted
for a brother who went away and had
never been heard from. The socks were
new.
She wondered if she couldn’t ravel
them and make that boy a pair of mit¬
tens? She did not even know the hoy’s
name. He was always “that boy” to
her. He still called out “Hollo!” when
he went by, and though he couldn't hear
her answer, he still nodded in his cheery
way.
Miss Jane set up the mittens. Queerly
enough, she set the first one up several
times, She guessed it was too big at
first. “No boy would want his hand
all wobbling she it about in a hag,” she said.
Then set up so small that she was
ashamed of herself not to “have more
sense.”
When the wrist was done she fell to
thinking cheery that “that boy was so kind of
that he’d like a red stripe in
’em.” He should have a red stripe, and
w'hen Mr. Collins called that day, to
take her butter to towns, she asked him
to bring her back a little skein of red
yarn.
After this the mittens grew, and it is
well they did, for the cold winter had
come, and the snow was growing deeper
and deeper.
“I guess he’ll want them mittens now
if he ever does, and I’ll give ’em to him
right when away,” So the next morning,
she heard his cheery “Iloilo!”
she rapped on the window-pane so loud
that he came to a full stop. But recover¬
ing from his surprise, he started off again,
nodding carelessly. Miss Jane was not
expecting this, but she was rather re¬
lieved, for the moment she had rapped
she felt that she was unprepared to say
anything. What should she
know. say? "She didn’t
But she did know that she had
knitted those mittens and the boy must
have them. She must think up a way
to make him stop for them. She did a
lot of thinking that day and the next
morning when he called out, she had
ready fastened on a forked stick outside
the window, the mittens.
She rapped loudly. The boy turned
and saw them. With one bound he was
up at the window.
fully, “Are they tor me?” he shouted, joy¬
She through the window.
nodded her head.
“You’re awful good!” was his answer,
looking up gratefully as he' ran on his
way.
“I wonder if he thinks so,” thought
” e ' ^ S ° me “ aa “ Ur3 ’
anyway
That afternoon it snowed and con
tinued to snow all night. Miss Jane
thought it looked like a heavy storm,
and when night came she made Dolly as
comfortable as she could, fed her and
went into the house. The next morning
the snow was drifted so that poor Miss
Jane couldn’t get out of her door to go
to the shed. Neither could she see
ofthe window where she usually watched
for • ‘that boy” to go by. it
She had plenty to and plenty of
fuel till she should be shoveled out. She
did not feel worried about herscif. But
r ily! W l° W0U!d Ca ' e forker
.«• She “ fan J ?:i? ’ "“i"?
,
hear any sleigh-bells. She buried” began to
think the whole town was Her
one little attic window looked over to
the woods which were deep with snow.
Would no ore think of her;
She remembered with a sigh how little
she thought of anybody else. She re
membered that she wanted to live alone;
pod Hn.wori lardlol ii i L a ’ci,
had rebelled ”at her had
moved away from everything she had
ever known and shut herself up in her
little cottage with no thought Slre° nor inter
cst in anybody else. knew no one
but the minister and-“that boy.”
A kindly feeling .•»«> crept over her as she
to° j ;<• .ml S't
said herself I
those, mittens done. I guess he’ll be
mighty glad of ’em such a day as this.
Anyway he will, de if he can get out of the
he’s^noJed°un listened,’ t r oo-wha h t e s S «“ d if
She and a merry voice she
knew full well called iu the distance,
“Hollo!” and Miss Jane screamed back
“Hollo!” as loud as she could. She did
not know if he heard her. She heard
peering in her window. 8
cheery a one as she could muster, for the
tears stood in her eyes.
Then Miss Jane told him through the
window about Dolly, and begged him to
get to Doily to milk and feed her.
“I can wait,” she said, “and you can
dig me out afterward.”
The boy nodded. He evidently was
not much of a talker himself, but he
could work.
It was between two and three hours
before Miss Jane could open her door,
W hen she could, she had her table spread
with hot coffee, biscuit aud a pan
dowdy.
“Brother Joe always liked a hot pan
dowdy, when he’d been a-shoveliu’
sno w,” she said, “and that boy’d like it
too, I know.”
The door opened.
