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in/ exile.
I would I were tbe happy wind
That still is free to follow
His heart about the world to find
The summer and the swallow.
Out to the pleasant north he goes,
Where X fain would be going.
Through lands where violet and rose
About the path are blowing.
Still northward, northward o’er the seas,
With flowers and sunny weather,
Till he can hear the murmurous bees
Among the purple heather;
Till he can hear the ripple play
About the nodding sedges
And breathe the fragrance of th8 May
Upon a hundred hedges.
Wind of the South, if it were mine ?
W*ith thee to go a Maying,
In lands of olive and of vine,
No more I’d he delaying.
But from my weary exile freed,
Through sunlit ways or shady,
I’d follow where my heart would lead
t Until I found my lady.
••'A*
Ah, happy wind, fly forth to-day,
Fly past the flying ships,
Anri in the pleasant northland lay
My kiss upon her lips;
Then shape the music of the birds
That sweetly sing above her,
Into an echo of my words
To tell her how I love her. \
— D. J. Robertson.
le Priflter of fiineralthl.
by george. e. foster.
Kummersolthal was unusually J ex
.ffited.
How such a happy town could have
taken such a name as Kummersolthal, or
sorrowing unable determine. vale, I was for a long while
to Knowing that a
town famed in primitive time, and given
so expressive a name as “sorrowin'*
vale.” was sure to have an entertaining
legend, and being specially interested in
the study of nomenclature as far as it
related to the names ot places, I decided
to stop over a day in one of ray annual
trips that up the valley and solve the mystery
to me appeared wrapped 11 up 1 in the
name.
A little inquiry at the village inn dis
•closed the fact that there still resided in
the town one of the old citizens, whose
mind, though feeble on matters pertain
mg to the present day, was still voum*
as to the impressions received in youth,
Signifying the my desire to see the old
man, his ancient keeper of the inn pointed out
home, and, dinner over, I
•Started for his cottage. He was seated
in his doorway, and to my “good after
noon,” asked me to sit dowS and rest,
It was not long before I adroitly led the
Oldman’s mind back to the sunny days
scene*s 'A story of old
Kummersoltlial. ° ^ °
tuary “-“•if ago, a " young ir “ t •“ German came, with
beautTfKlef^Thefe h^h’ •lfn- that
Ir’in'tk wbere tbe SI 1D S flrst
beams strut . , lt3 . laSt
ravs feB at mVK t- ^befe for ten years
thev too^tbr rp ifled •' PP ^ y ears tb ®y were,
mil’es 7™ noh t'l ™S . hborswere
“’X! A A bng ht ’ lltd ° b °y, soon
8 a ' K , “”fhers heart
reimcp ’ati< and haim/° Hie Ung fatber WaS Very
prmid 1
One day, when he returned from his
r h6 Cl a ng ’
mn vdered Id ti li IU T d d ’T’ Chl A? S ! len
a I ay audb f cabm , buraed - The shock
Iln SI Id Cd 6 1 - LT 1G forest t0 Wife e arCb ’ fA ^° r th tb ? n °
° 'i
child. X?M oye J.°/ It became his u peace a mania and lor , with his i him, lost
.and for years after, hunters and trappers
^used .they often to tell met, of who a nalf-crazecl always man that the
was on
tramp, eagerly looking for something he
;could any subject not find, tear and would when start addressed afresh on in
a
(his eye, and he would sadly point in the
direction of his old home, and utter the
■single word in “Kummersolthal.”
; This, brief, wbs the legend that
Ithe old villager told me, and at the
close his mind became lost in his ancient
memories so that he forgot my presence
;aad I stole quietly away, leaving him as
I found him, absorbed in thought.
