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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