“Hollo!” said the cheery voice, and
“Hollo, if that ain’t Jane!” called out a
deeper tone, __
Miss Jane gave one look and screamed,
She did not faint. She looked just be
wildered—first at the boy, then at the
man. At last she gasped, “Joe!” And,
truly enough, it was Joe—her brother
Joe, who never came back till him” Jong after
she had given up looking for
He, in liis turn, careless in writing, had
at last returned to his native village with
wife and boy. No trace had Miss Jane
left and no news could he get of bet
whereabouts. He had been gone so long
that he had lost all interest in the people
who used to know him, and when in the
summer a cousin of his wife had died,
of leaving the her a tiny farm in another part
State, he had gone theie, and in
the busy haying, harvesting and prepara¬
tion for winter, bad little time to think
of neighbors—still less had he dreamed
that Jane lived behind the hill on the
other side of the woods.
So that boy was Joe’s boy! His
name? Joe, too, and she had neven
thought whether he had a name,—and
those mittens were Joe’s socks?
No wonder poor Miss Jane was be¬
wildered. But truth is stranger than
any fiction. Miss .Taue still.lives in the
tiny col tage tinder the hill. Dolly, too,
is as comfortable as ever .in her warm,
cosey shed. “That boy’’ don’t know
where he lives. His father thinks ha
lives at home, but he always has two
meals a day at Aunt Jane’s, and when it
is cold or stormy or Aunt Jane doesn’t
feel just right, he stays all night and
perhaps all the week.
Aunt Jane says it always does her good
to hear that “Hollo!”— Youth's Com •
panion.
A Japanese Eel Dinner,
We celebrated a recent anniversary
1)y “■ dinner at a famous eel
,’nl fV & ™ r, ' e %°, ndent °J the
whit r V Z Zt’t l J i ,apa “:
'
„' e were takm £ f sll0e8 at
^tricedTJit'nr P ^ ^ ,1
f 'S/ ’H i murderous f h ° ICe looking °, f i hlS
V"” * hat ™ erc looping them- ,
" I ! ? kl '°, " ° f h
P If on ® w ‘ 8hes he 18 • always l™ 1 - *
/? , > * hls eels f J h
s e ec °'™ ™ m f
S “ k 8 ‘f ^ „ ,>?* ,se: *• idt hou S , h thc ? r 8t
is t we!? \ t ou * ht t Certal f “ , ly
to n te T
When we reached the larger upper i
ra X/T/i * c rr ^ ■*?•* S!d ? S ,° f tha ; r *
! ' L ™°= ! f ° f Urt ° ? f ^ t S ’ de P^tty was waitresses lfdt f , °P ea
f /° a ? d 88 W, 0 ' ,h ? P*’
two doll - llke p-shas,
^ritlno on™!, , ‘ ' *“ . “ ° Uter r °° m
.-su t , 2 in .
h
evasive as flaxseed tea. Uioiled eels.
^SVcTlaifVf rt l nV 'Y * f 8 °? steA ti0 ™?8 “ ^
^ P , ?-,r n8 R ,r cd by
n fl" " f Hr f 8 P dld skllfuland h . f? lc
b ' ded b a s l‘ re calle T nun d whlte ? cl8 V' 0 V A }T’ ter
t , eis , dipped :
c ; e ’ ° r m
.
« a ™' th i* ''“‘““S
f J ’ °- b ’ 'In ?
^^ b ds “1 ways be " improve sed ln the their same fish way and
foSndatiTof J
and
“ m “® h better before is ° ba, .g ed witb
^‘he L °H ^Pmcs and S cayenne c ondlment that convert °" 1L
’
iin?’ b " i ,jan ' , bo ° 8 ^ out9 f aad ,
°£ mysterious composition passed
eel. end irtnek eels, and ,ve tejod with
of ' vIuch they W “ e imposed,
Al! . Higcmons . t se of . ... ! holography, ,
We hear, says Tmmtion , of an ingenious
application Chancelade of photography made Perigneux, at the
quarries, near caused
where an accident occurred, by
the caving in of the wall, hive persons
were imprisoned in the rocks, and no
means were at hand to rescue them. To
find out where they were, a shaft twelve
inches in diameter was bored, and down
this was slid a tube, near the end of which
was a small photographic electric camera, lights. sur
rounded by a battery of
The camera moved on a point, so that it
could he moved up or down by pulling a
cord. With this apparatus a number of
good negatives were taken. The effect^
of the disaster were seen, and cxcellenir
pictures of the faces of two corpses were
obtained, showing that excavations. it was useless t<k
proceed further in the
