Newspaper Page Text
THE SIN OF OMISSION,
It isn’t the tiling yon do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave tindonv
Which gives you a bit of heart
At the setting of the sun.
The tender word forgotten,
The letter you did not writ#,
The flower you might have sent, dearj
Are your haunting ghosts to-night.
The stone you might have lifted j
Out of a brother’s way,
The bit of hearthstone counsel
You were hurried too much to say;
The loving touch of the hand, dear,
The gentle and winsome tone,
That you had no time nor thought for,
With troubles enough of your own.
The little acts of kindness,
So, easily out of mind; i
Those chances to be angels
Which every one may find—....
They come in night and silence—
Each chill, reproachful wraith—
Whf n hope is faint and flagging.
And a.blight has dropped on faith;
For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great.
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
Aud it’s not the thing you do, dear,
^
It's the thing you leave undone,
■Which gives you the bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
—Christian Leader.
IKE NEW CTJBATE
™ r-teJS‘.J2L es < J ulte a am
w£ donTvl Ynnmr h r 1 ^r ! F Z Ud < I” 81D v? hlm le -
ood chance ’
8 S a as
the rest of them i
She leaned over the garden gate as as
.. ui ®
I can P see herlw , n t a rL e u .,1 Se P ? . ke
evfs S Sat P W “ ;t C ^ h t keenblUe Clu l t , er '
ffiou-hts t re d ! y °’^ FI
,-», «
*3sss?bz‘zr*£ gj““» f-y m * l p
less little body she appeared, and how
Si incapable of carrying about that wonder
b im| e art°/d in 0rm i0 “ \
lktneT h k knowledge to her
w; “V?. nin ®' w l tb Well, I
don’t dont mmd mind telling >
ovLhUL" you,” , , or, “They do
course you can t believe
everything, and ending with, “That’s
V 6Q y ° U me ’ ^ S° uo fur
ther ten ”
t be g arden that . morning, .
f • • ‘y
rae ear d V n ®, r ° ses; ®y
thoughts were not the , brightest, scarcely
in ai mony with Nature, which was
ec ce in one of her brightest mantles,
“ I a8 qu un ? ecessar y tor Mn. Briggs
- i °/
incr i senously of it. -? y r,? Iwenty-six! e; \ w ? 3 , tb, Not “ k ‘
0
very old, to be sure, and yet not very
y ung to an unmarried woman. I must
be content with fewer laurels, less con
quests. I must step out of the field, as
l were, and leave the romance and day
breams to younger and fairer girls.
it mattered little to me whether the
new curate was young and unmarried, or
a portly old fellow, with a wife and
grown daughters. At heart I disliked
tnis interfering old woman who had
broken m on my reverie.
1 thanked tier kindly for her advice, _
telling her that at present I had no in
tention of setting my cap for any one,
not even for the new curate; so saying I
attack to my work and the roses.
there, Mattie, don’t get riled. Of
course to it leave s nobody s business if you’re
going yourself an old maid; but
take my advice and don’t spend your
time fretting and^ worrying over Bob
Preston, for he ain’t worth it, nohow.”
She shook her head wisely, and was
off be.ore I had time to recover from the
cruel thrust that had opened the old
wound—Robert Preston and thepast.
I had tried to guard my heart, to
have trample under foot the old love. I could
laughed at my girlish folly as if it
were a dieam until a thoughtless word
had brought back the past, like the dead
risen to lite again, or a smouldering fire
that needed but a gentle breeze to make
it a burning flame. One by one the roses
dropped the from my hands. One by one
blinding tears fell. I was on'y a weak
woman, after all, as, covering my face
with my hands, I sobbed:
“Robert, O Robert! Why were you
It all came back to me —that visit to
Aunt Martha, where I first met Robert
Preston, a young student just returned
from college. 1 cannot tell all those
him bright, and happy day-dreams; how I loved
waited for the happy day when
he would ask me for that love. He read
my answer in my tell-tale face before my
lips uttered it.