This was years a go. The town then
had two thousand inhabitants, but it
'removed was so snugly nestled in the valley and
so far from railroads that it had
been overlooked by geographers, and it
was only by accident that I stumbled
over it at all. Returning to the inn, I
made note of the legend in my record
book, and, as I paid my bill, the polite
laudlord presented me with a copy of
the Kummersolthal Gazette. I remem
her reading it with interest, and won
dered at the printer’s ingenuity in get¬
ting into his little sheet so many things
of interest; and I remember distinctly,
too, that in each item, no matter how
gay on the exterior, there was a some¬
showed thing—what I could not tell—that
it was written with a sorrowing
heart. Had I time, I should have called
to see the printer, and have
tried to solve the ravil of mys
terious sadness that appeared to
.underlie this gay exterior and which he
evidently the village, labored to conceal. But I left
and in other places, ming¬
ling with other people, I forgot the
village, the legend and the Gazette.
Now, after ten years’ absence, I found
myself at Kummersolthal again. Instead
of the peace and quiet that reigned
when I left there, great excitement pre¬
vailed, and it was evident to the most
casual observer that something unusual
had happened. I followed the crowd
over the bridge and down by tbe river *
side, and I found the people gathered
around an unpainted cottage on which
was time an aged sign, so washed bv the rains
of that it was with' difficulty I
could decipher the words “Kummersol¬
thal Gazette .”
From a citizen I learned that the day
before the paper had failed to appear.
Somehow everyone felt disappointed.
For more than twenty years such a fail¬
ure had never happened. Every Wednes¬
day at precisely four o’clock, r. m., the
papers were delivered at the postoffice by
I hc ec ^ or and bia son < who silcntl L
turned home.
t ’ 1 icg ,/ vas cert ’™- tbe Kmnmer
, waa mi3sed - ]No o!1( ;
™° u S ht of d °wn to see why it had
T years tHeieditor and
5 f f n society b a appe They . ared to slmnk considered . f or ®
were
Z* ‘ llVe “‘7
^l?^ Wh v ° ,? 4 " g, dent,y
5 i?®* p f tyears ird - ? rmed me the ^hat l ra I
’
tor au< * P 1111 ? W1 / e came there
n iV’ + , before ? Ie
+1 Tn! t!me ?- ears \ cr J eccentric, ' , Horn ,. wa9
the fact that he wanted to find a certain
b It? ?/ *? I" . tb T[ ®i liere rao rnin tbe /’ sun and 8 fi the * st
, ,A, at “ . fa ct ^
“"m Cabm , '1 0 ° ^ da as
Th l pot he wa ~f f d ‘ ? e
prleted „ lt f v b, ? b pn - ®% ber be
V /n. ’1? P r? d made ~
Ca-e t<, P i Kummersolthal
n ® „ ^ ^ ^ to . app ® ar
-
s ome 0 aepa8slD §
. of f and
n f S 1 » ns i e >
Son . , ] , gam ad ‘
Matters were talked over at the vil
la f. e st ° res - and fi «ally the beadle of the
»s«*rrr;, a ” ’
went over to thp ‘forced r „tt a °his „ P
The baadl ® way into the
sy.ar* Five passed, *—•
minutes the beadle was
seen to open thc d ™r aad beckon to his
deputy and the door was closed. The
excitement now was intense. Thatsome
house thing unusual had transpired within the
was certain.
tbe At length the door again opened, and
beadle reappeared, his face wearing
thTre V bef e X PrCSSi ° n ^ 86611
o re
“What is it, beadle?” said half a score
in a terrified whisper. 'd
The beadle wait until the questioners
-»»»-«■■<>«
“His wife, where is she?” asked the
multitude, when the shock of the an
nouncement no longer held their utter
ance
* 'Dead, ” said the beadle.
“And his son?”
“Dead,” said the beadle, who, " »
ing s i x 0 f the leading citizens, pulled
them inside, at the same tim waving
back the crowd that would have
rushed in.
lt was at the moment the beadle selected
Being jury that I approached the cottage.
and a comparative stranger in the
place, as there were no railroads to
the the village, and it being located so deep
in vale that lew had learned of its
existence, a stranger received consider¬
able attention, from the very fact of his
being a stranger, and each was anxious
tell all he knew about the deceased.
An old lady told how, twenty years
before, he was lively, energetic, and was
everywhere; his young wife was the
light ot every party; but of late
his they had shrunk from public ga/e,
son took his place at news-gathering.