So, engrossed with Robert’s society, I
took little heed of other matters, scarcely
giving lady, the a thought daughter to the fact that a young
of a deceased friend
of my aunt’s, was going to make her
home with us. She came. From • the
moment I looked upon her lovely face
my girl, happiness was gone. I was a pretty
fair, and fragile, yet one might as
well compare a simple little daisy to a
full-blown poppy or a rich red rose as
my frail beauty to this girl’s exquisite
loveliness.
For a time his love was unchanged. I
I laughed in my foolish heart at my
doubts and fears. At times I would find
his serious eyes wandering from me and
resting admiringly on the beautiful face
of Kathleen Lee. No man could resist
that wondrous, fascinating face. She
uever lids, the encouraged him; but the drooping
faint flush, the trembling of
the little hands, all told plaiuly that she,
too, loved him.
How I suffered! In my mad jealousy
I grew almost to hate the child. He
loved me before she came, with her beau¬
tiful flower-like face, to rob me of that
love. Was she blind that she did not
see that we were betrothed? I prayed
that she might go away and leave us to
ourselves once more, and Robert would
go back to his old fond ways. His ca
resses IfSUSrtffiftsSwfi* were growing colder, his kisses
hands in his and looking fondly at me.
“Nonsense, Mattie! Do you know,
m y Httle girl, that you are growing
near01 . and cj earer to me every day?”
sat i 8fied wlth bu * a share of his love.
We were seated in the garden, one af
ternoon, early the autumn, Robert,
Kathleen and I. She was looking unu-
8ual| y handsome in a dress of soft Indian
“> dl M y had i U8t P^ d her a
wel1 merited compliment, for which she
Liter'.VSSoC'wU high The girls will with and
hold b sro J vou
the basket ”
He rose to comply with her request.
Kathleen was at his side in a moment,
while I refused to join them, feigning ° ° a
severe headache.
“They do not want me,” I reasoned
within myself.
I watched them as they walked away
together, he carrying the little wicker
basket, and she tossing her bright curls
with that coquettish air that came so
natural to her!
I cannot tell you what tempted me to
follow them ; it must have been some evil
genius. pathway, Slowly I followed down the
taking be observed. every precaution, how
ever, not to Seated upon
a little rustic bench, I could see every
movement of my lover and Kathleen,
How lovely she looked standing in the
orchard, the sunlight falling athwart
the lovely upturned face, on which a
smile rested! Never was seen a fairer
vision. Her sleeve of soft texture fall
ing stretched back showed the shapely, out
arm.
Sometimes a peal of merry laughter
would fail upon my ear. They did not
miss me—not even Robert;he was content
with Kathleen.
The basket was full to overflowing,
still they lingered. One bunch of
luscious grapes, the last gathered, was
in Robert's hand. He stooped to place
it with the others, when their eyes met,
their hands touched. Was I dreaming?
Alas! no. I saw him stoop and kiss her
fondly. I waited no longer. With a
cry of pain I turned and fled to the
of my own room, where I
sobbed out the trouble of my young
heart, with only God to hear me.
I went away quite unexpectedly. I
was homesick, I told Aunt Martha. I
left a letter for Robert, giving no ex
planation of my conduct; simply telling
him it wa3 better we should part, i
was a proud girl and would not stoop
to I acknowledge remember a rival. the ring he had
taking
me from my hand, ana what a
struggle it cost me to place it with that
letter—the last I should ever write to
Robert. -
I came homo to mother, who was
quite an invalid and needed all my care,
I never heard from Robert save once,
through Aunt Martha, who wrote:
“Of course. Mattie, you’ve not for-
gotten Robert, whom, to speak candidly,
you treated rather unkindly. He has
gone to New York to practice medicine.
He is doing well.”
Au old newspaper had fallen into my
hands, where an account was given of a
brilliant reception. Among the guests
were the names of Dr. Robert Preston
and wife. I knew it was Robert and
Kathleen. I made no inquiries, and,
receiving no further information, took
it for gi anted that Aunt Martha’s kind¬
ness of heart prevented her from again
referring forever. to the past. I closed my heart
The world will never know
me flattering as a disappointed woman, had I thought,
ceeded in myself deceiving that I quite suc¬
until the humanity in general,
her idle gossip words, had bringing come upon me life with the
to
bitter past that I thought I had buried
years ago.
It “Going to service. neighbor Miss Kenwood?” the
was my who asked
question, girl Marcia Hall—a dear litt e
with the utmost faith in mankind
in general. I smiled faintly as I caught
sight of the new bonnet with its dainty
ribbons, evidently got up for the new
curate.
“Wait “.Young and foolish,” six-and-twenty, thought I.
until she’s and
I’ll wager she will not buy a new bonnet
for all the new curates in town.”
Slowly we walked to church on that
bright Sunday morning, Marcia chatting
gaily and I, dressed in the plainest of
dresses, walking silently beside her.
I had not fully recovered from Mrs.
Briggs’s unkind remarks, and was de¬
termined to show her my disinclination
to “set my cap,” as she termed it, by ap¬
pearing in an exceedingly unbecoming
gown. catching I was really disappointed, in
a last glimpse in the njirror, to
find that, notwithstanding my plain
toilet and mj six-and twenty years, I
was still a pretty woman, and to hear my
mother say as I stopped to kiss her,
“How well you’re looking, Mattie!”
How crowded the little village church
was—filled to overflowing. Every one
was there, even that hateful Mrs. Briggs.
I caught a glimpse of the great poke bon¬
net as I walked quickly to my seat.
They were singing as we entered, yet
I scarcely heard them, feeling rather em¬
barrassed at coming late to be gazed at
by the entire congregation.
I sank wearily among the soft cush¬
ions, gladly taking refuge behind a
palmleaf old fan kindly profiered by a port¬
ly gentleman beside me.
Now a hush, a slight flutter among
the congregation, a rustle of garments,
with now and then a subdued whisper
as chancel, the pulpit the was rolled close to the
and new curate ascended.
“He’s just lovely,” whispered Marcia,
pulling him, softly at my sleeve. “Do look
at Miss Kenwood.”
I kept my eyes downcast. If every
woman in the congregation cast g'ances
of otherwise. admiration, I was determined to do
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” was the
text. Clear and distinct were the words
of the speaker. The first words had
caused my heart to beat wildly. How
like that voice of kmg ago, that rich,
soft voice that pleaded for my love! I
listened like one in a dream,until I raised
my eyes to see before me—Robert Pres¬
ton.
Yes, Robert Preston. Changed, to be
sure; not the bright, boyish face of long
ago. There were lines of care and suf
fering on it now, while the dark hair
was streaked with silver,
Was Kathleen dead? Iwondcred. Had
he given up his practice? Was he happy?
Fifty different queries crowded upon my
memory. Why had fate thrown us once
more together after thing my I bitter determined struggle to
forget? One was
upon: I must leave the village. I dared
not trust myself further. Reason as I
would, my heart told me that I loved
him still.
It was all over! I could hear the
whispered comments the of the worshipers
on the eloquence of new curate. The
singers were chanting in that nasal,
drawling and tone so natural dreaming, to village
choirs, still I sat
“Are you coming?” asked my com
panion; then, as I arose mechanically to
obey, “Don’t you like him, Miss Ken
wood? Do tell me! You listened at
tentively, aud once, as I looked at you,
1 thought you were going to faint away,
you looked so pale. Are you ill?”
“Yes, I like him,” I added aloud, while
my heart him!” whispered: “God pity me, I
love
We were out once more- in the bright
sunshine, little coming quite unexpectedly
upon a group of composed the congregation, of the
wealthier members
gathered around the new curate. wealth They
had learned he was a man of and
standing, of choosing Some his calling simply as
a matter taste. one—I think it
was the pastor’s wife—presented me to
him. Our eyes met; our hands touched,
he as, said: resting those serious eyes upon me,
“I have had the pleasure of meeting
Miss Kenwood before^
I cannot tell how it happened that we
were all walking out through the church¬
yard toward the highway, and I found
mys If alone with Robert, He was
the first to break the silence. It pained
me to think it was a common place re¬
mark.