The paper had grown apparently
circulation every year since it started.
It was her opinion their property
made them proud. Over two
papers were issued weekly. Most every¬
body read the Gazette , she guessed.
had taken it since it started, and was
inteu'ding She to run in that very day
settle. had received a bill,
that she owed ten years’ subscription,
but she bad kind o’ needed the money,
and the bill didn’t amount to much
an editor with so big a business.
need of their having been so proud,
they did run a paper,” was the
charitable remark of a bystander. “The
editor was miserly, too.” chimed in
another; “he did his own work, and
most scribe always, when of late, has refused to
a paper is handed
“He is probably worth $20,00”,
it up; $4000 received annually for
figured scriptions, to say nothing of advert
the village schoolmaster.
have taken his paper for fifteen years,
and a while ago he sent me a bill for
It would have been public-spirited
him to send his paper free, I being
public have servant. His business was
so I not hurried about the
volunteered “Probably murdered for his
another. “Why there’s
end of money these editor's make.
Only a few clays ago he sent me a bill
pay ten dollars I owed him for five
subscription. Anxious to put the
in the bank, I suppose. As I needed
just then, I delayed. I don’t believe
folks being piggish if they are
sionals.”
J ust then the beadle and the jury
peared.
“How is it? how is it?” asked
multitude in a breath.
“they “Gentlemen,” gasped the beadle,
starved to death.”
“Impossible,” exclaimed all.
“It is even so,” continued the beadle.
“Mr. Foreman, tell how it is.”
The foreman mounted a box, and
ing out my note book by force of habit,
I took down his words. They were as
follows:
“Citizens of Kummersolthal: Never,
until this hour, has the truth of the
legend been established, and never until
tlli3 hour has there been more reason
ca u 0 ur vale. p] ace Kummersolthal, or
rowing On the floor at his
bedside lies the dead son, and on the bed
the starved mother. On the stool,
forward on his case, is the editor
self, with the stick, the implement ‘and of his
word profession, in his hand, the
set, gentleman, was ‘Kummersol
thal.’ The last leader he set was his
farewell to you, citizens of the town
his adoption. Yes, gentlemen, his na
tive town; I read you, now, the copy
taken from the cast of the deceased.”
To the citizens of Kummersolthal: I bid
farewell. One hour ago my wife died, starved.
One half hour after, my son followed, and
before the clock strikes four, my edition, too,
will be run off and the forms closed. Out
depleted You thought wardrobe answers charges of pride.
us rich and we would not beg—
except for our just due.
discovered Three-quarters Kummersolthal. of a century ago my this father
On very
spot the savages murdered my mother.
From here, too, I was abducted. ’Tis the
home of my birth. Hence for twenty years
I have labored to build up the land my father
first trod. In the future that work will be
appreciated. Oh the table is my ledger, in
which are recorded $12,000 in just dues to me
—all against good, reliable men in this town.
My claims, I though “well just, have not been
noticed. am indeed off,” but yet so
poor. Kummersolthal my father called this
nlace, and Kummersolthal it is to me.
Though I have been wronged, I for—”
“Here the paragraph breaks,” said the
foreman of the jury.
“And may thc forgiveness he meantto
bestow on us beadle. be granted,” solemnly con¬
tinued the
One by one the citizens start away
home dead. leaving the authorities alone with
the
Two days after, returning through the
village, I joined in the long procession
going to the church. Before the altar
were th ee beautiful caskets furnished by
the citizens, and canopied over with the
richest flowers; indeed, what the people
failed to do to the living they had made
up on the dead. Never were so many
tears shed, for all knew they had a hand
in bringing the deceased family to the
grave. As the organist played the dirge
I wondered what the aged pastor would
say to the people.
The music ceased, and the aged
preacher Romans, art se and opened the Holy
Book to xiii., 7:8. Fully five
minutes he waited, after finding the
place, until the weeping people werq al¬
most as still as the dead forms before
and he read:
“Render therefore to all their due.