“How is Kathleen?” Iasked.endeavor
ing to show him how little I cared for
tho past, and how, without betraying the
slightest emotion, I could inquire after
his wife’s health.
“Kathleen?” He looked dazed at the
question. “I believe she is well, but not
happy, poor girl.”
He believed she was well. How strange
Had he grown weary of her as of me?
Was he utterly devoid of honor?
“Not happy?” I said, as I toyed nerv¬
ously with the roses in my bodice. “She
should be very happy as— as—your
wife,” I faltered.
“As my wife!” he said, gazing in
b'ank amazement. “D d you—oh,
Mattie, you have judged me wrongly.
I never married Kathleen.”
He looked like a mm upon whom a
sudden truth had dawned, or one ac¬
cused of a great wrong who could prove
his innocence.
it was in the twilight before service
that he told me it all. The notice con¬
cerning his Robert Preston and wife referred
to cousin. lie had entered the min¬
istry from choice, as he had come into
a large fortune through the death of his
uncle. True, he had admired Kathleen
as a man would admire a beautiful wo¬
man, but- he never entertained the
slightest feeling of love for her.
The scene in the orchard was but a
simple ruse gotten up by Robert and
Kathleen to excite my jealousy, little
dreaming of the serious result.
Kathleen made a most unfortunate
match, like most beautiful women, mak¬
ing a poor selection from her many
suitors. Poor girl, what a dear, kind
letter she sent to us, telling how happy
she was to hear we were reunited!
“Just to think of it!” said Mrs.
other Briggs. “He had came back to her after the
girl given him the m’tten. I
wouldn’t take him. Would you?”
We can afford to laugh at her idle
gossip, we are so happy, Robert and I.
I “setting smile proudly to have think that without
my cap” I captured the new
curate, after all.
Majiltou, the Man Monkey.
The original of the elm.„c';er of
“Jocko, the Brazilian Ape,” was Henry
Leech, an Englishman, whose profes¬
sional name was Otto Motti. His body
was of the size of an ordinary man’s, but
his legs were only a-foot long, yet such
was his agility that he could outrun, on
all fours, a very fair runner. Ilis skele¬
ton is in Mme. Tussaud’s exhibition in
London. The Ravels afterward intro¬
duced the character in their pautomines,
but it was left to Majiltou to bring it to
perfection. He had wonderful strength
in his hands and could walk with his
hands hanging under an ordinary floor
joist, his whole weight depending on the
grip between his with tliumbi and their and op¬
posing fingers astonished perfect ease; he
occasionally a braggart of the
profession by walking the hawser on his hands on a
slack rope, or on with which
the circus was towed by a steamer. This
singular faculty made him an expert
climber, and he wou'd run up and down
the interior of the circus and leap the
rail of the tiers and run along them with
an agility that no ape could excel. He
fairly rolled with laughter when lie. told
how sippi. he frightened people on the Missis¬
On one occasion, when he leaped
among them, chattering their and grimacing,
many jumped the in circus fright into the through river and the
windows of
were re 5 cued with dillicuity. In Decern
ber, 18.14, created while playing almost in Charleston, the
S. 0., he a panic in
theater. One of the scrub women was
stationed in the third tier with a stuffed
baby, and Majiltou, in his Jocko act,
snatched it from her and, jumping to the
side of the proscenium the wood and boxes, then threw beat its it
head against
to the stage and jumped on it, the woman
yelling all the while and the audience in
a terrible uproar of terror and indigna¬
tion .—Detroit Free Press,
The Socialists don't want the earth.
They only want the land and the lager.
The rest" of the folks can have th*
water,