Owe no man anythin'*.”
He closed the book: the organ played
another dirge, and ,the canductor mo¬
tioned the audience forward to take the
last look at the remains. It was the
briefest but riost pointed funeral service
I ever heard.
Last month I took the train for a brief
vacation, over a new railroad. On the
morning beautiful of the third day we entered a
valley that looked strangely
familiar but at no time did I remember
being in so large a city, .lust as I was
going to ask what it was. the conductor
shouted out“Kummersolthal.” I stepped
out, annoyed at the change. Glancing
around, the only familiar face I saw was
that of the old beadle, to whom I ex¬
pressed wonder at the change a decade
had brought.
“Yes,” said the beadle, “ten years ago
every man, woman and child in Kum
mersolthal made a vow to pay cash for
has everything been he wonderfully bought, and the town
biessed since
then.”
“All aboard,” shouted the conductor,
and as the cars moved out of the city,
the first rays of the morning sun struck
on the handsomest monument I ever
saw. Looking out of the car window
with my opera glass, I was able to read
the inscription:
ERECTED
TO THE MEMORY OP
PRINTER OP KUMMERSOLTHAL.
A TRIBUTE
PROM EVERT CITIZEN.
— Yankee Blade.
Starting an Alligator Ranch.
Captain C. A. Eastman left this port
several months since on the little steamer
Balboa on a trading voyage along the
west ports of Lower California and Mex¬
ico and has just returned to this city,
after The having completed a su cessful trip.
fessional captain curiosity-hunter, is well known as a pro¬
times been employed having at
by Baruum, the Na¬
tional Museum at Washington and the
zoological gardens and by Government
museums in the Eastern States and Eu¬
rope, and has other procured for them seals,
sea lions and marine wonders. He
is also a collector or rare plants, and be¬
sides many valuable orchids, he has
brought with him a rare collection of
ancient pottery, consisting of jars, idols
and domestic utensils, presumably of
Aztec manufacture, which were found
thirty feet beneath the surface in an ex¬
cavation made on the Mexican National
Railroad near Oolima. But what he
prides himself particularly upon is twenty
live young alligators, ranging from eight
to twenty inches in length, all of which
are in prime condition, notwithstanding
it is many weeks since they left their
place of nativity. With these as a plant
the captain proposes to start an alligator
ranch on some one of the lagoons in the
vicinity of Petaluma or Sonoma.
Terrapin farms thrive in the State of
Delaware, and their cultivation is not
considered beneath the dignity of a
United States Senator. The captain ar¬
gues that there is a fortune in the pro¬
ject, because alligator skins arc valuable
and are beginning to be rare and expen¬
sive. and he also claims that the beast
can be readily corralled and domestic¬
ated and their habitations staked oil and
secured the same as an oyster bed.
The alligator is known to breed ra¬
pidly easily under almost any and circumstances, the
is of this provisioned, enterprise claims projector the
new that
animal has been slandered by travelers’
tales, their being which introduced have hitherto the prevented “glorious
to
climate of California” and their propaga¬
tion for the sake of their va'aable hides
thus prevented industry from becoming a remuner¬
ative “home .”—Ban Francisco
Examine 1 .
The Turkish Lamplighter.
The lamplighter in a Turkish city is
a tali and gaunt old Mussulman, with a
lierce mustache, an embroidered scarlet
jacket,and a huge“fustanelle.” He carries
a ladder, a box»of lucifer matches, and a
huge green cotton umbrella. He plants
his ladder against the wooden post, on
the top of which a common tin lamp is
insecurely fastened, and taking off the
glass chimney opens his umbrella to keep
oif the wind. The handle of the um¬
brella is tucked under bis arm, and then
balancing himself on the light rickety ladder
he proceeds to strike a with his
lucifers, carefully protecting the sputter¬
ing flame with both his hands. Natur¬
ally this is a slow process and by the time
the dozen lamps are lighted everybody
is safe at home, for the citizens do not go
out early at hour. night, —All but the retire Year to Round. rest at a very
